The domestic abuse center that his shellan ran was the first of its kind for the species, and not unlike her brother, Marissa had a strong service side to her nature. She was driven to help other people, but it also turned out she was a terrific businesswoman. She coordinated everything at the facility, from the females and their young, to the treatment plans by the social workers, and also the budgets, the supplies, the food, the clothing. She was amazing at her job, but leading a compassionate cleanup crew for vulnerables who had been beaten, abused, neglected, and worse, was exhausting.

It was hard stuff to take, night after night.

Of course, her commitment to her work just made him love her more. Except he also worried about her when she looked as tired as she had been lately.

Closing himself in, he glanced at the racks of clothes that choked the hallway leading down to the pair of bedrooms. It was time to start putting his winter stuff into storage, and liberating his spring collection. Usually, he would be psyched for this annual ritual, and so would Fritz, but it was going to be a one-sided party on the butler’s part this year.

Butch was too distracted with the prophecy shit.

Walking out to the common area, he took off his jacket and laid it on the arm of the leather sofa. The cottage where he and V, and their mates, lived was the pebble to the mansion’s bolder, done in the same architectural style, but filling out a fraction of the square footage. It was also not decorated the same. The big house was like Tsarist Russia meeting Napoleonic France with a flash of Hogwarts. Butch and V’s crib? Try frat house crossed with bachelor pad: They had this couch, a foosball table, a TV the size of a soccer field, and V’s Four Toys, a.k.a. his computer setup. But at least here had been some refinements since their shellans had moved in. Courtesy of Marissa and Jane, gym bags were no longer coughing up jock straps and running shoes like they were choking from the smell, the issues of Sports Illustrated were in a tidy stack on the coffee table, and the half-eaten bags of Doritos and sour-cream-and-onion Ruffles were kept to a minimum. There were also no more Goose and Lag bottles laying on the floor like they were the ones passing out or ashtrays full of hand-rolled dead bodies or, even more to the point, BDSM shit that sometimes Butch hadn’t been sure was for the B, the D, the S, or the M.

In the galley kitchen, he threw out what was left of the bourbon in the sink and rinsed his glass out. Drying the inside with a paper towel, he poured himself three inches of Lag, and as he took a drink, he sloshed the hot stuff around his mouth to wash the taste of the Harper’s away. I.W.’s efforts at alcohol were an acceptable substitute. But when you wanted Sprite and you got seltzer, the disappointment inevitably soured your palate.

Glancing at the bottle of Lagavulin, he was surprised to find it was three-quarters of the way empty. He’d only opened it the day before and no one else drank the shit.

“You’re back.”

Butch was already looking up as Marissa spoke, his bonded male called to attention by her presence—and oh, what a presence it was. His mate was dressed in a silk nightgown that brushed the tops of her pretty bare feet, the color a blush pink that looked like it had been created especially for her and a select few tea roses. Her blond hair, which she had cut shoulder length a while ago, was growing out, at his urging, and the thick locks curled into spirals that were now down past her collarbones in front and her shoulder bones in back.

He took a moment to study her face. Word had always had it that hers was the greatest beauty in the species, and he knew this to be fact, not rumor. Ever since the first moment he had seen her at Darius’s old place—back when he’d been a human and had no idea what he was getting himself into—she had struck him stupid. Except for him, it was not her looks that created such a compelling, compulsive attraction. It was the soul behind the lovely eyes, the voice that came out of those perfect lips, the heartbeat behind the curves.

Her soul was what really did it for him.

“Are you okay?” she said as she came forward. “What’s wrong?”

The silk nightgown flowed behind her with the grace of contrails in the sky, and he was reminded, not for the first time, that he wished he brought better things to her life. He had a brutal job with little good news and much bloodshed, and then there was his side gig as the Omega’s buck-stops-here.

“Same ol’, same ol’.” They kissed as he held her close. “You know.”

“Not with the way you’re hitting that scotch.”

“You’re too good at reading my tells.”

“It’s not that hard.”

On that note, he finished the Lag in his glass and had to force himself not to pour another. Man, he wanted to manage his emotions better. Going the yoga and meditation route seemed so much more virtuous, and then there was his alkie history to worry about. But somehow, the booze was where it was at.

“Come here,” he said, taking his shellan’s hand.

As he drew her over to the sofa, she asked, “Your limp is still pronounced. What happened? You didn’t tell me at Last Meal.”

“It’s not important.”

“Should you see Doc Jane?”

Sitting down, he grunted—then winced and tried to rearrange himself in his slacks, although he didn’t think any particular position was going to help his nads. He felt like they were swollen ten times their normal size, and nightmare scenarios of them exploding in his boxer shorts like overinflated balloons made him look at the bottle of Lag he’d left on the counter.

“It’s fine.” He turned and tucked her hair behind her ear. “But you’re right, I feel like we didn’t get to catch up properly during dinner.”

He didn’t like the way she stared at him, like she had lifted his a-okay curtain and was seeing the hot mess of garbage he was hiding.

“You haven’t been sleeping and your eyes aren’t focusing on anything.”

“Untrue.” He smiled a little. “I couldn’t take them off you as you came in here and I don’t want to look anywhere else right now.”

“You can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I do.”

Marissa shook her head like he was frustrating her. “So how about we start with how you got hurt.”

“I ran into a car.” Butch let his head fall back against the cushions. When he’d been talking about “catching up,” it had been more about what her night had been like. “No big deal.”

“What if your leg is broken?”

“It wasn’t my leg.”

“Where did you get hit then?”

He tilted his head toward her. “Little Butchie took it like a man.”

Marissa’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry… I, ah, exactly how did it happen? Did you run into the hood ornament?”

“I became the hood ornament. I turned a Chrysler LeBaron into a LeBrian.”

“That’s horrible!”

“I stopped—” He was going to say “pissing.” “—peeing blood about four hours ago.”

“You need to go to the clinic, right now—”

Butch caught her hand as she went to stand up. “I’m just fine, now that I’m with you.”

Crossing her arms, she set a level stare on him, like she was taking his vitals with her eyes. “I overheard V telling Jane that he needed to cleanse you tonight. That’s three times in the last week.”