Amos escorts me back to my bedroom, his sweaty hand high on my spine, his index fingertip hooking into my neck.

"Get some rest." He almost sounds remorseful. "We'll try again later. All week if we have to. I can clear my schedule until Sunday."

What is it now? Tuesday?

I can't summon an effective response for that. I simply nod, break free from his grip, and collapse in my bed, face to the wall.

"I'm sorry, Samantha," he says from the doorway.

He's never apologized for anything before. Tears seem warranted, but I'm still too numb. A lot of other things feel warranted as well—a brutal death—but that's just the devil talking, isn't it?

"You've endured more than your fair share of suffering and at such a young age..."

You have no idea...

"I know the pain seems impossible to bear right now, and what you must think of me..."

I peek at the blisters forming on my right hand. This wound is mild, in comparison...

And, by the minute, the drugs, which were never very potent to begin with, are wearing off.

"But, you'll get stronger..." His tone is thin and brittle. "We both will." Now he sounds sure... "I'm proud of the progress we've made. Soon, you'll feel it, too—His strength and everlasting love. Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him and he will make your paths straight, and..."

"Can you just go?" I cut in.

His silence is an assessing one. He's probably trying to contradict his own sadistic nature, weighing it against his newfound guilt and inadequacy and what's undeniably best for me—a chance to recover from this . . . this . . . violation, if at all possible.

Will I ever make peace with who I am now, what I've done, what's been done, allegedly on my behalf? It always seems to be for someone else's "greater good." I have the body they throw in the way and then step on to achieve it.

It's a cycle I vow to break someday. If I ever figure out how...

"The door stays open..." It's the judgment we've both been waiting for. Yes, he'll bend to my one request, but he'll never pass up a chance to remind me of my place in all this. "I'm going to try to get some sleep. Wake me if it needs any further . . . condemnation."

No thanks. "It" seems perfectly content and secure where It is.

He doesn't even bother to turn out the light for me.

I try to escape behind closed eyes, but it's no solace either. I'd be much better off staring at the wall.

I've hit a point where I can't really fight the exhaustion, though. I'll have to succumb to the horrific dreamscape, just so my body can rest.

I'm testing the dark waters of it with my mental toes, not quite brave enough to commit, when I hear a loud tap, like a pebble hitting glass. It jars me right back to my bleak reality.

I roll over. I'm not hopeful enough to get up and look around, but that changes when I hear a howl.

And then a chorus of them...

Maybe I should at least consider my injuries before I rush to the window, but it doesn't happen. The pain doesn't register until I see only the faint glimmer of a sunrise. Everything else is a shade of black.

If I wasn't dreaming, I must be delusional. How could he possibly be alive?

I keep searching with my lousy eyes, nonetheless. The room light certainly isn't helping.

They separated us for a reason...

Someone would have to pay for the life we stole back—mine—and the life we took—Bryony's. Since I'm still here, toiling through this new hell on earth, then Jael, because of his real-world anonymity and underworld misconduct, would be the one to pay and pay twice, with the nastiest stuff I could possibly think of. Abuse that isn't survivable, and confinement that wouldn't end until that death came to pass.

I've absorbed this loss, and all the grief, guilt, and anger bound to it, by feeding some of it to the damn devil, just so it wouldn't break me, completely.

Still, it's poison to my blood and bones. It has scorched my very soul. I'm not sure it's even reversible, even if the impossible proves to be true.

He must see me before I see him. A wolf is jetting toward the house with an apparent destination in mind—the window. It's two stories off the ground on the flat side of the house, no roof, trellis, or gutter within an easy reach or jump. There's no bush or tree to break a fall or a miss.

Nothing goes in. Nothing comes out. Something I've accepted with a degree of resignation that hasn't yet wavered.

For Jael, the wolf, that's not the case. He leaps upon my stepfather's sedan with such animalistic grace. In one fluid motion, he launches himself toward my window, and spans the eight feet without a glitch, no hesitation or fear of any consequence.

My window is old, small, a challenge to open, or downright stuck most of the time.

Jael doesn't give me a chance to try and help. He seems fully confident that he can break right through it without hurting himself. All I can do is give him a few steps of space and then cringe for moral support.

