Except that was not where she ended up.

Instead, she went into the closet, pulled on a blue bathrobe and shoved her socked feet into a pair of pink UGGs that Marissa had gotten all the females in the house as a joke.

The First Family’s quarters were so sumptuous that Beth didn’t spend a lot of time looking or thinking about the way they were turned out, and as usual, she was relieved as she left them. Yeah, sure, the place was lovely—if you were a sultan. For godsakes, it was like trying to sleep in Ali Baba’s cave, jewels twinkling on the walls and the ceiling—and not fake ones, either.

And no, she’d never gotten used to the gold toilet.

The whole thing was absurd—

Holy crap, she thought as she locked the vault back up behind her. How did anyone raise a kid in that environment?

A kid that was halfway normal, that is.

Heading down the stairs to the second floor, she realized there was another aspect of the whole child thing she hadn’t considered: She’d been so focused on getting one, she hadn’t considered having one in this kind of life.

They’d be a prince or a princess. The former the heir to the throne.

Oh, and P.S., how do you tell a kid his or her father had been shot in the throat by someone who wanted the crown?

God, why hadn’t she thought about any of this?

Which was Wrath’s whole point, wasn’t it.

Stepping out of the staircase, she went to Wrath’s office, only distantly aware of conversation rising up from the foyer.

She was a little surprised that he wasn’t behind the desk. She’d assumed when Fritz had brought up the food that her hellren had gotten sucked into work.

Stepping into the room, she stared at that huge wooden boat of a throne and then squinted, trying to imagine a son—or a daughter—sitting behind it. Because screw the Old Laws: If they had a little girl, Beth herself was going to make sure her hubs changed the rules.

If the British monarchy could do it, so could the vampires.

God … was she really thinking like this?

Rubbing her temples, she recognized that all of this was the tip of the iceberg Wrath had been crashing into—and meanwhile, she’d been Fisher Pricing it in her head, enjoying an internal debate on cloth diapers versus Pampers, what kind of video monitor to buy, and whether or not she liked the new crib styles at Pottery Barn.

Infant and baby stuff. The kind of things she’d watched Bella and Z wrestle with, and purchase, and use.

None of what had been on her radar had been about raising children into adulthood. Which was what Wrath had been focused on.

Suddenly, the pressures inherent in that great carved chair had never seemed so real: Although she had witnessed them firsthand, the true burden of it all didn’t really set in until this moment … as she pictured a child of hers sitting where her mate did every night.

She left the room fast.

There were two other places he would be—in the gym or maybe in the billiards room.

Oh, wait, no one was in there anymore.

At least until they got new furniture.

Man, what a mess this was.

Hiking up the nightgown and the robe, she hit the stairs at a trot—until the jiggling of her internal organs made her nauseous and she had to slow it down.

Crossing over the mosaic depiction of the apple tree, she figured she could ask whoever was in the dining room to—

The moment she came under the arches, she froze.

In spite of the fact that it was not mealtime, the entire household was at the table—and something awful had happened: Her family was like a collection of Madame Tussauds versions of themselves, the bunch of them arranged motionless in the chairs, with faces that had the right features, but expressions that read wrong.

And everyone’s eyes were on her.

As Wrath’s head lifted and angled her way, it was like her transition all over again, when she’d come out of her father’s basement and walked in to find the Brothers at the table. The difference, of course, was that back then there had been surprise in the room.

Now, it was something altogether different.

“Who died,” she demanded.

Back in the Old Country, Xcor and his Band of Bastards had stayed in a castle that appeared to have risen from the earth, as if the very stones of its construction had been rejected by the dirt, expelled like a tumor. Situated upon a scruffy, otherwise uninhabitable mount, the construction had glowered over the small hamlet of a medieval human town, the fortification not so much regal as resentful. And inside, it had been no less uningratiating: Ghosts of dead humans had wandered the many rooms and the great hall especially, knocking things off heavy tables, swinging cast-iron chandeliers, toppling stacks of burning logs from the fireplaces.

Indeed, they had fit in well there.

In the New World, however … they lived on a cul-de-sac, in a Colonial with a master suite the color of one’s lower intestine.

“We did it! Verily, we have the throne!”

“We shall rule fore’ermore!”

“Huzzah!”

As his fighters congratulated each other and proceeded unto the alcohol, he sat upon the sofa in the living room and missed that castle’s great hall. It seemed more fitting a space to play witness to the history they had set in motion and succeeded at.

Eight-foot ceilings and velour couches just did not make the grade for an event of this magnitude.

Besides, their castle … had formerly been the seat of the race’s First Family. Wrath’s dethronement announced at the very place he had been born and reared would have had such greater resonance.

Mayhap this weak, suburban locale was what was robbing him of the joy his fighters shared.

Except no, it was something else: This fight with Wrath was not over.

There was no way it ended here, like this. Too easy.

Reflecting upon his journey to this moment, Xcor could only shake his head. Before he had come unto the New World, flying across the ocean at night, things had seemed rather much in his control. Following the death of the Bloodletter, he had taken the reins of the soldiers and enjoyed centuries of conflict with the Lessening Society after the Brotherhood had come to Caldwell.

Eventually, however, after all their successes in the field, there had been no one save humans to chase after, and it was difficult to find much sport in those rats without tails.

He had wanted the throne as soon as he had landed because … it was there.

And perhaps he knew that unless he took the crown, he and the Band of Bastards would be hunted: Sooner or later, the Brotherhood would discover their presence and want to exert superiority over them.

Or eliminate them.

