Lu swung her legs over the side of the bed, wanting to touch him but knowing he wouldn’t want her to, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how. “Magnus, you didn’t have to do that! It’s my fault, you shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

The young man standing in her bedchamber door was about her age, broad, blond, and ridiculously good-looking, with a soft glow around his head that seemed to be coming from behind him. He looked between her and Magnus, a little unsure, but Magnus shoved himself to his feet and growled, “No, Beckett. I was just leaving.”

Lu begged, “Magnus, please, wait—”

“I brought these for you,” he said gruffly, and dropped two pairs of gloves on the small table beside her bed. He turned and strode stiffly from the room without looking back before she could ask him again to stay.

As Magnus brushed past him in the doorway, Beckett grinned at him, flashing a dimple in his cheek.

In response, Magnus growled.

Beckett didn’t seem to mind. He turned his attention to Lu and held out the bundle he carried in his arms. “My aunt asked me to bring you these. She said badass chicks deserve badass threads.” His rakish grin deepened. “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Your aunt?” She craned her neck to see around him, but Magnus was gone. How could she thank him for what he’d done for her? Especially if he kept running away?

“Morgan. Well, she’s not technically my aunt, but we’re tight. I’ve called her that since I was a kid.” He noted the confused expression on her face. “Oh, shit, sorry, where are my manners?” He bowed from the waist, then straightened and said formally, “Beckett McLoughlin, at your service, My Lady. It’s my sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance. Welcome.”

McLoughlin. That was one of the names Magnus had called her: Hope Catherine Moore McLoughlin. She looked at Beckett, intrigued by a new possibility.

“So we’re related? Are you my . . . brother?”

For a moment Beckett looked appalled. “No! I mean . . .” he cleared his throat, rearranging his expression to one slightly more composed. “My father and your father are brothers. You met my parents at the Assembly meeting. Ember and Christian? He’s my dad.”

“Oh. So we’re cousins, then!”

Beckett seemed to have some kind of a problem with her being related to him, because his look soured. He said grudgingly, “Well, technically. Yes.”

She didn’t understand the subtext here, but without the hangover clouding her mind and wreaking havoc with her body, Lu suddenly remembered the event that had caused her to want to get so blindly drunk.

She’d died, and been resurrected.

Correction: She’d been killed, and been resurrected.

Payback’s gonna be a bitch, Honor, she thought angrily. Then with a flash of horror: Am I a zombie now?

Looking at her expression, Beckett’s face fell. “I’ll just leave these for you—”

“I’m sorry, it’s not you. It’s not you at all. I just . . .” She stared at his expectant expression, feeling competing urges to laugh, cry, and dive deep into bed, pull the covers over her head, and never reemerge. She blurted, “I died yesterday, Beckett. Twice.”

He considered her, his expression serious. “I know.” He paused a beat, then broke into another of his seemingly endless supply of grins. “Is that awesome, or what?”

Lu ran her hands over her hair, realizing there wasn’t a mirror in this room, and she had no idea what she looked like. Was her skin zombie gray? No, her hands and arms were the normal color. She had to assume her face looked normal, too. She put her hand over her heart; still beating.

“May I?” Beckett gestured to the clothing in his arms, and glanced at the end of her bed. Why someone hadn’t thought to put a chair or a dresser in the room, she had no idea.

She nodded, and he came forward and laid the clothes at the foot of the bed. He retreated to the door, keeping his eyes to the ground, not turning but instead walking backward, until he was again at the arched entrance.

Finally he looked up at her, smiling as if he’d just won a million water credits. His teeth were spectacularly white.

“If you’re up for it, a bunch of us are going hunting topside later. You’re welcome to join in.”

Lu’s brain closed around the word topside with an almost audible snap. She pictured the cloud-wreathed peaks she’d seen on the flight here, she pictured emerald forests and cool, shady glens. But there was another word he’d spoken, a word that made her mouth water and her blood quicken in the most wonderful way.

“Hunting?”

“There’s only so much fish you can eat,” he said with a laugh. “Topside there’s rabbit and birds and even red deer.” He laughed again, this one softer. “Though I pretty much always let the deer get away.”

“Why’s that?”

His eyes shone in the low light. “Because it’s the chase I love. If a deer gives me a wonderful chase, I give the deer its life in return. I let it go.” He shrugged, a little sheepishly it seemed. “But I figure it’s a fair trade.”

Knowing she was missing something again, Lu frowned at him, but he was backing out the door.

“So, are you in?”

His expression was so hopeful she couldn’t deny him. “Sure. It’s a date.”

His eyes darkened. “A date,” he repeated softly, holding her gaze. Then he abruptly turned and left.

On his way back to the small, dark cave where he slept—he couldn’t even call it home because that would imply some kind of warm, pleasant space filled with good memories—Magnus ran into Morgan, hurrying through the cool passageway with a large bundle of towels in her arms.

“Oh! Magnus! I’m glad to see you; I was just going to take these to Hope and show her where the bathing pool is. Will you please help me—”

“Lumina,” he said through gritted teeth, his stomach threatening to crawl into his throat and out through his mouth. “She likes to be called Lumina.”

Morgan stopped and peered at him. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

The reminder of how he looked was extremely unwelcome. Especially in light of the way Lumina had gazed in wide-eyed wonder at the dazzling, Day-Glo Beckett, he of the perfect face and perfect . . . everything else. The memory made him angry, and a low, hostile growl rumbled through his chest.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I meant your color, Magnus. It’s somewhere between battleship gray and moss green. What’s wrong?”

My face. My soul. My life. Aloud he said, “I have a hangover.”

Morgan stared at him, comprehension dawning in her eyes. “Oh, ducky,” she said gently, “that was really sweet of you.”

He clenched his teeth harder. “Morgan. About the pet name thing. I’m the Alpha; calling me ‘pet,’ ‘ducky,’ and ‘luv,’ is disrespectful and undermines my authority. Cut it out.”

She said defensively, “It’s not disrespectful, it’s affectionate! And I don’t call you those names in front of anyone else—”

“You called me ‘ducky’ in front of Lumina just yesterday!”

She stopped to consider it. “Did I? Hmm.” Her look sharpened. “Which bothers you more: that I did it, or that I did it in front of her?”

He exhaled hard. The rumbling noise in his chest grew louder.

Morgan looked pleased with herself. “That’s what I thought. But don’t worry, I won’t let it slip again. In front of anyone.”

She began to brush past him but he stopped her with a sharp, “Wait.”

Morgan turned with lifted brows, surprised by his tone.

Voice lowered, he said, “I assume you heard about what happened during the Assembly last night.”