And when I crawled to the police and pressed charges then went home to Nick with the umbrella of protection he could offer me, I wanted to watch them squirm.

Because I heard things. I did things.

I knew things.

I knew better than to turn rat. I had Shade blood running through my veins. That was never going to happen.

But I’d never been one of them. I’d never fit. They knew that.

So they didn’t know I’d never turn rat.

I was done.

Utterly finished.

Nick could keep me safe. He’d promised. And even Dad had said he and his brother were untouchable.

He’d make me the same way.

I believed.

I fucking believed.

So fuck them.

“Tom,” Georgia muttered, turning slightly toward Tommy, who was now on the move, coming my way.

“I’d really rather it was Dad who finished the job, Tommy,” I told him.

“Quiet, Liv,” he murmured, getting close.

Taking my elbow in a firm grip, he turned me to the door.

“Good. You get him to get her outta my fuckin’ sight and then you get her shit sorted, Georgie.” I heard Dad order as Tommy escorted me to and out the door. “You get me?”

“It’ll be handled, Dad,” Georgia replied, managing to sound both conciliatory and annoyed.

It’d be handled, my sister offering me up as Shade property.

Oh yes, I was so done with my family.

Tommy shut the door behind us and I let him walk me five feet down the hall before I tried to twist my arm free.

His grip tightened to the point of pain, and in surprise, my head shot to the side and back to look up at him.

He’d never touched me like that.

“Tom, let me go,” I hissed, twisting now not only to get loose but against the pain.

“Shut the fuck up, Liv,” he clipped angrily, not letting go but now manhandling me toward my old office and in.

Everything was still there except my personal effects. The décor. The furniture. Nothing had changed.

And I would find, in short order, that was agonizingly correct.

Nothing had changed.

Not.

One.

Thing.

Tommy pulled me in several feet, let me go and shut the door.

He turned to me and I braced in shock when I saw his face was a mask of fury.

“Are you fuckin’ stupid?” he whispered, his tone harsh with rage.

“You know,” I returned conversationally, “I don’t need you to be ticked, Tommy. My father striking me four times to push the point home about Dustin Cul—”

Suddenly, he rushed me.

I scurried back, hit a chair, hit a table and hit wall, Tommy pinning me there with his body and his anger.

“I’m not talking about Culver, Liv. I’m talkin’ about Nick Sebring.”

Fear slamming through me, I stopped breathing.

“Yeah,” he bit off. “Harry told me.”

Oh God.

Harry?