The shatter is explosive, but it's superbly accomplished. The glass scatters sideways. He lands in my room on all four feet. A blink of an eye later, he's a fully human male in all his glory.

Charging toward me, responding to me in my oversized pajamas, or just the shock and excitement of it all—being here, being alive—before he makes any physical contact.

It doesn't take long for that, either. He has me lifted and pressed to the wall by the door. I whisper, "I love you," in his ear as my legs settle around his bare waist. He's said it to me before, but I've never said it to him in so many words.

He retracts his head to take in every detail of my face, his gaze both watery and bright.

His abrupt kiss takes my breath away. It escalates into something indecent before my stepfather can even gather together his self-righteousness and make his way into the hall. When he finally does, his sour face twists into one of absolute horror. No male in all of his acquaintance would have even a fraction of Jael's audacity—to barge into the house through unreachable glass, unapologetically naked and between my legs without even bothering to close the door, all before the sun has had a chance to rise.

As soon as I confirmed Jael was alive, I knew this confrontation was coming. I'm just well and truly enamored before Amos has a chance to speak his mind. "Put her down, you, you, heathen."

Jael takes his sweet time withdrawing his tongue from my mouth. And when his head swivels toward Amos, he is well and truly heated. He gives Amos the look he once gave Ted, times, like, a thousand degrees.

I try not to express my relief when the pressure against my back lets up. I'd like to be a few states away before Jael finds out how many different kinds of skin wounds I have.

This could get messy enough as it is.

"If you ever touch her again..." Oh, this should be good. I'll kill you wouldn't quite cover it. And Jael doesn't even know the worst of it. He will never know the worst of it if I have any say. "I will gut you with my claws and tear your eyelids off with my teeth. That way, you'll see the crows coming for you. And it'll be the last thing you ever see."

Hmmm . . . not bad, but I actually expected worse.

Jael sets me back on the floor. "We gotta go," he informs me. "Shoes. A few layers. It's all we have time for. Unfortunately." He kisses me again, briefly, but he lets his gaze wander like we're alone with time on our hands.

I nod and move to my closet, to see what I can dig up, painfully aware that I don't have much left in there. Frilly dresses, ugly "sensible" heels, maybe a raincoat for church.

If Jael had even ten minutes, he'd have no problem making good use of my childhood bed, a fact that's not lost on Amos, who huffs in response. "I'm going to call the police!"

"Great." Jael struts toward him, no fear or shame. "You do that. Tell them I say go fuck themselves."

Emitting a sigh of frustration at my lack of a selection, I slip into my sister's room, kitty-corner from mine. She's bleary-eyed and confused, but she is, thanks to all the commotion, sitting up, awake.

"I'm sorry. I need some clothes. I won't be able to give them back."

Maisie plops against her pillow, sighing. "Take whatever you need..."

She's either happy to be rid of me or knows I'm better off. Maybe some combination. Whatever it is, I can tell from her voice that a weight will lift as soon as I walk out the door.

This is a lot for her, I'm sure. We used to be pretty close, so that's not the problem. It's the drama I bring, the tension that rises, and the hostility that ripples through, affecting everyone. There's no peace when I'm here. She may think I bring this upon myself, and maybe, to an extent, I do, just by existing. But to a greater degree, it seems assigned. I've always been the scapegoat in Amos's quest for purpose. He thinks he's a demon hunter. It's an internal battle as much as it is a physical or spiritual one.

Maybe my sister gets that. Maybe she's still learning. She is a good person, so I have no doubt that someday she'll figure it out, especially if Amos ever gets restless in my absence. He has a whole congregation to "save," but there's something about home that's just too convenient.

Maisie will never be as flawed as me or my mother, but there could always be the day. She is human, after all, and as much as it turns my stomach to even consider it, what Amos is going through isn't always rational. He sees what he wants to see. What he needs to see...

I'd offer to take her with me, but I know she's not ready. And I'm not ready to subject her to the potential consequences of my life choices. I'm sure she'll make better ones and will be free of Amos soon enough and on her own, more responsible terms.

I throw on a hoodie over my pajamas, stuffing two pairs of socks and underwear in the front pocket. There's a flashy ski jacket with the tags still on—a gift she probably didn't like—that I take as well, and I grab a pair of lightly used hiking boots, without wasting time, putting on any socks. Lastly, I tuck a pair of jeans between my layers of clothing and toss Jael a pair of sweatpants when he appears in the doorway.

