Prey. Rachel Vincent

all of Manx’s close family members had died in a hostile takeover by a neighboring Pride, shortly after she had been kidnapped by Miguel and Luiz. In fact, her disappearance was probably what had weakened her father’s hold on his territory—without her, he could promise his members no heir.

      So Manx and her son were alone in the world and, as with me, my father was the only thing standing between her and an unwanted marriage.

      Manx’s eyes widened, and the blood drained from her face as that fact sank in. “They would force me to…”

      “No!” I started to take her hand, then thought better of it and snatched mine back. “Not like Luiz did. The council would never stand for that.”

      But was forcing her into marriage any less reprehensible than what Miguel and his brother had done? Sure, she wouldn’t technically be raped, and neither Manx nor her children would be in any physical harm. But she’d be expected to submit on her own, night after night, to a man she didn’t love, so that she and Des would have a safe place to live.

      Because if Manx ever refused to bear the next generation, her life would cease to have value, and there would be little motivation for some members of the council to keep her alive. Which was exactly what I’d been told during my own trial.

      My blood boiled just thinking about it. The North American Prides were no more civilized than our neighbors to the south! We just dressed up barbarism better, cloaking injustice and oppression—and hell, prostitution—in pretty words like duty and honor.

      What a load of shit!

      Part of me wanted to march downstairs and demand every cat in the house join me in a protest, pushing for a tabby’s right to chose her own future. Fighting for it, if necessary. But the other, wiser, more logical part of me knew that merely demanding change would accomplish nothing. And fighting would only put me back on the stand next to Manx.

      If I wanted to change the system, I’d have to do it from the inside. Jace had told me that, and he was right. I could see that clearly now. And I also knew that it wouldn’t happen quickly. Not in time to save Manx. To keep her out of Malone’s household, we’d need a more immediately accessible alternative.

      Fortunately, we might have one…

      My throat ached with all the angry words I was holding back to keep from scaring the crap out of her. So I took a deep breath and slowed my pulse, hoping that if I stayed composed, she would, too. Then I forced a comforting smile and launched into the alternative.

      “Or, if you like the Di Carlos and they like you, there’s a good possibility that you could stay here.” I glanced down to find my hands twisted around a handful of satin and stuffing, and had to swallow past the lump in my throat in order to speak. “Last summer, they lost their daughter, Sara, shortly before her wedding. Miguel killed her. They’re hurting pretty badly, so if you decide not to stay here, I’d ask you to please break it to them very gently. The last thing they need is more pain.”

      “Vic misses her.”

      Surprised, I looked up to see that Manx’s tears had actually fallen. “He talks to you about Sara?”

      She nodded slowly, wiping moisture from her cheeks. “She was smart, and beautiful, and strong. She spit in Miguel’s face.”

      “Yeah.” I laughed and blinked moisture from my own eyes. “That was Sara. She was halfway through a degree in economics, and planned to finish before having kids.” A decision I’d greatly respected.

      But now she was dead, and the Di Carlos had no heir, and no way to hold on to their territory once Umberto retired. Or died.

      “They’re good people,” I said, looking around at the room they’d fixed up for Manx and Des. “And who knows? You might decide you actually like Vic or one of his brothers. So maybe just think about it?”

      “I will.” Manx nodded earnestly, blotting her long, dark lashes with a tissue from the changing table. “If I live.”

      I wanted to tell her that she would. That everything would be okay, one way or another. But I couldn’t swear to it, and I wasn’t going to lie to her. And she seemed to respect that.

      “Faythe, I need a…um…” Manx paused and closed her eyes, probably searching for the right word in English. “A favor.” She met my eyes again, and the depth of her gaze alone emphasized the importance of whatever she was about to say.

      “Yes?” I held my breath, and could hear both our hearts beating. No, all three of our hearts.

      “If I die, will you take Desiderio home? To your mother? I have not asked her, but I think she will take him.”

      For a moment I was so horrified by the necessity of such a question that I couldn’t answer. I’d known arrangements would have to be made for Des, just in case. But Manx making those arrangements herself, less than twelve hours before the start of her trial?

      I could barely even conceive of that kind of courage.

      “Please,” Manx whispered, misinterpreting my silence, her eyes deep gray pools of despair.

      “Of course I will,” I assured her. Relief washed over Manx, and she slumped against the back of the rocker, as if now that we had that out of the way, she could finally relax.

      I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone look quite so pleased when contemplating her own death.

      That night after dinner, I tried my hardest to keep Donna Di Carlo from putting me up in Sara’s bedroom. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I stopped arguing when I realized she might take my refusal as an insult.

      I didn’t mean it as one. Sara’s pictures still topped the dresser, and her old stuffed animals reclined on the bed. Her room looked like a shrine, and I didn’t want to disturb it. But her mother was tired of seeing it sit empty and clearly wanted me to get some use out of it.

      So I lay down in Sara’s bed just after eleven o’clock—and was still awake three hours later. I couldn’t sleep with her staring down at me from the walls, asking me wordlessly why I saved Abby but couldn’t save her.

      Her eyes haunted me.

      Finally, around two-thirty in the morning, I snuck out of her room and down the hall to Vic’s, where I climbed into bed with him. He barely even noticed. He just scooted over to make room, then went back to snoring softly.

      I would never have gotten in bed with Jace, because Marc would never have forgiven either of us. He knew that Jace and I had made a real connection, and that Jace would be happy to revive it. But Vic and Marc had been partners for years, and Marc trusted him completely. Mostly because Vic had never shown any interest in me sexually. He was a friend, and one who would understand why I couldn’t sleep in his dead sister’s bed.

      In minutes, I was asleep, but I woke up with the first rays of sun and crept back into Sara’s room to keep from hurting her mother’s feelings.

      I dressed and showered early, and after breakfast I said goodbye to Michael, Manx and Brian. Then Vic drove me to the airport in Atlanta. My plane landed in Dallas just before noon, and I made my way to baggage claim, where Jace waited, his blue eyes sparkling in the fluorescent glow from overhead. Kaci stood at his side, chestnut waves in a ponytail behind one ear. She had her hands stuffed into the pockets of a faded pair of jeans, her jacket unzipped over her favorite long-sleeved tee.

      She hadn’t seen me yet, and was anxiously scanning the crowd. Then Jace tapped her shoulder and pointed me out.

      Kaci’s hazel eyes found mine, and her face lit up with relief and excitement. She took off through the throng, hair trailing behind her, moving at human speed because of her weakened state. And hopefully in consideration of the people around her. Even so, Jace panicked the moment she left his side. I could see it in his eyes. He’d lost sight of her in the crowd, and was seconds from seriously losing his cool.

      I caught his