Patricia Malone sobbed over the phone, one great, heaving, hiccuping cry of despair that left me hollow inside, my guilt and regret a mere echo of her pain. Then she sniffled twice, and after a brief silence seemed to have herself under control. “I need you to come home,” she said, in little more than a whisper.

“Mom…”

“Melody’s in bad shape, Jace. She’s not taking it well, and we need to be there for her.”

Jace turned to face the rest of us, and my heart broke for him. He couldn’t go back; if they’d kill Brett, they’d sure as hell kill Jace. We all knew that. Surely his mother knew it, too, whether or not she was willing to admit it, even to herself.

“You belong here with us,” she insisted.

The last bit of self-control crumbled from Jace’s expression, revealing raw pain and anger for an instant before he whirled to face the wall. “That hasn’t been true since you married Calvin.”

I stared at my cast in my lap, fiddling aimlessly with a puff of padding sticking out from the end. He should have been alone; we were all intruding on what should have been a very private agony. I glanced at my father and tossed my head toward the door, raising one brow in question. He nodded, then stood and motioned for us all to follow him into the hall. Whatever Jace said next would be personal, and of no value to our Pride. Marc took my good arm as we headed for the door, but if Jace noticed us leaving, he showed no sign.

“Don’t do this, Jace,” his mother begged as I rounded the couch. But her voice carried a sharp edge of warning.

“I’m not doing it.” I’d never heard Jace sound so strong. So angry, and unmovable. “Calvin’s doing it. He set the thunderbirds after us, and he killed his own son because Brett was defecting with evidence. If you can’t see the truth when it’s staring you in the face, we have nothing else to talk about.”

I was halfway to the door with Marc at my side when a plastic crunch echoed through the room. I turned to see Jace holding the pulverized remains of his cell in one hand, small bits of plastic and electronics spilling between his fingers to clatter on the hardwood.

“Will you accept Marc Ramos as an escort?” my father asked from the hall, making no effort to lower his voice. Marc’s hand tightened around mine beneath the table. At the peninsula, my mother froze in the act of ladling chili into bowls, and her gaze strayed to the doorway. Along with mine.

“Greg…” Blackwell hedged, but my father’s footsteps never paused, and Blackwell had to either keep up or be left behind. Both men stopped in front of the dining room—no doubt strategic positioning on my dad’s part.

“Marc is my best enforcer, Paul.” My Alpha turned with his back toward the kitchen, putting me and Marc in Blackwell’s direct line of sight, over his shoulder. “I can’t in good conscience send you off with anything less than my best.”