"Sup?" he says casually like he's not naked in her doorway and about to whisk me away from society for as long as we both shall live.

Maisie can certainly roll with it better than most. Once the wide-eyed shock subsides, some nugget of the truth seems to sink in for her. "Hey," she replies, just as blasé. Although she deflects her eyes, she does it with a smile she can't quite dampen.

After pocketing a deodorant and a chapstick, I go over and hug her head against my multi-layered chest. "You're the best. He's the crazy one. Don't ever let him convince you otherwise."

"All right, Sam," she replies, patting my arm, like she's humoring me or is past the point that she needs my advice on the matter. I hope for her sake, it's the latter, and she's already reached the place I'd been searching for, for years longer. "Be careful. Godspeed and all that."

"Thank you." I kiss her head. "This is goodbye for a while, but know that I love you, and I'll be thinking about you every day, praying that you're safe and happy."

"Same," she replies, and then we all seem to stiffen at the howling wolf, coming from outside, somewhere nearby.

I don't know who it is or what they're trying to say exactly, but to my untrained ear, it sounds like a warning.

"Sorry, Sam." Jael is reaching for my hand, and never bothered to put the pants on; they're in a loose knot around his neck. "It's time."

I brush an arm over my damp face and follow him down the stairs and out the front door. We somehow avoid crossing paths with Amos again. I'd have the support to get through it this time, and there'd be some form of retaliation if even a word was out of place. Amos deserves it, but Jael doesn't. He's taken on too much for me as it is. It's a burden I'm not prepared to share.

On the porch, Jael transforms, the sweatpants dangling around his wolf-neck for future use.

I climb to his back. The practice has paid off. We're darting as one, over the driveway, mere seconds later. Then we bear left, into farmland that has gone a little wild since harvest-time, months ago.

We're joined by two other wolves. On the left, there's a female rider with short, highlighted black hair, who looks proficient in the art of wolf-riding, too.

There is little doubt in my mind. I've never met Blaise or seen Shilo as a wolf, but it all fits together. Jael is only living because of the sacrifice made by others, a debt he'll probably feel the need to repay for a while. I admire that about him. He's loyal and honorable, and deserving of that in return, from those who are actually capable.

Based on size and the apparent struggle to keep up, Faolan must be the wolf on my right. To say I have mixed feelings about that would be an understatement. I initially liked him, and that's what makes everything else so offensive. He's here, and I suppose he gets a few points back for his contribution, but the eleven stitches in my scalp, the current pain and future scar, will always serve as a reminder; he's been known to cave to a greater power, regardless of their intentions, and he won't offer any resistance of his own.

Maybe the others know or have at least seen evidence of this in other circumstances. Perhaps only Faolan and I are aware of the rock incident in our current company, and I wonder if it should stay that way for the greater good. I'm tired of being the doormat of the phenomenon, but with the wind in my hair and love, otherwise, all around me, it's not hard to push that resentment down, compartmentalize it and bury it to near-death, like so many other things.

It may rise again. It may not.

Who knows? I certainly don't...

There's a thicket before us, no more than fifty yards away. The forest will broaden and condense. The mountains will grow tall and treacherous the farther we head west, and as winter settles in. We're at the brink of a "shelter" that only wolves could navigate and survive with any efficiency.

I may not be the first to realize we're not alone. Jael, in the lead, stops so fast, he probably leaves skid marks.

In fact, I'm probably the last. Shilo and Faolan, either following his lead or coming to terms with this reality for themselves, come to a halt in a similar fashion. Nonetheless, the truth does find me.

It's the dread that hits first, like a brick wall. Then the sight of him, standing there, so smugly, no weapon even in hand. It puts barbed wire on top of that wall and shoots a symbolic arrow through the heart of even the strongest wolf, the one who has killed for me and made it look easy.

Ishmael, on a mound of high ground, has his hands lifted, like he's God about to address his fallen disciples, those who should be very sorry. While the three wolves take this prowling, snarling stand against him, Ishmael doesn't even show the slightest twitch of uneasiness.

