by the elbows in front of him, his expression offering no quarter as he glared at the female who’d threatened his family and now smirked in the face of his fury. His mate’s sister wisely stood still and silent.
“You’ve no power over me, you simple animals,” Fran growled in response to Colin’s threat. “My sister and I would rather join her than submit to the likes of you.”
She grabbed the hand holding the knife, struggling for possession, clawing, even biting his thumb until Colin dealt her a short, stunning blow to the nose and yanked away.
Genevieve’s elder daughter licked at the blood streaming over her curled lip and smiled as she taunted, “I drove the truck that officially killed your mate. How did she feel, knowing while she was locked away in the dark, you and I were rolling around, playing house together so many, many times?” When Colin didn’t react as she’d hoped, his temper locked down tight, she seized the only other path to freedom she could find. “You owe me! I brought her back and I can take her away again just as easily any time I want unless you—"
“No more deals.”
The Terriot prince gripped her jaw, and with a quick wrench of his hand and crack of her spine took her threats off the table.
Seeing her only ally crumple, Olivia cried up at Kip, “You owe me, Chris! Your life for mine!”
The young prince’s stunned gaze followed the figure sliding lifeless to the floor. Olivia’s . . . sister? He swallowed hard. Features firming along with his resolve, he replied, “That’ll be up to Ophelia and our king.”
After Kip placed a call to Babineau requesting yet another cleanup, he and Colin took their prisoner to the Towers. Olivia remained docile and silent, adding to his worry. As they approached the elevator, Jacques, Susanna and their child, Pearl LaRoche were just getting on and stepped back to make room for them inside.
As the car rose silently, Olivia glanced down at the somberly intense child. Gazes met and, in surprise, held. A kindred spark leapt between them, each recognizing the dark half of the other.
Olivia faced front and smiled slightly to herself.
She was not alone.
The family got off at an earlier floor while the car continued to the next. As the three of them approached an apartment door, it flew open. Ophelia Brady stood on its threshold. Her gaze flew from sister to her mate’s as she whispered, “Thank you.”
Olivia trotted docilely at the big Terriot’s side as Colin hauled her inside and straight across the living room to the open terrace door. A weak laugh escaped. “Are you going to throw me off?”
“Not my choice to make,” Colin growled, glare hinting at his preference. He gave her a push over the threshold.
A tall, black-haired female turned away from the view to offer a narrow smile. Despite her obvious pregnancy, she had the strong, fit body and manner of a warrior. Liv returned the gesture cautiously. Sharp, no-nonsense blue eyes imprisoned her gaze as if piercing to the soul she claimed not to have. The prickly invasion left her shaky but oddly not alarmed as she asked, “Who are who?”
“I’m like you. I once walked the same path you do now. My name is Nica, and I can show you another way.”
– – –
Michael Furness assessed his visitors, smile guarded. Max and Charlotte, Silas, and Dr. Duchamps gave nothing away with their demeanors. After they’d found seats in his modest office, he asked, “What’s happened?”
Silas, who had little affection for the priest, spoke plainly. “We’re here to clean up the mess you’ve made, not only in New Orleans but in the North as well.”
His startled gaze jumped to Max, who was brutally blunt.
“She’s dead, and so are her men.”
All the calm that served his profession well failed as he sagged back into his chair, struggling to find words. Finally, he whispered, “How?”
Max spelled out the course of events slowly, carefully, concluding with, “The question now is what happens next, and that’s up to you, Michael. Genevieve may be dead, but our worlds, our clans are still at war. That ends. Now!”
Confused gaze going from one face to the next—each a different piece of the whole that made up New Orleans—Furness started putting those pieces together. “What has that to do with me?”
“Everything.” Max passed him the letter from Rollo Moytes to the son he never knew. “It was Rollo’s plan to save himself by leveraging this information to