“One thirty-six,” V said. “And enough with the conversation. Get us the drugs so we can get the hell out of here.”

As Havers tripped over his own loafers to leave the room, Wrath leaned back until his head hit the plaster wall he’d been unaware of being behind him.

“You want to tell me what the fuck this is about now?” his brother bit out. “Because I’m jumping to a lot of conclusions at the moment, and neither one of us needs that—when you could just answer the cocksucking question.”

“Beth has been hanging out with Layla.”

“Because she wants…”

“A young.”

A fresh influx of Turkish tobacco hit Wrath’s nose, suggesting the brother had just taken a deep drag. “So you’re serious about not wanting a kid?”

“Never. How’s ‘never’ sound?”

“Amen to that.” Abruptly, V’s shitkickers made tracks around the room, and man, that pacing stuff was something to envy. “It’s not that I don’t respect Z and his little slice of nuclear. Thanks to those two females of his, he seems almost normal—which is a miracle in and of itself. So power to him, true? But that shit ain’t for me. Thank God Jane feels the same.”

“Yeah. Thank God.”

“Beth’s not on that train?”

“Nope. She’s not even in that station, that town, or that part of whatever country your metaphor lives in.”

Wrath rubbed his forehead. On the one hand, it was great to have someone agree with him about the no-young issue—it made him feel less like he was doing something wrong or being cruel to his Beth. On the other, that accord Vishous had with Jane? It wasn’t that you wished the shit you were going through on your brother. Not at all. But damn, he could have walked a marathon in those comfortable shoes, thank you very much.

As his brother paced and smoked, and they both waited for Havers to return with the knockout drops … for some reason, he thought back to his parents.

The memories that he had of his mother and father were all about the Norman Rockwell—well, dub in the Old Country language and change the stage set to a medieval castle theme. But yeah, those two had had the perfect relationship. No arguments, no anger, just love.

Nothing had ever come between them. Not his father’s job, not the court they lived in, not the citizenry they served.

Perfect harmony.

It was yet another standard set in the past that he was failing to live up to—

V let out a strange sound, part gasp, part curse.

“Swallow your smoke wrong?” Wrath said dryly.

Right next to him, the chair where Havers had been sitting didn’t creak so much as curse—like V had thrown all of his weight into the thing.

“V?”

When the brother finally answered, his voice was low, too low. “I see you…”

“No, no, no.” Wrath burst up. “I don’t want know, V. If you’re having one of your visions, do not tell me what it—”

“…standing in a field of white. White, white is all around you…”

The Fade? Oh, fucking hell. “Vishous—”

“…and you are talking to—”

“Hey! Asshole! I’ve told you all along, I don’t want to know when I’m going to die. Do you hear me? I don’t want to know.”

“—the face in the heavens.”

“Your mother?” Christ knew the Scribe Virgin had been MIA and then some lately. “Is it your mother?”

Shit, he didn’t want to encourage this. “Listen, V, you gotta pull back. I can’t handle it, man.”

There was a low curse, as if the brother were collecting himself. “Sorry, when it hits in a rush like that, it’s hard to stop.”

“That’s cool.” Even though it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Because the problem with Vishous’s premonitions—aside from the fact that they were always about people dying? No timeline. That stuff could be about Wrath keeling over next week. Next year. Seven hundred centuries from now.

If Beth died … he wouldn’t want to live—

“All I can say is”—V exhaled again—“I see that the future is in your hands.”

Well, at least that was generic and obvious, like an astrology report in a magazine—the kind of thing anybody could read into and feel as though it applied to them.

“Do me a favor, V.”

“What.”

“Don’t see anything else about me.”

“Not up to me, true?”

Too right. Just like his own future.

But the good news was … he wasn’t going to have to worry about Beth’s needing. Thanks to this miserable little visit, he was going to be able to take care of her when it came.

Without running the risk of pregnancy.

THE YEAR 1664

“Leelan?”

When there was no answer, Wrath, son of Wrath, knocked again upon his chamber door. “Leelan, may I enter?”

As King, he waited for no one, and there was not a body who permitted him to do aught.

Except for his precious mate.

And as with this eve, when there were festival gatherings, she desired to pretty herself in privacy, allowing him access only when she had prepared herself for his viewing and adoration. It was utterly charming—as was the manner in which their mated space was scented because of her oils and lotions. As was the way, even a year after their union, that she still ducked her eyes and smiled secretly when he wooed her. As was waking up every dusk with her against him and then fading off to rest at the dawn beside her warm, beautiful body.

But there was a different edge to it all now.

When was the waiting going to be over … and not about gaining entrance unto their room.

“Enter, my love,” came through the stout oak panels.

Wrath’s heart jumped. Turning the heavy latch, he shouldered the planks open … and there she was. His beloved.

Anha was across the room, by the hearth that was large enough for a grown male to stand in. Seated at her dressing table, which he’d had moved by the fire for to ensure warmth, her back was to him, her long black hair lying in thick coils down her shoulders to her waist.

Wrath breathed in deep, her scent more important than the oxygen that filled his lungs. “Oh, you look lovely.”

“You have nae seen me properly—”

Wrath frowned at the tightness in her voice. “What ails you?”

His shellan turned about to face him. “Naught. Why do you ask?”

She was lying. Her smile was a faded version of its normal radiance, her skin too pale, her eyes dragging down at their corners.

As he strode across the fur rugs, fear gripped him. How many nights since her needing had come and gone? Fourteen? Twenty-one?

In spite of the risk to her, they truly prayed for a conception—and not simply for an heir, but as a son or daughter to love and nurture.

Wrath sank to his knees before his leelan, and indeed he was reminded of the very first time he had done as such. He had been right to mate this female, and righter still to place his heart and soul within her gently cupped hands.

She alone he could trust.

“Anha, be of truth to me.” He reached up and touched her face—and immediately retracted his hand. “You are cold!”

“I am not.” She batted him away, putting her brush down and getting to her feet. “I am dressed in this red velvet you prefer. How can I possibly be cold?”

For a moment, he nearly forgot his concerns. She was such a vision in the deep, rich color, the gold thread upon her bodice catching the firelight just as all her rubies did: Indeed, she was wearing the full set of jewelry tonight, the stones glinting at her ears, her neck, her wrists, her hands.

And yet, as resplendent as she was, something was not proper.

“Do rise, my hellren,” she commanded. “And let us proceed down unto the festivities. All and sundry are awaiting you.”

“They may tarry longer.” He had no intention of budging. “Anha, speak unto me. What is wrong?”