keep the knowledge of Brandon Fontanne’s aneurysm to yourself because you were angry at him and hated him and wanted revenge for what he did to you? Or,” Libby firmly rushed on before Katy could answer, “did you see it as a way to stop him from drugging and raping more women?”
“I knew who he was and where he could be found,” Katy said softly. “I could have gone to the hospital that day and had evidence collected and report it to the police.”
“And you didn’t . . . because?”
Katy lifted her arm to show the mark. “It was obvious to me, even in the frame of mind I was in at the time, that this wasn’t an isolated crime of opportunity. And I also knew Fontanne would have flown directly to a country that didn’t have extradition and that he was probably sitting in some bar looking for his next victim before I was even able to untie those ropes. So what would reporting it to the police have accomplished besides leaving me with a kit full of evidence, an arrest warrant that couldn’t be carried out, and an angry and deeply wounded . . .” She dropped her head on a shuddering sigh. “I wasn’t about to let that bastard hurt my family, too.”
“Okay. It’s done. Over. History. Your demon is dead. And you’re letting me make that arm baby-soft smooth again, because you didn’t give the bastard that aneurysm. And,” she rushed on when Katy tried to speak, “we are never, ever telling your father or Robbie or any male in any of the clans. And Winter. Oh, God, we can’t ever tell Winter.”
“I have no intention of ever telling anyone, but why not Winter?”
Libby screwed up her face. “Are you kidding me? The woman’s a wizard. She’d try to find a way to resurrect Fontanne just to be able to kill him herself.”
Katy very gently broke free of her mother’s grasp and stepped back. “I, ah . . . I sort of already told Gunnar,” she confessed.
Libby went perfectly still except to blink at her. “Why would you have told your boss?”
“Because I think he’s . . .” Katy gave a tentative smile. “I think he might be The One.”
Her mother did not smile back. “You haven’t even known the man a month, Katherine,” Libby whispered. “And less than two months ago you . . . you were raped.”
“But I don’t remember being raped,” Katy whispered back.
“But your body does. Have you been with Gunnar . . . romantically?”
No longer able to look at the concern in her mother’s eyes, Katy dropped her gaze to the ground. “We haven’t made love yet,” she said softly. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”
“It wasn’t the right time.”
Katy looked up at her mom once again. “What if it’s never the right time again?”
Her mother almost smiled, eyebrows high. “Do you actually believe that?”
A sharp poke shook Katy’s insides, like a crack in her soul. She almost smiled herself. “How do you happen to know everything?”
“Isn’t that a mother’s job?”
“I guess I forgot I’m a Highlander.” She grinned crookedly. “And an equestrian. Whether we fall, or someone knocks us down, we get back on our feet or in the saddle and try again. We don’t give up or give in; we get stronger. Someone like Brandon Fontanne doesn’t get to take that away.”
Her mother nodded. “Exactly. And I’m guessing someone like Gunnar Wolfe knows better than to question that strength. If he’s The One, that is.” Libby’s eyebrows arched in challenge.
Katy chuckled. “I’m pretty sure I’ve made that clear. And besides, Gunnar’s one of us.”
The eyebrows fell. “What?”
“He’s from Atlantis. He’s one of Nicholas’ warriors.”
“Oh, but that’s no good. You need a mortal, Katy, to keep you grounded. Michael understands the magic but doesn’t command it. He’s my anchor. Without him to hold on to, I could get swept away.”
Katy studied her, heart sinking. She’d always known her father supported her mother, and her mother’s magic, but she’d never quite understood his role. “It always has to be that way?”
Libby nodded. “I don’t know how someone like us survives the magic otherwise.”
Katy sighed, suddenly overwhelmed. “There’s just so much I don’t understand yet. How do you decide if you’re supposed to intervene or not? When is it my place to help? Five years ago, I started . . . feeling people’s pain. Not as pain itself, but . . . Oh, I can’t describe it. I didn’t see colors, I