Through his efforts, though, those tables had been turned; he had gained power over them and their King. And that’s what was so strange. The sense that he was in some way out of control now was illogical—

As Balthazar let out a whooping laugh and Zypher poured more gin—or was it vodka?—Xcor’s temper lit.

“He has not responded yet,” Xcor cut in.

The group of them turned upon him with frowns.

“Who has not?” Throe asked as he lowered his glass. The others had red plastic cups or were drinking from the bottle.

“Wrath.”

Throe shook his head. “He cannae have one, as legally he is powerless. There is naught he can do.”

“Do not be naive. There will be an answer to our cannon shot. This is not over the now.”

He got to his feet, a restlessness drumming through his body, animating him with twitchy movements he struggled to keep within himself.

“With no disrespect intended,” Throe hedged, “I fail to see what he can do.”

Turning away from the joviality, Xcor said, “Mark my words, this is not over. The question is, on the basis of his reply, may we still sustain.”

“Whither goest thou,” Throe demanded.

“Out. And I shall not be followed, thank you.”

“Thank you” was rather more like “f**k you,” he thought as he dematerialized through the flimsy front door and reappeared upon the lawn.

There were no more houses in this part of the development, the only other structure a pump house for the municipal sewer system.

He tilted his head back and considered the sky. There was no light from the moon, a cloud cover that promised more snow blocking out the illumination.

Yes, in this moment of his triumph, he felt no great joy or sense of accomplishment. He had expected to be … well, happy would be one word for it, although that emotion was not in his lexicon. Instead, he was as empty as he had been when he’d arrived upon these shores and ill at ease to the point of anxiety—

Oh, f**k. He knew the cause of the worry.

It was his Chosen, of course.

Whilst his men enjoyed the illusion of victory, there was only one place he wanted to go—even though it would undoubtedly put his life at risk.

And go unto the north he did.

Traveling upon the frigid night air, his molecules scrambled in a wave to the foot of one of the mountains on the very farthest edge of Caldwell’s territory.

Standing amongst the pines and oaks, his combat boots planted in the crusty snow, he looked up even though he could not see the apex of the mount.

He could not, in fact, see much more than that which was three feet afore him.

The great smudging of the landscape ahead of him was not based on the weather or the terrain. It was magic. Some kind of sleight of hand that he could not understand, but could not question the existence of.

He had followed his Chosen here.

Back when she had gone unto the clinic, and he had been terrified that the Brothers had hurt her in retaliation for feeding him, he had waited for her to emerge from treatment, and followed her here. Indeed, she had been manipulated into providing him with her vein. Had saved his life not through true choice, but a conceit created by Throe—and not for the first time did he regret sending that fighter unto the Brotherhood. If he hadn’t sought to punish the male as such, neither one of them would have e’er met her.

And his pyrocant would have remained unknown to him.

For truth, lack of knowledge of that female’s existence, of her scent and the taste of her blood, of those shattering, stolen moments in that car, would have been such a boon to him.

Instead, it was as if he had taken a saw to his own leg and cut it off.

He had unwittingly volunteered to cross her path.

Staring at the edge of the mist, he braced himself and crossed into the barrier. His skin registered an instant warning, his inner instincts activated by the force field, teased by a rootless feeling of terror. Proceeding forth, his boots crunched through the ground cover, only a slight rise informing him that he was, in fact, beginning the ascent up the mountain.

In this moment of triumph, the only place he wanted to be was with the female he could not have.

FORTY-TWO

Generally speaking, if your husband refused to say a word until the pair of you were behind closed doors and alone?

Shit was not going well.

As Beth heard the double doors of the study shut behind them, she went over to the banked fire and put her palms out to the heat. She was suddenly feeling very cold … especially as Wrath did not go behind the desk and sit down on his father’s throne.

Her hellren settled into one of the two French-blue sofas, and the effeminate little thing let out a very unlady-like protest as his weight landed.

George settled at his master’s feet, the dog staring up as if he, too, were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Wrath just stared straight ahead even though he couldn’t see a thing, his brow tight behind the bridge of his wraparounds, his aura black as his hair.

Turning, she backed her butt into the heat source and crossed her arms. “You’re scaring me.”

Silence.

“Why aren’t you sitting behind the desk,” she said roughly.

“It’s not mine anymore.”

Beth felt all the blood leave her head. “What are you … I’m sorry, what?”

Wrath took off his sunglasses and braced an elbow on his knee as he rubbed his eyes. “The Council has removed me.”

“What the … f**k. How? What did they do?”

“It doesn’t matter. But they got me.” He laughed in a short burst. “Listen, at least now all that paperwork over there? Not my problem. They can govern themselves—have a ball infighting and arguing about stupid bullshit—”

“What were the grounds?”

“You know what’s really f**ked-up? I hated doing the job, and yet now that it’s gone…” He rubbed his face again. “Anyway.”

“I don’t get it. You’re the King by blood and the race is ruled by the monarchy. How did they do this?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Beth narrowed her stare. “What are you not telling me?”

He burst up and walked around, having memorized the furniture layout long ago. “This’ll give us more time together. Not a bad thing, especially if you’re pregnant. And hell, if you have a young now, part of what I was all up in my head about is a non-issue—”

“I’m going to find out, you realize. If you don’t tell me, I’ll get someone who will.”

Wrath went over to the desk and ran his hands down the carved edges. Then he fingered the top of the throne, caressing the ins and outs of the wood.

“Wrath. Talk. Now.”

Even with her laying it down like that, it was a long while before he spoke. And when he finally did, his reply was nothing she expected … and as devastating as any piece of it all.

“They based it on … you.”

Okay, time to have a little sit-down.

Going to the same sofa he’d sat in, she all but fell into the soft cushions. “Why? How? What did I do?”