He's trained them well, I'm sure, but never to a point he'd feel threatened, even against three of them. And Blaise. Let's not forget about her, the wildcard here. Rosemary may be as useless as I am in a confrontation like this, but if Blaise is anything like Ivy, I'd at least have the good sense to avoid sneering down at everyone.

But I'm not Ishmael. He truly has no equal.

"¡Dios mio!" Ishmael pulls a short but nasty-looking blade from a hip-sheath and uses his fingernails to toy with the tip. "The betrayal runs deep, indeed. I saw it coming from a mile away, but still, it cuts me to the core. Blaise? Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

She hops off Shilo's back, approaches Ishmael, one tentative step at a time. And though she's visibly tense, she gets all three wolves to take it down a notch with just a hand gesture.

Apparently, she's our leader and spokesperson here. She's known Ishmael the longest, and he's supported her and her family for all the years of her life. She would arguably owe him the most.

I get it. There's no love shared, and the relationships in that household aren't exactly tidy or traditional.

"We just want out," she proposes. "You've given Ivy her deal. We want ours. Bloodshed won't be necessary if you're willing to negotiate."

At that, he snickers, scanning us over, no doubt judging us, as individuals and a group, probably more aware of our individual and combined weaknesses better than we are.

I scoot off Jael's back as well. The wolves seem to prefer being wolves when confronting an enemy, and Blaise may need my help. Until I know for sure, I'll keep my mouth shut and stay put, by Jael's side, my hand on his vibrating back.

Since Ishmael is in this location too, less than a mile from my parents' house, this has something to do with me, but it isn't everything. I'd assume it's more about payback for the disrespect. No one can ever hope to achieve the upper hand over him. Unless he's dead—and being as old as he is, I'm sure that won't come easy—he'll always have a countermove. He may re-negotiate as circumstances change, but he's not one to let anything just "go."

"Some side this is turning out to be." His eyes settle on my mismatched, orphan-like attire, like he can see right through it—every flaw, every weakness, every miscalculation. His nose then flares, and his eyes narrow in on the side of my head with the stitches. They glint with an arrogant, all-knowingness when they dart to Faolan. "Even you, Faolan? I'd pay just to watch it all fall apart. Might as well take bets on who gets around to killing you first. I'd even give Samantha good odds."

His gaze skims past Jael and returns to me. The sudden flush of my skin makes the heat beneath my layers seem unbearable, despite the chill of the morning. As if he's putting the thoughts back in my head—the black dress, the feel of it, and these hazy snippets of its removal—it all rushes in, memories I thought were lost or never quite took root in the first place.

When Ishmael finishes his assessment, he winks at me. I recoil under it and take a step back.

Jael's wolf head swivels toward me . . . and my reaction. He must see this as an interaction between a predator and his prey and directs his fury where I'm glad he thinks it belongs. His head swings back toward Ishmael. The growling escalates, like a revving engine, and his stance retracts with even more of a readiness to launch himself forward.

"How is the posterior faring, Samantha?" Ishmael says to me, raising his voice just above the din of three growing wolves. "I'm surprised your wolf-lover didn't redress this inequity. It's very noble of you not to tell him."

At that, my knees almost give way. He knows. How could he? Was he watching somehow?

It lets me know where I stand with him. I'm a diversion and it's not even in the way you might think. I'm an anomaly, even for a human. I may have some influence over others, but I don't automatically borrow the power I lack to correct an injustice.

In his way, Ishmael's intrigued. Fascinated, maybe. But if I, in any way, belonged to him, or if that was ever his design, perhaps he'd be protective and vindictive, or at least offer the ruthless vampire advice that I should, someday, hear out. As of now, what just happened may still be at the top of my mind, but . . . I'd rather die than get into it right now.

I place a hand on Jael's back for support. "There hasn't been an opportunity," I try to convince the four additional heads that have turned in my direction. "I've survived worse," I remind everyone, making sure to point a look at Faolan. "And it's no longer important. Because. . ." I trail off, not knowing where I was going with that. "Because," I repeat, with a little more grit, once I figure it out. "You're going to let us go. All of us. No retaliation. No strings attached."

"Am I now?" Ishmael widens his stance and crosses his arms. Even with the blade tucked beneath, he's flexing his dominance with every word and action. "I can't decide if I'm flattered or disappointed that you think so much of me."

