I leaned in to kiss him. “No games, remember? I would be honored to have a permanent place on your body. And, yes, I know the tattoo isn’t about expecting anything permanent. It’s memorializing me.”

He sputtered a laugh. “That makes it sound as if you’re dead. It’s like the rest of my tattoos—marking someone or something significant in my life.”

“I want one, too.” I rolled half onto his chest, looking down at him. “Like we discussed.”

“You don’t have to, Liv.”

“I want to.”

He studied my face, then gave a slow smile. “Okay. But I’m going to insist you get a small design, something easily hidden. I have an idea, too.”

He reached down for my jeans and pulled something from the pocket. It was the boar’s tusk given to me by one of the Cwn Annwn.

He’d first seen it the night we’d heard the Wild Hunt, and I remembered the fascination glittering in his eyes as he’d turned it over in his hand. A gut-level recognition that this was significant somehow. Like his grandmother’s stories of the Hunt.

I should have known what he was.

The girl was right. I had known. Deep down.

He pointed to a symbol on the tusk—a Celtic-style sun and moon, intertwined. “For my tattoo, I’d like this. It reminds me of you. Don’t ask me why. It just does.”

The sun and the moon. Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Two halves of my whole.

I ran my fingers over the engravings of the moon. The symbol of the Cwn Annwn. Ricky’s symbol. It fit him. It always had, and maybe it wasn’t what I wanted for him, but it was him. There was no changing that. For Ricky, then, I chose this design. When I said that, I thought he’d ask why, but he only nodded, looking pleased.

I put the tusk aside. “Okay, so we have the design. Where should I put it?”

His grin was devilish now as he rolled me onto my back. “Well, that’s going to take some exploration. If the spot’s too hard, it’ll hurt too much. Too soft, and it’s really not going to look as good in thirty years.”

I stretched out, hands behind my head, covers kicked off. “Explore away. I trust your judgment.”

—

I woke to the buzz heralding a text message. As I reached for my phone, I glanced out the window. It was pitch-black . . . except for a faint glow from Rose’s house. Shit.

Sure enough, I had three texts from Gabriel. They grew increasingly terse as I failed to reply. The last was simply: Are you coming?

I looked out the window at that light. I could feel the pull of it. Go talk to Gabriel. He’s waiting for you.

I glanced at Ricky, soundly sleeping, his leg over mine, his hand on my hip.

Patrick said that if I was forced to choose between Ricky and Gabriel, he had no doubt whom it would be. I remembered the smug smile on his lips, the conviction in his eyes.

I cared about Gabriel. Deeply. But we weren’t Gwynn and Matilda, no more than Ricky and I were Arawn and Matilda.

I sent back a message. Talk tomorrow. And the light across the road went out.

—

I woke to a message that Gabriel had headed home the night before, so I needed to drive myself to the office. I arrived expecting to talk to him about my vision, only to discover he’d retreated with his door closed. He’d left work for me in the meeting room. Lydia buzzed to tell him I was there. He didn’t come out.

Gabriel had left me Pamela’s file. The note on top gave me instructions. Or I think they were instructions. It was exactly two words: Inconsistencies. Motive. Motive was underlined twice.

If there were inconsistencies in the Larsens’ case, he’d have found them by now. As for motive—seriously? No one had figured out my parents’ motive during their trial. How the hell was I supposed to?

More information would help. Hell, actual sentences would help. But I dug in.

—

When a client arrived, I gathered my work and went into the reception area. The client—a guy wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit—glared as if I’d cut him off in traffic. Gabriel ushered him into the meeting room without a glance my way.

It was not a long session. It consisted of a lot of angry words from the client, followed by the only two that counted: You’re fired.

The man stormed out. Then his shoes squeaked as he pulled up in front of me.

“Let me give you a word of advice, girlie,” he said. “Unless you want your boyfriend defending traffic violations, you’d better back the hell off and let him do his job.”

Gabriel beat me to a reply, saying, “Ms. Jones is my employee and my client.”

“Really?” The man snorted. “If you aren’t at least getting some pussy out of the deal, then you really are an idiot. You want some advice, boy? A couple hundred bucks will buy you better and won’t cost you clients.”

The man stomped out. Gabriel glanced at Lydia. “Please move Mr. Harris’s file to the drawer for former clients and prepare his final bill. How many is that so far?”

“Three, but you’ve—”

“That’s all I asked.” He turned his gaze my way, just for a second, empty eyes meeting mine; then he returned to his office.

I slid my chair up to Lydia’s desk. “He’s lost three clients because of me?”

“Three minor clients, with minor cases. Since Edgar Chandler’s confession, I’m fielding a half-dozen calls from potential clients a day. He’s not mentioning that part because he’s fuming about something. I take it you two had a falling-out?”