She looked at me like I’d just gone over to the dark side, but nodded reluctantly.

Marc took my hand, then let his fingers trail through mine as I stepped past him toward the door. Then I stopped and deliberately brushed a kiss on his rough cheek on the way, inhaling deeply to take in as much of his scent as possible, lingering for Blackwell’s benefit, as well as my own. To reiterate for the old coot that I would choose my own relationships.

But on my way into the hall, my gaze caught on Jace’s, and the tense line of his jaw betrayed his carefully blank expression. As did the flicker of heat in his eyes. We’d agreed not to talk about what happened between us the day Ethan died. There was really no other way to keep peace in the household, and keep everyone’s energy and attention focused on avenging my brother. And I’d sworn to myself that Marc would be the first to know. That I would tell him myself. He deserved that much, as badly as I dreaded it.

And there had been no good time for that yet. Not even an acceptable time. Every time was a rotten time, in fact, and each time Jace looked at me like that—each time I felt myself respond to the connection I wanted to deny—my internal pressure dialed up another notch.

If I didn’t break the tension soon, I was going to explode. Or do something we’d all regret.

I forced myself to walk past Jace with nothing more than a polite, sad nod—exactly what I would have given any of my other fellow enforcers—and closed the door as I stepped into the hall.

My mother was already standing there with my leather jacket and Kaci’s down ski coat. Sometimes I forgot she could move just as fast as the rest of us, if she chose.

Sometimes I forgot she had a mouth on her, too. Guess that’s where I got mine…

“Thanks.” I took the jacket and shrugged into it. “Mom, that was…awesome.” There was just no other way to describe it.

Her lips formed a straight, grim line. “It was the truth.” She pulled Kaci’s long chestnut waves from beneath her collar and forced a smile. “Come in and warm up in half an hour, and I’ll have hot chocolate.”

On the way down the hall, Kaci shoved her bare hands into her jeans pockets and glanced up at me, her frown almost as stern as the one my father typically wore. And in that instant, I wanted nothing more than to see her smile. To see her look—just for a moment—like any other thirteen-year-old. Like a teenager who knew nothing of violent death, and soul-shredding guilt, and spirit-crushing fear.

“What was awesome?” she asked, shoving the front door open.

I grinned, my mood momentarily brightened by the memory of my mother’s bad-ass monologue. “My mom just handed Blackwell his shriveled old balls in front of everyone.”