"Be flattered. And walk away."

"I can't do that, Sa-man-tha," he over-annunciates. "That is a mouthful, isn't it? Do you mind if I call you Sam, like everyone else does?"

"Fine."

"I can't do that, Sam," he reiterates, putting the stress on the informality that's new to him. "Well, I suppose I can, but I won't."

"For the love of all things unholy!" Blaise emits, winning back the attention I never wanted in the first place. "Just get on with it already. What will it take?"

"Always the rash one, Blaise," Ishmael calmly chastises her in return. "Always looking for a handout. So busy poking around for someone else's gold, I'm genuinely surprised you're here. I'm almost giddy at the idea of you roughing it, to be honest. Love is grand, but squalor won't agree with your . . . constitution. You may be spiteful and obstinate in regard to the hand that fed you. Nevertheless, I expect you home, crying to your mommy, in a matter of weeks. Like always."

"Never gonna happen." When she says that, there's a hint of petulance that puts her credibility into question.

"I wish you luck proving me wrong. You'll need it. And for the terms I seek, I ask for only one thing; Sam comes with me. I give her the life she deserves. . ." he stresses and then stops, his head cocked when I snicker.

"What I deserve?" I come back at him. "What about, 'We can't both get what we ultimately want, and I'm sorry to say, I will always choose what's best for me.'" Those were his exact words.

"Good memory, Sam," he compliments me like this is some fucked-up teacher-student exchange, and I'm teacher's pet.

"It's not hard to remember when you basically condemned me to death without even a pause for regret."

"There was regret, I assure you. It was like a disease," he goes on. "At first, there were no symptoms, but after a period of incubation, it came on strong. I realized you were both the cause and the cure. I regret that I didn't act upon it in a timely manner . . . and damn the consequences."

"That's easy to say now." My eyes flick right. I mean to avoid everyone's gaze, but Ishmael's, most notably.

His stare has a certain pull. I can feel it, practically hear it . . . I need you. I'm sorry. And you need me. I'll prove it. Again. And again...

"If Sam goes with you, what does that mean for the rest of us?" There's Blaise, quick to throw me under the bus, for that goddamn greater good. I wish I could say I was as surprised by her behavior as Ishmael apparently is.

"You're dead to me," Ishmael says simply, and then his eyes flutter at the need to elaborate, so that there's never any room for debate. "You don't come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. You'll never come poking around, hoping to procure the inheritance you feel is your due." He lifts an eyebrow at Blaise, and then moves on, considering each and every one of us. "Dead to me means I don't ever see or hear from you under any circumstances. If I'm somehow reminded that you still walk this earth, I will hunt you down and you will know pain and regret on a scale that even your wolf-mutt-lover can't appreciate." He's looking at me for that one. "In return, I won't intrude upon your pathetic, penniless lives." His gaze shifts to the rising sun. He checks his watch and does nothing to hide his annoyance.

Jael's been reasonably still and quiet during the last leg of this conversation. All the wolves have. They're probably bickering among themselves. He takes a moment, though, to paw the ground with his left leg—one of our signals. It's a clear and solid no that everyone can safely assume as well. Even Ishmael's eyes dart there and take note. It's a deal Jael would never take. And by now, everyone knows that. No explanation or decoding is required.

But that doesn't mean they're all on the same page about me. Ishmael pretty much called it. There's a certain truth to everything he's said, beyond what any of us could possibly understand. He knows us all, better than we know each other. In some instances, better than we know ourselves.

We're not a united front, and we're already falling apart at the seams. Jael may want to fight to the death, but his "friends" will run or make the deal over Jael's dead body. Ishmael will get what he wants no matter what—he always does—and I'll be mourning a wolf in the bed of a vampire. That's not a life I intend to lead. I'd rather go peacefully. Well, eventually...

"Ten years," I try, strolling forward again, assuming the position of lead negotiator. "You're immortal. What's ten more in the grand scheme of things?"

Ishmael is the only one who seems to grasp what I'm bargaining for—time—and takes in this new offer with a snicker. "No deal. Your lifestyle choices will take quite a toll on your physique and disposition."

"Are you saying twenty-eight is too old?"

He shrugs and shakes his head, making it known that I may still appeal to him in some fashion, but he strives for perfection. It's a risk he's unwilling to take.

