And the gods knew, along with everybody else, how much they hated each other.

“What are we doing?” she whispered.

The last two names were almost an anticlimax. Almost, except compared to some of the others, they were a goddamn relief. Grym, quiet but always present, always reliable. And Alexander Elysias, the pegasus, who by all accounts was a peaceful man. She had a feeling they were going to need that peacefulness in the upcoming days.

She could hear the roar of the crowd through the sound system, and feel Dragos’s charged energy moments before he strode into the room. He looked at her. “It’s finally done. The Games are over. I’m going down to announce the new sentinels. Will you come?”

She stood immediately. “Of course.”

He held out his hand to her, and she walked over to take it.

Somehow they would all have to figure out how to get along.

What are we doing? she thought. Why, we are doing what we must.

Dragos inclined his head to her.

She mouthed at him, “And then we get a weekend off.”

He grinned, and together they strode out to their people.

NINETEEN

A couple of months later, a very large young man said to Pia, “Mom, you’re just gonna have to trust me. I promise everything’s going to be all right.”

She bit back a smile. Now, where had she heard those words before? Like father, like son. “I trust you, baby,” she told the young man as he lounged against the kitchen counter. “Of course everything’s going to be all right.”

She was in the middle of pouring birthday cake batter into a pan in a bright, airy kitchen with plenty of windows for natural light and a butcher-block island.

Then she stopped. Wait a minute. This wasn’t the kitchen at the penthouse. Where the hell was she this time?

And why was she baking a birthday cake?

She set the batter bowl down carefully and turned to her son, who was killer gorgeous. He had to be nearly as tall as Dragos, broad shouldered and slim hipped, with long, strong legs encased in torn, faded jeans.

Every single one of the gods had to have been in a good mood when this boy was made. His features were not as rough-hewn as Dragos’s, but the strong bone structure was still there, and he had her dark violet eyes. A thatch of white blond hair tumbled down his forehead.

Killer. Gorgeous.

She felt punch-drunk. All she could think of was the robot from the old TV show Lost in Space whenever it waved its arms in alarm and shouted, “Danger, Will Robinson, danger.”

She could see the future coming toward her, like the lights of an oncoming train. They couldn’t take away his car keys. He had wings. They were going to have to institute a citywide curfew, maybe throughout the entire state. Eleven P.M. Lock up all your daughters, folks. No, better make the curfew ten P.M.

In the meantime, who was going to protect this beautiful boy from all the predators that were going to think he was their next tasty morsel? Oh geez, she and Dragos had their jobs cut out for them.

“I guess you learned this dream stuff a couple of months ago,” she said. “Peanut, you are too precocious for your own good. You are a baby. You need to get back into my uterus and stay there for a while.”

“I think my name is Liam,” said the peanut. “At least I like it.” He looked at her uncertainly. “Is that okay with you?”

Liam Cuelebre. Her eyes moistened. “It’s more than okay. It’s beautiful, and I love it. I love you. But why am I baking a birthday cake?”

He hooked a long finger into the batter and licked it. “Because it’s my birthday, and I think I’m going to like cake. Don’t worry, Mom. Everything is going to be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

She pointed the spatula at him. “You are not supposed to say that to your mommy. Your mommy is supposed to say that to you.”

The peanut gave her a sunny, innocent smile.

She plunged awake as the baby gave an especially robust kick, pow, right under her ribs, and as she put a hand over her swollen abdomen, she looked around at the deeply shadowed room, disoriented. She was pretty sure she was awake, but this wasn’t their bedroom in the penthouse either.

Dragos stretched out beside her on the bed, lying on his stomach, fast asleep. His long, powerful body was dark against the pale top sheet that had slipped to his waist, his broad shoulders relaxed. The king-sized bed—they couldn’t sleep in anything but a king-sized bed—took up most of the room. A couple of dressers were against the wall, cosmetics strewn on one and cufflinks and a plain, masculine hairbrush on another. The door to a bathroom was half open, from which a dim night-light shone.

