I let out a befuddled snort and everyone turns to me curiously. “Sorry. Carry on, please.”

I’m proud of the way I cut my meatloaf and move the crackers around the plate to mimic a half-eaten meal. But I’m not very good at using cutlery, and the context—a meal, shared—is as foreign to me as crocodile wrestling. Ana, of course, notices.

“Why is she acting like that?” she whispers theatrically from the head of the table, pointing at my ramrod straight spine, the way I lift and lower my fork like an animatronic puppet.

“She’s just not very good at this. Be kind,” Lowe murmurs back from next to me.

Ana nods owl-eyed, and moves the conversation to the important matter of whether she’ll get a new pair of roller skates before her birthday, what color they might be, will they have glitter, and, more important, will Juno take her to the rink to practice. I get to observe Lowe when he’s relaxed. He pretends not to know what roller skates are to irk Ana just a little bit, or that her birthday is coming up to irk her a whole lot. When he’s not leading a pack against a group of violent dissidents, he smiles quite a bit. There is something soothing about his teasing humor and his innate self-confidence.

“When is your birthday?” Ana asks me, after Mick reveals an unexpected expertise in astrology and informs Ana that she’s a Virgo. Alex is an Aquarius—a fact that, like everything else under the sun, violently alarms him.

“I don’t have one,” I tell her, still reeling from the mental image of middle-aged, rugged Mick perching rimmed glasses on his nose and settling in bed with a copy of The Zodiac for Dummies. “My mate used to dabble,” he whispers at me, picking up on my befuddlement.

Peas sputter out of Ana’s mouth. “How can you not have a birthday?”

“I don’t know what day I was born.” I could find out from council records, since it was the day Mother died. I doubt Father would know. “It might have been spring?”

“How do you keep track of your age?” Alex asks.

“I count one up on Vampyre New Year’s Day.”

“And you have a party?”

I shake my head at Ana. “We don’t do parties.”

“No . . . gatherings? Soirees? Board game nights? Communal blood drinking?” Alex is shocked. Maybe relieved. I wonder what stories he was told as a child when he resisted cleaning his bedroom.

“We don’t commune. We don’t meet in large groups, unless it’s to set up war strategies, or business strategies, or other kinds of strategies. Our social life is all strategizing.” For the next Father’s Day, I should get him a mug that says All I care about is machinating and like, three people. Except we don’t celebrate Father’s Day, either. “But if we did have communal blood drinking, we’d feast on promising young computer engineers,” I add, and then smack my lips as though I’m thinking of a scrumptious meal, just to watch Alex pale.

“Regarding blood,” Mick warns while Ana spills several gallons of water on the table under the guise of pouring us “cocktails,” “Misery, the blood bank messaged us that this week’s delivery will be delayed a couple of days.”

“D-delayed?” Alex chokes out.

Mick’s eyebrow lifts. “You seem very invested, Alex. I didn’t know you’ve been partaking.”

“No, but . . . what will she eat?”

“I guess I’ll have to find another source of blood. Hmm, who could it be? Let’s see . . .” I drum my fingers against the edge of the table to create suspense. It sure works on Ana, who’s looking at me gape-mouthed. “Who smells good around—”

Lowe’s hand closes around mine. Our wedding bands clink together as he lifts it from the table and sets it in my lap, his grip lingering for a second.

I feel hot.

I shiver.

Lowe clicks his tongue. “Stop playing with your food, wife,” he murmurs, and it feels almost intimate, smiling at him and catching the amused gleam in his eyes while Alex crumples into himself. “She has several bags left,” he informs Alex, who’s trying to camouflage with the wallpaper.

“Let’s make up a birthday for you,” Ana proposes, bright-eyed. “And have a biiiig party.”

“Yikes.” I scrunch my nose. “Let’s not.”

“Let’s yes! Your birthday is this weekend, and you’re going to have a bouncy castle!”

“I’m not a very bouncy person.”

“And this weekend your brother will be gone, Ana,” Mick says. Alex’s fork clicks against his plate. Something shifts, and the silence in the room is suddenly tense as Lowe chews his meatloaf.

“Feel free to have the party without me,” he says once he’s swallowed, with the calm, effortless tone of someone who knows that every word of his is law. Then, with a conspiratorial wink at Ana: “Take pictures of Miresy bouncing.”

She nods enthusiastically as Mick offers, “Or you could cancel.”

Lowe sips on his water and doesn’t reply, but it’s clear that this conversation has been ongoing for a while.

“At least take Cal with you—”

“Cal wasn’t invited. And anyway, I’m not bringing a father of two into that.”

“But you are going.” Mick’s usually mellow tone hardens. “It’s too dangerous for your most trusted second, but for the Alpha of the pack—”

“For the Alpha, it’s duty,” Lowe interrupts, conclusive.

“I’ve been in this pack for over fifty years, and I can promise you that no other Alpha would have agreed to those conditions. You’re going above and beyond and have no self-preservation.”

I have no idea what the context is, but Mick is probably right. There is something selfless about Lowe, as though when he became Alpha he left behind any trace of himself.

Or, more accurately, locked it into a drawer.

“Were those Alphas dealing with internal sedition?” Lowe responds, calm and harsh at once. Mick looks away, more sad than chastised. Ana picks up on it.

“Lowe?” Her voice is small. “Where are you going this weekend?”

He smiles at her warmly, his tone instantly softer. “To California.”

“What’s in California?” I’m glad she asked. Because I was about to, and I’m not entitled to this piece of information.

“It’s pack territory. An old friend lives there. Uncle Koen will be there, too.”

“Emery’s no friend, Lowe,” Mick interjects.

“And that’s precisely why I cannot pass up the opportunity to have access to her house.”

“It’s not an opportunity. If you could bring Alex or someone else who’s tech-savvy to help you with your plan, yes. But not on your own.”

“Hang on.” I’m too curious to shut up. “Isn’t Emery Roscoe’s former . . .” I don’t need a reply, not going by the men’s faces. “Oh, shit.”

Ana chortles.

“You’re almost disappointingly easy,” I tell her, and she chortles harder, then sneaks around Lowe’s chair to sit on my legs and steal my goldfish. I don’t know what it is about me that says Please make yourself at home on my lap, but I’ll have to fix that. “Lowe, are you really going to meet with this lady?”

Mick gives me a validated smile. Alex is, as usual, terrified. Lowe’s withering look says: Not you, too, and by the way, who the fuck gave you the right?

Which, fair.

“You know Emery is behind everything that is happening,” Mick says.

“But I have no proof. And until I have indisputable evidence, I will not act against her.”

“You could. It would be a show of strength.”

“Not the kind of strength I’m interested in showing.”

“Max already told you—”

“A mumbled confession about who he believed sent him when he was under thrall by a Vampyre is unlikely to hold up in a tribunal.” Lowe’s striking face is stony, but I see the fatigue around the edges. It must be tiresome, being a decent person, and I can’t relate. I revel in my moral flexibility. “Meeting Emery on her turf is how I get that evidence.”

“Or how you get yourself . . .” Mick’s eyes dart to Ana and he doesn’t continue, but the word killed bounces between the adults at the table.