"I won't do it," she said, wiping away another tear. "I won't give him the satisfaction of crying."

Throwing the letter away, she seized her vacuum cleaner with a vengeance. Her little boutique needed cleaning.

You just vacuumed.

She could just vacuum again until the damned carpet was threadbare.

Vane Kattalakis felt like shit. He'd just left Grace Alexander's office where the good — and he used the word with full rancor — psychologist had told him there was nothing in the world that could heal his brother until his brother was willing to heal.

It wasn't what he needed to hear. Psychobabble was for humans, it wasn't for wolves who needed to get their stupid asses out of Dodge before they lost them.

Ever since Vane had crawled out of the swamp with his brother on Mardi Gras night, they had been lying tow at Sanctuary, a bar owned by a clan of Katagaria bears who welcomed in all strays, no matter where they came from: human, Daimon, Apollite, Dark-Hunter, Dream-Hunter, or Were-Hunter. So long as you Kept the peace and threatened no one, the bears allowed you to stay. And live.

But no matter what the Peltier bears told him, he knew the truth. Both he and Fang were living under a death sentence and there was no place safe for them. They had to get mobile before their father realized they were still alive.

The minute he did, a team of assassins would be sent for them. Vane could take them on, but not if he had to drag a hundred-and-twenty-pound comatose wolf behind him.

He needed Fang awake and alert. Most of all, he needed his brother willing to fight again.

But nothing seemed to reach Fang, who had yet to move out of his bed. Nothing.

"I miss you, Fang," he whispered under his breath as his throat tightened with grief. It was so hard to make it alone in the world. To have no one to talk to. No one to trust.