She rolled onto her side and peered over the edge of the bed. A pair of high-heeled ivory pumps lay on the floor, along with a tangled heap of a knee-length, pale chiffon maternity dress. It was her wedding dress from Target, and it had cost all of eighty-nine dollars.

Reality settled into place around her, and it looked a lot like a fat, contented cat.

That’s right. They had gotten married that morning.

She held up her left hand to admire the simple, classic gold band that now nestled beside the outrageous, T. rex–sized diamond ring. Dragos had a gold band that matched hers. She grinned as she remembered how that particular conversation had gone.

It had been short and sweet, and to the point. They had been standing at a jewelry counter at Tiffany while an attendant showed them rings. Pia admired one particularly sleek, elegant set of his-and-hers wedding bands.

“But I collect jewelry,” said Dragos with a frown. “I don’t wear it.”

She glanced at him. His frown was more bemusement than anything else. He stood very close to her, still dressed in a white shirt and dark suit from his day’s work. He had removed his tie and unbuttoned the first couple of buttons on his shirt. His head was angled as he studied the rings in the black velvet tray, his gold eyes gleaming with acquisitive interest.

She recognized that look. She said telepathically to him, We do not need this whole tray of rings.

His gaze shifted to her. Are you sure?

I’m quite sure. Just beyond his shoulder, she caught sight of a woman standing some twenty feet away from them. The woman was model thin, sleek, intelligent-looking and immaculate. Her makeup, hair and polished nails were color coordinated, and her outfit and accessories hit around the ten-thousand mark. Thanks to Stanford, Pia was getting better at judging that sort of thing.

The woman stared fixedly at Dragos, not even bothering to disguise her naked hunger even though Pia stood right there with him, clearly pregnant, and together they were one of the world’s most recognizable mated Wyr couples.

But neither mating nor marriage had necessarily anything to do with fidelity, and there would always be some sexual predator hoping to get her claws, even for a brief time, into the multibillionaire head of Cuelebre Enterprises.

None of them fazed Dragos for a moment. They were so unimportant to him that they didn’t even register on his radar. Pia wished she could truly be that indifferent, but at best she could only fake it.

Pia turned her attention back to Dragos. She said, “Maybe you don’t wear jewelry as a general rule, but you’re going to wear this ring.”

Amusement played at the edges of his hard, sexy mouth. “You know this because . . . ?”

“Because I get to have everything I want.” And she wanted nothing more in that moment than to put her claim on him so that everybody could see it. Without bothering to lower her voice, she added, “And that includes having lots of fantastic sex whenever I like.”

His smile deepened, and his eyes gleamed molten hot under lowered lids. “That you do.” He bent his head to kiss her, while their attendant grinned and looked away.

Did she do it? Yes, yes, she did. While she sank one hand into Dragos’s silken hair and tilted one foot up, she held up her other hand behind his back, and she flipped up her middle finger as she kissed him. By the time they finished the kiss, the piranha had stalked off.

Dragos wore the ring.

And she did get everything she wanted.

She insisted that she plan the wedding. She told him that he could plan any kind of honeymoon he liked—as long as it was just as they had talked about, some kind of honeymoon where they were truly alone. No household staff, no sentinels, no psychos. No Stanford, no cell phones, no Kristoff “making this one exception” on some business emergency or other. Nobody but them and the peanut.

She could even cook if he wanted. Well, she amended that one pretty quickly. She could reheat any meat that somebody else had precooked for him, if all she had to do was to put a covered package in the oven and then leave the kitchen fast.

By that point, he was laughing at her, and she didn’t blame him. But he agreed to take care of the honeymoon, and she got to plan the wedding of her dreams.

The justice of the peace came to the penthouse for a very simple ceremony. Pia wore the flirty maternity dress she had found at Target, which she loved, even though the sacrilege nearly put Stanford in the hospital. She felt fun and pretty, and she didn’t worry for a minute about spilling anything down the front or ruining a piece of art that had cost a fortune. Dragos wore his best hand-stitched suit, with a silk shirt and platinum cuff links that, he informed her, were not jewelry but simply a necessary part of the suit ensemble.

