“You two boycotting the meeting, or are you gonna get in on this?” he called.

I groaned on the inside. Marc was going to make me pay. He was going to humiliate me, like I’d humiliated him, by making me show up for an important strategy meeting smelling like him and covered in the dirt they’d assume he’d rolled me in. Everyone would know what we’d done, if they didn’t already.

He was making a statement. Staking his claim. And Jace and I would have to live with it.

But with any luck, if I let him have his moment—let him publicly air his grievance—he’d be able to work past some of his anger. Please let him work past some of his anger….

“Faythe?” my father called, clearly oblivious to the game Marc was playing—so far.

“Yeah. I’m coming.” Dialing up my courage, I brushed more dirt from my clothes with my free hand, then marched back through the kitchen and into the living room with my head high. Or at least not drooping. Jace followed me and took up a post in the doorway, looking angrier than I’d ever seen him.

Marc sat on the arm of the couch, watching me, apparently at peace with the world, at least for the moment.

I leaned against the wall, sipping from my glass, trying to ignore the stares as they roamed down from my hair—evidently disheveled—over my shirt and pants, taking in the smudges I couldn’t get out without detergent. “Okay, as much fun as this awkward silence is…” I had to force my hand to relax around my glass before it cracked. “What’s the plan?”

My father cleared his throat, mercifully drawing the collective focus from me and setting us all back on track as only he could. “The vote takes place in an hour and a half. When they ask for prevailing business, I’ll make the formal charge against Malone, then we’ll present our evidence. Faythe?” My father turned to me, and for once, I was glad I couldn’t read his expression.

“Yeah.” I set my glass on the coffee table and lifted my coat from the back of an armchair. From the inside pocket, I pulled a clear, gallon-size freezer bag—the only size big enough to hold two fourteen-inch-long thunderbird feathers—and held it up for everyone to see.

The south-central cats had all seen it, of course, but Di Carlo’s men had not. They gathered around for a closer look when I laid the bag down on the coffee table. “Can we open it?” Teo Di Carlo asked, and my father nodded.

“Just for a minute, though. The blood’s already dry, and the scent is only going to fade with time and exposure to air.” And we needed everyone at the vote to be able to tell without a doubt whose blood stained that feather.

Teo carefully pulled open the seal and held the bag to his nose. His eyes brightened as he inhaled. “That’s definitely Lance Pierce.”

“I can smell it from here,” one of his fellow enforcers added, from the other end of the couch.

“There’s no doubt about it, Greg,” Bert Di Carlo said, his voice rumbling throughout the room. “Now, whether or not Malone’s allies will accept the obvious conclusion… That remains to be seen.”

And that’s what we were most worried about. Michael—my oldest brother was an attorney in the human world—had warned us that our evidence was circumstantial at best. It only proved that Lance Pierce had bled on a thunderbird feather, not that he’d killed the bird. Or that the feather had even been attached to a bird when it was bled on. But since the werecat legal system didn’t mirror the human one, we were hoping it would be enough. I’d been tried for murder with less evidence.

Of course, I’d been found innocent of that particular charge….

“Bert, would you mind going to fill Rick and Ed in?” My father asked. “Then we can all meet at the main lodge in half an hour.” My uncle Rick Wade and Ed Taylor—Alphas of the East Coast Pride and the Midwest Pride, respectively—were sharing a cabin on the other side of the main lodge.

Di Carlo nodded and rose, motioning for Teo to join him. On their way out the door, they let in a frigid draft and a glimpse of the rapidly darkening winter sky, and seconds later their footsteps faded into the distance.

“Everyone get ready,” my father said, then he disappeared into his room to change into his suit.

Marc followed me into the bedroom we were supposed to share with Jace and snatched Jace’s duffel from the floor. Before Jace could protest, Marc tossed the bag to him. “You’ve got the first shower. Take your time.”

Jace bristled, but I only shook my head. “Please, Jace. I’m tired of fighting with my own Pridemates. Let’s just save it for the real fight, okay?”

Jace spun without a word and stomped off toward the only bathroom.

I set my bag on the dresser and unzipped it, and was digging for clean clothes when Marc crossed the room and closed the door. “You can change and brush your hair, but don’t you dare take a shower.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I turned to find his hard gaze trained on me, his forehead furrowed.

“You owe me. Everyone knows you slept with Jace, and Dean will tell anyone who’ll listen that it’s because I couldn’t keep you interested. You’ve turned me into a walking joke, and the least you can do is make sure everyone knows I’m not out of the game yet.”

“This isn’t a game, Marc.” Why did they both keep referring to it as such?

“The three of us, all tangled up in knots? Hell, no, it’s not a game. It’s my fucking train wreck of a life. But you walking around smelling like we just had a roll in the shed? That’s just more of you lying in the bed you’ve made. With me, this time.”