“Bullshit. You don’t get to cast it in some sunny, kind light when there’s nothing sunny and kind about it.” I don’t acknowledge his second comment because he has a somewhat valid point and this is about my irritation, not his.

“I didn’t say it was sunny and kind. It was self-serving, as is all I do. One would think by now you know who I am.”

“You had no right.”

“Ah, the morally outraged cry of the weak: You’re not ‘allowed’ to do that. One is allowed to do anything one can get away with. Only when you understand that will you know your place in this world. And your power. Might is right.”

“Ah,” I mock, “the morally bankrupt howl of the predator.”

“Guilty as charged. I’m not the only one that howled that night.”

“You don’t know for certain that I wouldn’t have—”

“Bullshit,” he cuts me off impatiently. “You don’t get to pretend you would have done anything but despise me. It was already there in your eyes. You were young, so bloody young. Untouched by tragedy until your sister’s death. You came to Dublin, avenging angel, and what’s the first thing you did? Fucked the devil. Oops, shit, eh? You felt more alive with me that night than you’ve ever felt in your life. You were fucking born in that run-down rented room with me. I watched it happen, saw the woman you really are tear her constrictive, circumscribing skin right down the middle and strip it off. And I’m not talking about fucking. I’m talking about a way of existence. That night. You. Me. No fear. No holds barred. No rules. Watching you change was an epiphany. How did it feel to come alive in the city that killed your sister? Like the biggest fucking betrayal in the world?”

I snarl like an enraged animal. Yes, yes, and yes. It abso-fucking-lutely did. Alina was cold in a grave and I was on fire. I was glad I’d come to Dublin, glad I’d gotten lost and stumbled into his bookstore, because something in me that had slumbered all my life was waking up. How can you be glad you came to the city that killed your sister? How can you feel exhilarated to be alive when she’s dead? How could I let anything ever make me feel good again?

“You couldn’t deal with it, and you couldn’t despise yourself any more than you already did, so you turned it on me. You want to hate me for taking that memory and stashing it away for a while, go ahead.”

I snap, “I don’t want to hate you for it. I want to find a way to forgive you for it. And that’s what scares me. You took my memory, my choice to deal with or refuse to deal with what happened. You took a slice of my reality.”

“I’ll say this one more fucking time: I couldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t been so willing to throw it away. The brain is a complex thing. It inscribes, it etches, it’s bloody well sticky. The memory was always there, that’s how you found it. I merely kicked it beneath a rock. You put the entire force of your will behind my kicking it. You helped me hide it. I relieved you of what you considered a despicable stain in your mind. Best fucking night of my existence.” He laughs and shakes his head. “And you couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. I didn’t want to hide the memory from you. I wanted to cram it down your goddamn throat. I wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked. Well, Ms. Lane, you’ve got your precious memory back. Will you throw me away now?”

I’m horrified to realize that’s the choice. Keep him or don’t. Stay or go. How do you trust a man who took one of your memories from you? How do you convince yourself he won’t do it again? And if I did convince myself of it, wouldn’t I pretty much be that lamb in a city of wolves he’d accused me of being that night? Believing what I wanted to believe, over the far more likely truth: recidivism is human nature.

We are what we are. Actions speak.

He intuits my thoughts without even being able to see my face. “Yes. Actions speak. Analyze mine. Not long after I used Voice on you to tuck away your memory of that night, I began teaching you Voice, knowing you would be immune to me ever using it on you again. I leveled the playing field. In a court of justice, one might consider that atonement for a—” He breaks off and laughs softly. “—crime of passion. And that, my dear complicated fucking Ms. Lane, is the closest thing to an apology you will ever get from a man who apologizes to no one. Take it or leave it.”

He’s up, past me, and out the door before I can even reply.

Fact: you can never know another person completely.

Fact: you are born alone and die alone.

Fact: there is no such thing as safety. Only vigilance, determination to survive, and a willingness to be ruthless about it.

Fact: love is not perfect.

Fact: neither am I.

Those five facts are the bile with which I digest the events of my day.

I marvel, as I sprawl on the chesterfield in front of my favorite gas fireplace aft of the bookstore, at the way my thought processes have refined. There used to be so many pit stops and detours between my mental points of departure and their eventual destinations, but now it goes kind of like this: Do I love him? Yes. Is he perfect? No. Am I? No. Will I leave him? No. Okay, that’s resolved. Time for a nap.

I wake when the doorbell tinkles, roll over, rub my eyes, and shove my hair out of my face. I slept hard. It occurs to me that I didn’t rehang the bell after Ryodan ripped it off the frame. Barrons must have done it.

First thing I do when I open my eyes is look down at my hand. Yup. Still invisible. Awesome! I’m in no hurry to give this up. Besides, I feel deep couch marks all over my right side, from my arm up to my cheek. I’ve been tufted. I hate walking around with sheet creases and now I have little sphincter-like explosions all over the side of my face.

I become aware of a slow burn in the pit of my stomach and leap up to an instant crouch, biting back a growl.

I smell Unseelie Prince.

I duck low to remain concealed behind the silhouette of the couch and begin inching quietly back toward the private-residence half of the bookstore, then remember they can’t see me. Duh.

I straighten up and peer through the low light, wondering what the hell my rapists are doing in my home.

I blink. They’re standing in the entry with Fade, Dageus and Drustan MacKeltar, and R’jan, who is attended by the new Seelie advisor-vote Ryodan recently approved.

The doorbell chimes two more times in quick succession as Barrons and Jada step in, dusting rain from their shoulders.

What the hell?

“Why did you ask me to come?” Jada says to Barrons. “And what are they doing here?” She narrows her eyes at the princes who hiss and posture aggressively.

“I didn’t.”

“I received your message.”

“I didn’t send one.”

Jada moves to leave. Barrons places a hand on her arm and she turns slowly back and looks up.

He says, “I would prefer you stay.”

I narrow my eyes. What is Barrons up to?

She stares at him for a moment then says, “I will honor your request. Once. In the future you will honor one for me.”

“A simple request of attendance. Nothing more.”

She inclines her head.

Right, she’s nice to Barrons but not me.

I like Jada. She’s strong. Smart. Lethal. Too bad she used to be Dani. Too bad she has no heart. I want Dani back. But I wouldn’t mind keeping Jada, too, once she gets with the program that reads: Mac is good, don’t hunt her. Speaking of why she’s hunting me — where the heck has the Sinsar Dubh gone? Three princes are standing here and I’m not hearing a single suggestion that I go postal and kill everyone in sight. The Book has been so quiet it’s starting to make me nervous.