Eva and Graydon stood as witnesses. Afterward, they had thirty people for breakfast, including the sentinels, Pia’s friends from Elfie’s, the other psychos, and Rune and Carling, who flew in from Miami. From Adriyel, Niniane and Tiago—well, Niniane, who also signed Tiago’s name on the cards along with half a dozen x’s and o’s, and surrounded the signatures with a few hearts—sent a pile of handcrafted presents, richly dyed textiles along with a stunning metal sculpture, all unique Dark Fae designs.

The only shadow that lay over her was knowing what a long, hard road to recovery lay in front of the Elves. Linwe had written her a small, sad note of thanks for all the gifts, and she passed on snippets of information. Beluviel had closed herself off from others and refused to speak of what happened. The Numenlaurian children that had survived were having difficulty with almost everything, and many of the adults were still in a vegetative state. Ferion never seemed to laugh any longer. He worked viciously long hours, and the Wood had not greened at all that spring.

Other than that sadness, Pia was happy, so happy. Nothing was hanging over her head. Dragos had promised her that if the sentinels didn’t learn to get along, he was going to knock them around like bowling pins. The Freaky Deaky was over, the peanut was strong and growing fast, and she was head over heels in love with her new husband.

Even better, her husband was head over heels in love with her. She didn’t have to have faith on that, or rely on the fact that they were mates. The evidence of how he felt lived in his eyes. He followed her with his gaze when she was across the room, frowned whenever she stepped away and watched for her return.

They ate from a sumptuous breakfast buffet and had a lightly flavored, lemon sponge wedding cake. Then for their honeymoon, they traveled by limousine upstate to Dragos’s country estate just outside of Carthage.

Pia had fallen silent when she had looked at the gigantic mansion for the first time. Even though it was March and spring was fast approaching, the entire scene was blanketed in snow and looked like a winter wonderland. She could tell Dragos was watching her expression closely but she couldn’t summon up any other reaction but a wide-eyed stare. She couldn’t think of what to say.

The place was enormous. It had to have at least fifty rooms. If it went on the market, it would probably sell for fifty million dollars and get a write-up in the Wall Street Journal or maybe the New York Times.

And she had offered to cook in there? She wasn’t sure if she would be able to find the kitchen without a GPS.

She finally managed to say, “It’s beautiful.”

And it was, in a stunningly palatial, utterly uncomfortable, totally-not-what-she-had-envisioned-for-her-honeymoon way.

He rubbed her back, and when she was finally able to drag her gaze away from the sight, she found him biting back a smile. “We’re not staying at the main house,” he told her. “We’re staying at the estate manager’s house.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows rose hopefully.

“It has four bedrooms and four baths, and the family room has a fireplace along with a nice view of a private lake,” he said. “That house is much cozier for a stay without any support staff, and I’ve already had the place stocked with food, along with recent releases in paperback and on DVD. There’s Internet and the phones, but we can unplug the phones and choose not to get online, and the manager’s already taken off for his own vacation. As soon as our limo driver leaves, there’ll be no one else around but us for two hundred and fifty acres.”

Somewhere in the middle of all that description, she began to smile. “That sounds like heaven,” she confessed.

“It does, doesn’t it?” He took a deep breath and let it out. She could almost see the longstanding tension that he carried coiled between his shoulders begin to drop away. “The last time I was in the manager’s house was years ago. Let’s go in and see what he’s done with the place.”

The limo took them on a well-plowed side drive to a charming house with a Cape Cod design. Beyond the house, a glimmer of the lake showed in a break between the trees. She said promptly, “I love it.”

Dragos laughed. He would always be a hard-looking male, and he would always carry the blade of his personality in his face, but in that moment he looked happier than she had seen in a long time. He said, “Well, let’s make sure the inside is all right. We can always leave and either stay at the main house or go someplace else entirely, if you want to.”