“What will it take to get through to you? Because I’m at a loss.” Agitated, he runs his fingers through his hair, tousling the deep copper strands. “I’ve tried giving you space to grieve, stood as your rock when you needed it, but you’ve been impossible to reach. Everyone’s worried sick.”

“Who?” I ask, absently stabbing a piece of wilted lettuce with my fork.

“Landon and Elise, Vance, Ford, Faye…”

“She called?”

He raises a brow. “She spoke to you over the phone. Do you not remember?”

I shrug again, lacking the energy needed to explain how I sort of do, but I can’t recall a single detail of the conversation—just like I can’t remember what Landon and Elise said when they came to check on me.

“Novalee…” He trails off, releasing a heavy breath. “This isn’t healthy. I know you’re overwhelmed with grief, and rightfully so, but refusing to accept what happened will only make it harder for you to heal.” He pauses, his words hanging in the air between us. “He’s gone.”

“If he’s gone,” I spit out, emphasizing each word, “then so am I.”

His complexion drains of color. “What are you trying to say?”

“I-I don’t know,” I stammer, my words tinged with a blend of anger and sorrow. “I just…I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“But you are here, and pretending otherwise won’t change what’s coming, because we still have an auction to face.” Liam leans in, forehead creased as our eyes lock. “Everything has changed. I’m brainstorming another plan with Landon, but I need you to try. Your transition into the House of Capricorn is tomorrow.”

“I don’t care about tomorrow,” I say through gritted teeth.

Liam drags a hand down his face. “We’ll discuss this later. Right now, there’s something else we need to address.”

“Something else?” I scoff, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Is the collapse of my world only a minor inconvenience to be dealt with later?”

He blinks, taken aback by my snark. “Of course not.”

“Then what could be more important?”

“The Brotherhood is hosting a special dinner in honor of the legacy members tonight.”

“So?”

“Your presence is required.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Too bad.” He stands to his full height, arms crossed, his posture immovable. “Dinner’s in an hour. You need to shower and dress properly.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“You don’t have a choice.” With one swift motion, he pulls me from the chair and hauls me over his shoulder, drawing a startled squeal.

“Put me down!” I shout, thrashing against his solid grip.

Ignoring my protests, he strides into my private bathroom, turns on the shower head, and sets me on my feet.

“Can you stop fighting me for once?” Frustration cuts through the question, but then his voice softens. “Let me take care of you.”