But no, Oberon and the other one, the only two fae on the planet, they would grow together. Oberon had even described the process. There could be no need, no room for someone like Ángel in that union.

Tears were freezing on his eyelashes, inside his nose. It was gross and uncomfortable. The sky was empty; the wind cut like a knife. He should go in.

No one was around. No one for miles. No one knew he was here.

So what was that noise?

It sounded like voices. In the woods, on the other side of the wall. Voices, the rustling crunch of footsteps in the snow. A metallic chink.

Ángel watched, numbly, as four men in helmets and goggles appeared at the top of the wall, about twenty feet to his right. They crouched on the wall like gargoyles, silhouetted against the windblown sky.

Four goggled faces turned toward him.

Fuck.

Was he in the security blind spot that Chandler had shown him? He was. How had they known to come over the wall right here?

They rappelled down the wall on thin lines, like bad guys in a James Bond movie, and, while he stood frozen and watched, two trotted through the snow toward the house, and two came toward Ángel.

Ángel spun and ran.

Someone shouted.

He didn’t look back. He ran toward the gatehouse. Toward the security team.

He was in pretty good shape from running on the treadmill and walking the estate, and he ran like a deer: that is, in a clumsy, leggy, too-slow scramble through deep-drifted snow. A darted glance over his shoulder showed that they were chasing him. He ran, stumbling through snow, his legs burning. Hair and snow were in his eyes, cold air bit his lungs, and the sound of his pursuers was loud in his ears.

It was too far. He’d never make it.

He veered and ran back toward the house—toward the pool. Chandler monitored the camera by the pool.

It was like a bad dream: chased by an unknown enemy, and he couldn’t run fast enough because the snow weighed him down, clung to his legs, slid beneath his feet.

He could see the floodlights around the pool, and the nude statues, transformed into inhuman shapes by the mounded snow, silhouetted against the light.

He’d reached the edge of the patio when two fists struck his back—and then he was facedown in the snow, convulsing, screaming as agony ripped through his body. He thrashed and tried to get up, but his legs had gone rigid, muscles locking up, useless.

Chandler. Help.

But maybe Chandler was the one who told them where to come over the wall.