“So, Jace,” Owen said from his seat at the bar. “Did Burger King blow up in here, or what?”

“I didn’t see you sweatin’ over a hot stove,” Jace said around a mouthful of food.

“He was sweating?” Ethan glanced at me for confirmation.

I shrugged. “I didn’t see any sweat, but I did see some dancing.”

Parker raised an eyebrow, bemused. “There was dancing?”

“No. There was no dancing.” Jace scowled at me.

I grinned. “Not only was he dancing, he was twirling.”

Parker snickered, and Ethan laughed outright, nearly choking on the last bite of his first burger.

“Okay, I may have taken a graceful step or two,” Jace admitted, a barbecue-flavored chip halfway to his mouth. “But it’s not like I was doing Vic’s rain dance.” He crunched into the chip, and for a long moment his chewing splintered a tense silence.

It was a harmless reference to a very funny night several summers before, when Vic had danced naked in the backyard, appealing to the heavens for some much-needed rainfal . But mentioning Vic had brought to mind his sister, which reminded me forcefully of just what I was doing there, surrounded by my brothers and lifelong friends.

I was home because my parents saw a strike against one North American Pride as a strike against us al . They were closing ranks, circling the wagons to protect the women and children, and as insulted as I was to be included among those in need of protection, I seemed to be the only one who considered their precautions unnecessary.

Could I be wrong? I’d assumed my parents had seized upon Sara’s vanishing act as an excuse to bring their stray sheep back into the fold, where they thought I belonged. But what if they were right? What if someone had taken her?

That one thought changed everything.

All at once, the gravity of Sara’s disappearance hit me like a fist in the gut. Air whooshed from my lungs, and I gasped, trying to draw more in. Doubled over, I panted, near panic. I’d been convinced that she had run away, but what if I was wrong? What if Sean had taken her? If he was crazy enough to snatch her from her own territory, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t hurt her.

A hand settled on my shoulder, heavy and warm. I looked up, fighting back tears. Marc stood in front of me, with a plate in his other hand and concern in his eyes where there had been only anger moments earlier.

Embarrassed by my near col apse and stil furious with Marc, I slapped his hand from my shoulder. The sound echoed throughout the room for much longer than I thought it should have. His eyes widened in shock as his arm dropped to hang at his side.

“Don’t touch me,” I whispered through clenched teeth, glaring at him. He had no right to try to comfort me after the stunt he’d pulled in the woods.

Marc’s cheeks flushed with humiliation as his expression hardened into anger.

The others stared openly, their food apparently forgotten.

My chair made a harsh scraping sound as I shoved it back from the table. All eyes were on me as I stood. I turned away from them, letting my hair fal to shield my face. The only thing worse than having the guys witness my little breakdown would be having to accept their comfort. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted solitude. I had to get away from them al , but especial y from Marc. “Excuse me, guys,” I mumbled. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

I’d taken two steps toward the doorway when a warm, strong hand closed around my wrist. I glanced back at Marc, trying to jerk free. His fingers tightened around my arm, grinding the bones together. I whimpered, hating the sound of weakness even as I made it.

Owen stood, and I thought he’d intervene on my behalf, but one look from Marc stopped him in midstep.

Marc’s plate crashed to the table. His pickle spear landed on its side on my mother’s floral tablecloth. A tomato slice dangled from the raised edge of his plate.

He stomped out of the kitchen with one hand clamped around my arm, and even with his limp I had to jog to keep up. He pulled me down the hal , past a half dozen closed doors, then tossed me into my bedroom with one hand.

I stumbled and kept putting one foot in front of the other to keep from losing my balance. My momentum took me al the way to the bed, where I banged my thighs against the footboard, and fel forward on my face.

I came up hissing.

Seven

I spun around to face Marc and found my bedroom door closed. Anger, already scorching a path through my veins, blazed al new trails in the face of his audacity.

Beyond the capacity for rational thought, I stormed toward him, my right hand curling into a fist.

Marc limped backward, bringing his arm up to ward off the blow. He was too late. My fist slammed into his jaw. His head snapped back and to the left. But before I could even consider taking a second shot, he’d wrapped a hand around each of my forearms, the gold sparks in his eyes glittering in fury.

I tried to pull free, but his fists tightened around my arms. He took a step forward, pushing me ahead of himself. Then his left foot hit the ground, and he grimaced in obvious agony.

The pain seemed to clear Marc’s head, and his eyes regained focus. He struggled visibly to get control over his temper, his gaze shifting back and forth between my eyes. I tried to jerk my arms away again, and he blinked. Then he shoved me. Hard.

I staggered backward, al the way to my bed. Again.

“What the hel is wrong with you?” I spat, gripping the footboard to recover my balance. Since my claws were temporarily unavailable, I scrambled for words sharp enough to wound him. “Don’t you ever lay another finger on me,” I said, the calm surface of my voice hiding a churning current of rage. “You lost the right to touch me a long time ago.”