I sigh and shake my head, letting it be known how shallow I think he is. "Seven, then."

"Five. Not a moment longer. Or I'll kill the whole lot of you. Even you, Sam."

I probably won't win Blaise over this way, but it must be said anyway: "I won't live with Prue, but as long as that's handled," I submit after a long pause, wracking my brain for some other solution and coming up shy. "And just to reiterate, in exactly five years, if I'm not on your doorstep, alone, you have my permission to retaliate as you see fit. Once I'm back, how long do I have to stay there?"

"Forever," he replies while using his thumb on his left hand to tidy the four other nailbeds, no doubt pristine already.

He says this so casually. It's almost creepier that way. I don't even know what he means by that, and my mouth goes dry. I wouldn't be able to get the words out even if I'd somehow found the nerve to ask.

Do I expire at twenty-eight? Will he kill me when he gets tired of me? Or if I "disobey"? Will he change me so that forever means eternity?

Before I'm ready, Ishmael surges forth, pervading my personal space. Much more slowly and dramatically, he holds out his hand.

Jael is inching closer from behind, his growl reverberating through me, straight to the bone. I try to ignore it—it's the only way. Ishmael doesn't even trouble himself, pretending to notice, and he expects me to shake on it . . . I think.

There's a slight grin on his supernaturally perfect face. For all the crap we've collectively put him through, going back as far as Blaise's birth, he's in a chillingly good mood.

This isn't a pure win, though. It's a compromise. To him, it may as well be a loss. A lot can happen in five years...

I reluctantly stretch out my hand. With his eyes on mine, he seems to promise many long hours of depravity, and how much we'll both enjoy them, together . . . forever.

I'm expecting something. A kiss goodbye? Some kind of trick? He could just grab me and run...

He shakes my hand, and nothing more, and that is a surprise. Without ever saying another word, he gives a loud and clear good riddance to everyone else with just his aura. Then he disappears into the brush's ripple of movement that he, himself, created. By the time the grasses and branches settle, he's seemingly long gone.

In his absence, a chill ripples through me. Was it really that easy?

No one is eager to stand around, wondering. We get right back to it, my farmhouse-prison fading in the distance, the pale sunlight following us out.

Before we hit our stride as either a couple or a pack, Jael veers into a circle, going from the lead to the rear. At his likely suggestion, they go on without him and we slip into the shelter between two trees.

As soon as I stumble from his back, there's a surly male helping me correct my balance, wearing nothing but sweatpants in the wrong place.

Body rigid, eyes ablaze, he lays it right on me, and of course, it's thick. "I can't believe you agreed to that."

"We didn't get hurt. We're all still here. I-I—" I stammer and stop, overwrought and overcome, the gravity of it all, hitting me at all once, like a hammer to a nail on a surface that won't hold me. "Wish I could have done better for us, but I thought I did all right."

"You did, it's just. . ." He reaches for my head and once his hands make contact, it initiates a sigh, relieving some of the tension. "I hoped to be your forever." With that gravelly ache in his voice, there's no questioning his sincerity.

I kiss the thumb he's stroking over my lower lip. "You are, and always will be." Enfolding him in my arms, I place myself against his bare torso. "If I ever made you doubt that, I'm sorry."

He strokes a hand down my hair, tangled a bit, but it's at least clean-ish . . . perhaps the one benefit of living with my parents for twelve hours. "In five years, we'll be married in every way that matters. We might have kids."

"Kids?" I didn't even consider that and feel horrible. Because he considered it, there's also this rush of warmth that he, very obviously, feels, too. "I guess it's simple, then. It's a big world. We'll just have to make sure he never finds us."

The words ring hollowly, and the space is filled with Jael's hmmm, so full of angst, fear, love, doubt, hope. It says it all, really. There's nothing simple about the predicament I brought upon us. It's an us that may grow. Living in sin, in the wild, no less, it could be a matter of nine months and one day, the earliest, I assume, we'd get around to it.

Judging by this moment, though, I make no promises.

This was never my plan at eighteen. But plans change. In this new life, it feels like things change so drastically—by the minute sometimes. I guess, no one outside of this pack will ever have to know what's inside of me. And for five years—around 2.6 million minutes—I will live a little, and what will be, will be.