He supposed all was not lost. Shadows did believe in remediation, and he’d heard of cleansing rituals—but there was only so much a guy could do to repair damage.

The irony, of course, was that he’d taken a sick pride in ruining himself to the extent he had. Juvenile, sure, but it had been like he was middle-fingering the tribe and all their ridiculous bullshit—especially the queen’s daughter, who they all thought he should be in a big hurry to nail on a regular basis for the rest of his life.

Even though he’d never met her, wasn’t interested in being a sex toy, and had no intention of volunteering to be locked in a gilded cage.

But it was funny. In spite of everything that he hated about the traditions he’d been born into, he found himself finally kinda seeing a point to them: Here he was, in his post-migraine float, within kissing distance of a female he was dying to worship with his body. And guess what. All that rebellion he’d enjoyed so much was making him feel filthy and totally unworthy.

Not that the actual act would ever occur with Selena—he was a slut, but he wasn’t delusional.

Shit.

With a groan, he let himself fall back against the pillows again. In spite of the Coke and its one-two punch of sugar and caffeine, he was suddenly sucked-under-the-ocean exhausted.

“Forgive me,” the Chosen murmured.

Don’t say you’re going to go, he thought. Even though I don’t deserve you in any way, please don’t leave me—

“Do you need to feed?” she asked in a rush.

Trez felt his jaw drop open. Of all the things he’d been prepared to hear … Not. Even. Close.

“Mayhap I’m being too forward,” she said as she lowered her eyes. “It’s just that you seem so very tired … and sometimes that is what helps most.”

Holy … crap.

He couldn’t tell whether he’d won the lottery … or been sentenced to death.

But as his cock twitched with demand, and his blood roared, the decent part of him that he had long buried spoke up in a quiet, persistent way.

No, it said. Not now, not ever.

The question was … who was going to win, the angel or the devil in him?

Wrath hit the compound’s underground tunnel at a hard pace, his shitkickers beating out a thunderous pounding that echoed all around until he was his own marching band. By his side, George was going at triple time, his collar jingling, his paws clipping over the concrete floor.

The trip from the training center to the mansion took two minutes at least, three to four if you were having a convo and strolling. Not this time: George halted him in front of the secured door a mere thirty seconds after they’d left the office through the back of the supply closet.

Mounting the shallow steps, Wrath felt around for the security pad and entered the code. With a cha-chunk like a bank vault unlatching, the lock disengaged and then they were proceeding through a passageway to the next lock point. Clearing that, they emerged into the cavernous foyer, and the first thing Wrath did was sniff the air.

Lamb, for First Meal. A fire in the library. Vishous smoking a hand-rolled in the billiards room.

Shit. He had to disclose to his brother what had happened with Payne in the gym. Hell, technically he owed the guy a rythe.

But all that could wait.

“Beth,” he said to the dog. “Seek.”

Both he and the animal tested and retested the air.

“Upstairs,” he ordered, at the same time the dog started to walk forward.

As they got to the second-floor landing, her scent became stronger—which confirmed they were headed in the right direction. The bad news? It was coming from over on the left.

Wrath strode off down the hall of statues, going past John and Xhex’s room, and Blay and Qhuinn’s.

They stopped before they got to Zsadist and Bella’s suite.

He didn’t need his dog to tell him he’d reached their destination—and he knew exactly whose room they were in front of: Even out in the corridor, the pregnancy hormones thickened the air to such an extent, it was like hitting a velvet curtain.

Which was why his Beth was in there, wasn’t it.

Females don’t keep secrets from males who respect them.

Goddamn it. Do not tell him his mate wanted a kid and was doing something about it without even talking to him.

Gritting his teeth, he raised his knuckles to knock—but ended up pounding on that door. Once. Twice.

“Come in,” the Chosen Layla said.

Wrath swung things wide and knew exactly when his shellan saw him: The smoky smell of guilt and deceit flowed across the room at him.

“We need to talk,” he snapped. And then he nodded in what he hoped was Layla’s direction. “Please excuse us, Chosen.”

There was some conversating between the females, stilted on Beth’s side, nervous on Layla’s. And then his mate was off the bed and crossing over to him.

They didn’t say a word to each other. Not when she closed the door behind them. Not as they walked back down the hall side by side. And when they got to the entrance of his office, he told George to stay outside before shutting the pair of them in together.

Even though he was intimately familiar with the arrangement of the pansy-ass French furniture, he put his hands out, touching the backs of the silk-covered chairs and a delicate sofa … and then the corner of his father’s desk.

As he went around and sat upon his throne, he locked his hands on the great carved arms—and gripped them so hard the wood creaked in protest. “How long have you been sitting with her.”

“With who.”

“Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you.”

The air stirred in the room, and he heard her footfalls on the Aubusson carpet. As she paced, he could just picture her, her brows down hard, her mouth tight, her arms crossed over her chest.

The guilt was gone now. And in its wake, she was as pissed off as he was.

“Why the hell do you care,” she muttered.

“It is my every right to know where you are.”

“Excuse me?”

He jabbed a finger in her general direction. “She is pregnant.”

“So I noticed.”

His fist slammed down so hard the phone disconnected itself. “Do you want to go into your needing!”

“Yes!” she yelled back. “I do! Is that such a goddamn crime?”

Wrath exhaled, feeling like he’d just gotten hit by a car. Again.

Amazing how hearing his greatest fear spoken aloud was so devastating.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, he knew he had to choose his words carefully—in spite of the fact that his adrenal gland had opened up full-bore and was pumping enough OMG into his system that he was drowning in terror.

In the silence, the phone’s dial tone and then meep-meep-meep-reconnect-me was loud as the curses running through both their heads.

With a shaking hand, he patted around until he found the receiver. Replacing it in the cradle took him a couple of tries, but he got there without smashing anything.

Dear God, it was quiet in the room. And for some reason, he became preternaturally aware of the chair he was sitting in, everything from its hard leather seat, to the carved symbols under his forearms, to the way his lower back was scratched by the relief that rose up behind him.

“I need you to hear this,” he said in a dead voice, “and know that it’s the God’s honest. I will not service you in your needing. Ever.”

Now it was her turn to breathe out like she’d been socked in the gut. “I can’t … I can’t believe you just said that.”

“It is never, ever going to happen. I will never get you pregnant.”

There were few things in life that he knew with greater certainty. The only other that came to mind was how much he loved her.

“Won’t,” she said roughly. “Or can’t.”

“Won’t. As in, will not.”

“Wrath, that’s not fair. You can’t just put that in stone like it’s one of your proclamations.”