And now she was here, sitting on the deck of a drug lord’s house, faced with the kind of moral dilemma she had never expected to come up against …

Watching some random fisherman cut his engine and throw a line in.

Even though the guy had turned off the motor, he wasn’t still. The river’s current carried him along, his boat drifting across the view, a humble craft dwarfed by the distant buildings.

“You want the breakfast?”

Sola twisted around. “Good morning.”

Her grandmother had her hair done in tight curls around her face, her apron tied on her waist, and a flash of lipstick on her mouth. Her simple cotton dress had been handmade—by her, of course—and her sturdy brown shoes were somehow fitting.

“Yes, please.”

When she went to get up, her grandmother motioned downward with both gnarled hands. “Sit in the sun. You need the sun, too pale you are. You living like a vampire.”

Ordinarily, she would have pushed back a little, but not this morning. She was too grateful to be alive to do anything other than comply.

Returning to the view, she found that the fisherman was disappearing on the right, going out of sight.

If she hadn’t prayed, she would have gotten out of that place anyway. She was a survivor, always had been—and she had done what she had on a strange kind of autopilot, sucking in her emotions and physical sensations and doing what was necessary.

So if she looked at her future, at the currents in her life that were going to carry her out of view, so to speak … going legit was the smartest thing to do.

Regardless of any “agreement” she’d had with God.

She was going to end up in jail or dead—and she’d just dipped her foot in the icy cold of the dead scenario. Not where she wanted to end up.

Blinking in the gathering light, she gave up on the vision thing and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. The warmth on her face made her think of Assail.

Being with him had been like touching the sun and not getting incinerated. And her body wanted more—hell, just the passing thought of him was enough to take her back to those moments in that bed, the night so quiet, the gasps so loud.

As her br**sts tightened, she felt a welling between her thighs—

“Sola, you are ready,” her grandmother said from behind her.

Getting to her feet, she leaned out over the glass balcony, trying to find her fisherman. She couldn’t. He was gone.

Brr, it was cold out here—

“Sola?” came a gentle prodding.

Strange. Ordinarily, her grandmother’s voice was like the woman’s hands—never soft. In fact, she spoke like she cooked: out front, forthright, no holds barred.

But now the tone was as close to gentle as Sola had ever heard it.

“Sola, you come eat now.”

Sola took one last stab at seeing her fisherman. Then she turned around and faced her grandmother.

“I love you, vovó.”

Her grandmother could only nod as those ancient eyes of hers steamed up. “Come, you’ll catch the dead of a cold.”

“The sun is warm.”

“Not warm enough.” Her grandmother stepped back and motioned. “You must eat.”

As Sola entered the house, she froze.

Without looking, she knew that Assail had come down the stairs and was staring at her.

Shit, she wasn’t sure she could leave him behind.

After having been sequestered in his room for the last couple days, Trez found the world to be a stretch for the senses, like having a strobe light in his face and a pair of speakers up to each ear: Getting onto the Northway to head into downtown Caldwell, he found himself putting his sunglasses on and turning off the radio—

From out of nowhere, some dumb shit did a two-lane sweep and cut him the hell off.

“Watch where you’re going!” he shouted into the windshield, pounding on his horn.

For a split second, he hoped the guy behind the wheel of the Dodge Charger decided to go road rage back at him. He wanted to hit something. Shit, it would probably be good practice for his meeting with s’Ex. Mr. Charger, however, just took his overload of testosterone and his pencil-size dick off at the next exit, jogging in front of a minivan and a pickup truck in the process.

“Asshole.”

With any luck, the bastard would drive off into a ditch with no seat belt on.

About ten minutes later, Trez peeled off from the sixty-mile-an-hour-ers and entered a maze of one-ways. Confronted by all the traffic lights and the stop signs, his brain cramped up and he forgot the way to the condo—

When a horn sounded behind him, he locked his molars and hit the gas. In the end, he was forced to pilot around by tracking the Commodore’s twenty-story-plus height, gradually zeroing in on the high rise and finding the ramp that led down into the parking garage. As he descended, he got his pass out from the visor, swiped it through the reader, and proceeded to one of their two reserved spots.

The elevator ride up took fifty years and then he was stepping off onto the carpet runner. Their condo was down a little and he used its main door, not the service one, letting himself in with his copper key.

As he came into the kitchen, he saw two mugs on the counter, an already open bag of Cape Cod potato chips, and the coffeepot half-full.

He paused over an open GQ. He’d already gone through it. “Nice jacket,” he murmured as he shut the mag.

No reason to will on any lamps. The day was bright and sunny and all the glass let in plenty of light—

The towering black shape that arrived on the terrace was a harbinger of doom if he’d ever seen one.

Striding over, Trez opened the door by hand and stepped outside, closing things up behind him.

s’Ex’s voice from under the executioner’s hood was mildly amused. “Your brother invited me in.”

“I’m not my brother.”

“Yes. We’ve noticed.” As the queen’s hatchet man crossed his arms over his chest, his massive forearms bunched up even under the folds of fabric. “To what do you owe the honor of my presence?”

The fact that it was freezing cold out seemed appropriate. “I don’t want you to f**k with my parents.”

“Then you need to come back. That’s it.” The executioner leaned in. “Don’t tell me you called me all this way in hopes of negotiating. Did you. Surely you are not that stupid.”

Trez bared his fangs, but then dialed shit back. “There’s something you want. Everyone has a price.”

The executioner reached up and slowly took off that hood. The face behind the folds of black cloth was handsome as sin … and had eyes with all the warmth of winter granite.

