“So he knows we’re coming?” Ruhn said.

“Well…I wouldn’t go that far, precisely.”

When Saxton went to walk forward, his love pulled him back. “Murhder does not know we’re here?”

“I sent him a letter.”

“And his response was?”

“I didn’t actually get one.”

Ruhn was largely a placid and loving soul, a gentle giant with a heart of gold who had lived through more pain and suffering than Saxton could ever understand.

The male was not a pushover, however. And as those caramel eyes narrowed, Saxton held up his free hand. “We have to do this. It’s the law.”

Ruhn’s eyes returned to the house’s lineup of darkened windows. “I don’t like this.”

“I have to inform him of the inheritance. Come, let us approach.”

They walked straight up the center of the allée, and as they proceeded, Saxton had to wonder why anyone ever volunteered to sit through Caldwell’s winters. If he didn’t have his position with the King, he would most certainly spend time down here.

Although…their old farmhouse was incredibly quaint, with its cheery fires in the fireplaces, and cozy quilts to cuddle under—and the opportunity for Ruhn to play plumber under that faulty kitchen sink.

There was nothing better than a male who knew how to deal with pipes—

Twin red laser beams hit both of them in the chest—directly at sternum height—and froze them in their tracks.

There were only two things in the world that would make that sort of optical effect. And one had to assume that nobody would be bothering with a laser pointer this late at night…toward two strangers who, technically, were not invited to be on the premises.

On the second floor, a light came on, illuminating a tremendous shadow that stood in what was an open window.

“You’re trespassing,” came a low, evil voice. “And I don’t like people on my land.”

Saxton cleared his throat as both he and Ruhn lifted their hands. “We come in peace. We are here to see Murhder.”

There was a long pause. “You’re the one that sent the letter.”

“Yes. I am Saxton. I am Wrath, son of Wrath, sire of Wrath’s solicitor. This is my mate, Ruhn. We have arrived here to inform him that he has come into an inheritance—”

“I don’t want it.”

Saxton glanced down at his own chest. “Would you consider lowering your weapons? This is a bit unsettling.”

“No, I won’t. And I don’t want anyone’s money.”

“Then will you kindly sign the documents I sent in my letter renouncing it—”

“My signature is no good.”

Saxton recoiled. “Why?”

“I’m insane. Haven’t you heard. The insane cannot consent, we do not legally exist.”

Excellent point. But let us not get hung up on technicalities, Saxton thought to himself.

He took a deep breath. “Forgive me, but you do not sound crazy.” Although the male was threatening to shoot two perfectly innocent people—so how balanced could he be? “And I am required to see this through. It’s my job.”

There was a long period of silence. “Tell your King that I will sign those papers, but only if he sees me personally. I want to meet with him. I think it’s about time.”

“Once again, forgive me, but this is not a matter usually handled in such a fashion. The King doesn’t—”

“Those are my terms. You know where to find me. If Wrath will see me, I will sign the papers. Now go. Before I decide to indulge my need for target practice.”

Saxton measured the sheer heft of the shadow in the window. Backlit as the male was, there was no telling what the face looked like—although he was fairly certain that the hair was long, and yes, the size of the body was definitely that of a Brother.

Saxton bowed low. “I will inform the King of your preference, and I shall be back in touch. Perhaps if you would like to give me a number where I can—”

“I am old-fashioned. I prefer parcel post—or FedEx, I believe is what you used. You can communicate with me that way. Now get off my property.”

Saxton glanced at his love. “Let us go, the now,” he said under his breath.

“Yes,” Ruhn agreed readily.

As the two of them dematerialized for the first leg of the trip back to Caldwell, Saxton’s only thought was that this did not bode well.

This did not bode well, at all.

SIXTY-THREE

It took Sola, relatively speaking, no time at all to get to West Point, and as she parked her car down by the water and got out, she remembered another trip here in the dark, on a different cold night. That previous visit to Ricardo’s house, that other infiltration, that bid to claim what was properly owed to her, had set everything else in motion: her abduction, Assail’s actions on her behalf…her introduction to the training center.

And here she was, doing a full circle for closure.

Just as she had before, she stuck to the low-slung stone wall as she proceeded up the incline of the long, ascending front lawn. Unlike before, she wasn’t on skis or wearing white to blend into the snowy landscape. It didn’t matter; she moved fast, and the cloud cover over the moon gave her a pass.

As she approached Ricardo’s mansion, she noted where the lights were glowing: A couple in his master suite, but there were ones on in the lower level as well.

She had her gun out the entire time. And she’d screwed the suppressor on.

She knew a couple of different ways to break into the house, and mentally reviewed her options. She didn’t have her grappling gear with her, which was perhaps an oversight on her part. No matter, though. She would make this work and get her job done.

When she arrived at the apex, she had to cross over the side lawn to get to the corner of the mansion, and she did not enjoy being without cover—but she made it and flattened her back against a wall between two arching windows.

There was no way of knowing how many people were inside. Or where they were located. Assail had told her that Vitoria had been in the warehouse alone, but that did not mean she didn’t have guards at her home base.

And of course she would stay here. She was Ricardo’s sister. She would have standards, and no hotel, not even with the best accomodations and most attentive maids, could rival this estate.

Sola shifted her position to the corner of the house, and leaned around to visualize the back of the—

There was a pattern of illumination cast onto the snowpack, all of the windows of the mansion’s promenade throwing a row of yellow light squares onto the ground. And way down, at the far side, a figure came out of the kitchen and headed in Sola’s direction.

She stepped free of her position, but stuck to the shadows as she assessed the person.

It was Vitoria. Long dark hair down, face free of makeup, a silk robe falling to her slippered feet. She was holding a porcelain teacup, as if she couldn’t sleep and had gone down to fix herself something soothing.

Lavender and rose hips, perhaps?

Sola lifted her gun and tracked Vitoria with the muzzle.

If this were the movies, she would break in and chase the woman around the grand house, the drama culminating in some kind of shoot-out where they each accused the other of crimes against blood and love—perhaps she’d get herself wounded and have to heroically drive herself back to Caldwell.

But this was not Hollywood.

Sola was as mortal as her target was, and she didn’t know enough about what kind of bees’ nest she was going to stir up as soon as she pulled her trigger. What she was clear on was that this woman needed to die, tonight, and she had a good shot in another seven feet, six feet…five feet…

More than anything, Sola wanted to eliminate the threat and just get back to her grandmother and the male she loved safely.

In one piece. No leaks.

As Vitoria walked along, she was stirring a silver spoon in circles, her eyes downcast.

So she never saw it coming. Didn’t hear the shot, either.

But when that old-fashioned glass broke right next to her, she looked up in alarm.

Sola got the bitch right between the eyes.