“Why would I risk my own life for your parents? If I disobey an order, there are consequences—and none of you are worth them.”

“You can talk to the queen. She listens to you.”

“Assuming that is true, and I’m not saying it is, why would I do that for you?”

“Because there’s something you want.”

“Since you seem to know everything, what exactly do you think that is,” the executioner said in a bored tone.

“You’re stuck there as much as any of them are. I remember what that’s like—and I can assure you, life on this side of those walls is so much better.”

“Which is why you look like shit, then?”

“Think about it. I can get you anything on the outside. Anything.”

The executioner’s eyes narrowed. “Sparing them is not going to save you.”

“Killing them isn’t going to bring me back. And that’s why you’d do it, right? So go to the queen, tell her you’ve spoken to me directly—and I don’t care whether you kill them. Then suggest that she strip them of everything they’ve been given—the quarters they live in, the clothes and jewels they’ve bought with the bounty they received, the food in their cupboards. Everything. That will make the queen whole again. She’ll have lost nothing, be out nothing—”

“Bullshit. She doesn’t have a half for her daughter. All that ‘restitution’ doesn’t solve the fact that the princess has no mate.”

“It’s not going to be me. I’m telling you right now. You guys can f**k my father and mother up, you can threaten me with bodily harm, you can trash my house—”

“What if I just take you now?”

Trez outed the gun he’d shoved in his waistband at the small of his back. He didn’t point it at s’Ex. He put it right under his own chin.

“If you try to, I’ll pull this trigger. Then you have a dead body, and unless that daughter of hers is a sick bitch, she ain’t gonna want me then.”

s’Ex went inanimately still. “You’re out of your f**king mind.”

“Anything you want on the outside, s’Ex. You take care of this for me, and I’ll take care of you.”

As the queen’s executioner considered the deal, Trez breathed smoothly, and thought of the only two people who really mattered. Selena … Jesus Christ, he wanted her, but he was no good for the likes of that Chosen. Hell, even if this flier of a negotiation worked, he was still going to be a pimp, and there was no changing his past.

And then there was iAm.

The idea of losing his brother was … he couldn’t even put it into thought. But the male was going to be better off without him if he couldn’t fix this problem.

“I’m surprised that you want to save your parents this badly,” s’Ex said offhandedly.

“Are you kidding me? If they lose their station, it’s worse than death for them. What they did to me has ruined my life and my brother’s. That shit’s my revenge. Besides, like I said, no matter what you do with them, I’m not going back there.”

The executioner broke off and strolled the length of the terrace, his robing swirling around him like the promise of violence, the puffs of his breath like a dragon breathing fire.

After a long moment, he clasped his hands behind his back, and returned.

It was a while before he finally spoke, and when he did, he wasn’t looking at Trez. He was staring at the glass of the apartment.

“I like this place.”

Trez kept the gun to his chin, but felt a stab of … hope? Well, not that cheery an emotion, certainly. But maybe there was a solution after all.

s’Ex lifted a brow. “Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, nice kitchen. Plenty of light. But the beds are the best—big beds in there.”

“You want this, it’s yours.”

As s’Ex’s eyes slid back to him, Trez heard the phrase deal with the devil over and over in his head.

“It’s missing something.”

“What.”

“Women. I want women brought to me here. I’ll tell you when. And I want three or four at a time.”

“You got it. Name the number and the hour and I’ll bring them to you.”

“So sure of yourself.”

“What the f**k do you think I do for a living.”

s’Ex’s eyes flared. “I thought you were a club owner.”

“I don’t just sell booze,” he muttered.

“Hmm, what a job.” The executioner frowned. “Just so we’re clear, she may order me to go after your brother.”

“Then I’m going to have to kill you.”

s’Ex threw his head back and laughed. “Very cocky.”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear. You touch iAm and I will find you. Your last breath will be mine and your heart will still be warm when I take it out of your chest and eat it raw.”

“You know, it’s a wonder we don’t get along better.”

Trez put out his free hand. “Have we come to terms?”

“There is the queen to consider. I may not be able to sway her. And just so you’re aware, if she doesn’t go for it, your deadline will have passed.”

“So kill them.” He held s’Ex’s black stare without wavering. “I mean it.”

The executioner tilted his head, as if considering all angles. “Yes, evidently you do. Meet me here at noon tomorrow with a sample—and I’ll see what I can do in the Territory.”

Before s’Ex disappeared, the male clasped the palm that was offered briefly. And then he was gone, like a nightmare banished upon waking.

Unfortunately … Trez knew the male would be back.

The question was, with what kind of news. And what kind of appetite.

THIRTY-EIGHT

It was an hour past sundown when Abalone left his home, dematerializing off his side lawn. The night was bitterly cold, and as he re-formed on the estate of one of the glymera’s wealthiest families, he took a moment to breathe until his sinuses went numb.

Others were gathering, the males and females appearing out of the darkness, straightening their furs and fine clothes and jewels before striding toward the light.

With a heavy heart, he followed.

The grand carved doors of the mansion were held open by doggen, the staff unmoving in their livery, naught but blinking stops.

The lady of the house, such that she was, was standing under a chandelier in the foyer, her dress a bright red couture number that fell to the ground in drapes of silk. Her jewels were rubies, the flashes at her throat and her ears and her wrists an ostentatious display.

For no particular reason, he thought that the true queen of the race’s red gems were much better, bigger, clearer. He had seen an oil painting of the majestic female back in the Old Country, and even distilled through paint and age, the Saturnine Ruby and its counterparts had had a resplendence that would destroy the pretense before him.