"That's impossible," Jude says, once we are back at my apartment.

My fingers tighten on silk. Miraculously, the shopping bag filled with lingerie managed to stay secured around my wrist throughout the entire time.

I don't know if she's ready to talk about this.

I don't know if I'm ready to talk about this.

"How do you know how to do this, by the way?" I ask. Changing the subject.

Temporary—this solution is only temporary.

My shirt is undone, my ribs exposed, and Jude sews the wound with calm, still hands. I know her major has nothing to do with science—creative writing generally doesn't—so curiosity tugs at me.

"Oh," Jude says, and she laughs. "You mean, caring for a gunshot wound?"

"Yes, caring for a gunshot wound."

"Well, as a writer, I've had to look up certain . . . unmentionables. My characters always seem to be getting themselves into little situations, so sewing gunshot wounds kind of comes with the territory."

I bark out a laugh. "Are you telling me you know how to care for a bullet wound because you read about it?"

"Well, I'm doing a good job of it, aren't I?"

I bite my tongue. I'd probably have bled out by now if she wasn't here.

But knowledge of her writing makes me think of things I shouldn't.

I lean in closer to her, propping my arm up on the counter. Is Pierce wondering why Jude isn't at home? I don't care.

"So tell me, Jude," I say, winking. "What do your characters do?"

"What do they do?" she says, flustered. "They live."

"Have you ever written . . . a sexy scene?"

Her face turns red. Jude blushes more often than she would like to admit.

"It's none of your business," she retorts.

"Oh? It's none of my business? Even after everything we've done?" For emphasis, I drag a single fingertip down the length of her thigh. At my touch, she stiffens.

"Fine," she admits. "My characters have had a sexy scene or two."

"So you write about the dirty things we do together?" My finger circles the inside of her thigh.

A shiver runs through her. "Contrary to what your ego thinks, my characters are fictional."

"But fiction has a little bit of reality, doesn't it? Tell me, Jude. Do I inspire you?"

This time, doesn't protest as my finger finds the heat buried between her legs. I let out a rough laugh. "You're always so wet for me," I whisper.

"Let me finish sewing your wound!" she snaps finally.

"I'd be glad to," I breathe, dark and silky.

"How did you make that sound so dirty?"

With a breathy edge to my words, I whisper, "Like this."

Her spine arches, almost imperceptibly.

"I should not be turned on right now," she growls. She is still blushing, and I smile, satisfied with how she's come undone. "I'm caring for your gunshot wound. Which, by the way, was a bullet you took for me."

At the reminder of this, I shrug. Casual.

If it ever came to that, I would take a bullet for her a thousand times over.

But she can't know that. Not yet.

She can't know who you are! Not until it's time!

If Jude's mom is alive . . . then I can finally know the truth.

"Hunter," Jude says, and my head snaps up. Focusing on her. "You took a bullet for me."

"I thought we already established that," I say, grinning.

"How can you be so—so calm about this?"

Because I would do it again. I would do it again and again for you, Jude.

My index finger trails lazily over the heat gathered between her thighs.

"Thank you, by the way," Jude shudders out. "I . . ."

Before she can say more, I plunge one finger inside of her.

I don't dare take Jude back to the Underground.

But I know I have to go back. I have to go see the two young girls, to make sure they're safe. Anise knows I have them—that I refused to let her take them to the lower level.

She hasn't displayed any signs of rebuttal yet. But she will.

I know my sister too well, and not enough.

I kiss Jude goodbye, and her eyes linger on me. Holding me captive in the doorway.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" she says, and then she scowls. "Of course you won't. Just come back. Soon."

"Soon," I agree. "Stay here. Please. I have a bad feeling about Pierce . . . you just have to trust me. Can you stay? Please?"

I have a feeling she won't, but she nods anyway.

The moment I step off the elevator into the Underground, I see Gianina.

Her red mouth opens. I sense the anger wafting from her, like crimson steam.

"Hunter!" she orders, before I can back away.

"Gianina," I relent.

"Where have you been?" she hisses, her fingertips on my chest. "I was worried about you. And about Jude."

I was looking for Jude—and I found her.

But I can't tell her. If it gets back to Anise, she will know where to look.

"I have to go," I say instead.

"You do not have to go!"

This is when Mikayla's head jerks up from the other side of the café, her eyes falling on both Gianina and I. Faster than possible, she has strode up to us.

Jude would call this one an ambush.

Mikayla whispers, "I heard you have kids."

Gianina's eyes widen. "You're a mother?"

"No, I'm—"

"Tommy told me they're seven and eight," Mikayla says. "You have kids, Hunter. How old were you? How have you not known about them this whole time?"

"I don't have—"

Gianina crosses her arms. "Are you kidding me? You just gave them up for adoption? Were you worried we would judge you, because trust me, we—"

"I don't have kids."

"Listen, it's not fair to them that you keep denying it," snaps Gianina.

"I have to go."

"Just think about taking a—a parent therapy class!"

The elevator doors close, and I let out a breath as it begins to glide down. Saving me from any more conversation about the children I don't have.

Yesterday, before I left for Jude, the older one finally told me their names.

Lacy and Kiara.

Lacy is the one with brown eyes, the one who protects her sister. Kiara is a vicious little creature, with snapping teeth and the tendency to growl.

But somehow, after these past three days, they managed to trust me.

I haven't given them to Anise yet. And I'm not planning on it.

If it comes to it, though, she might take them by force.

Which is why, as I make my way down to my room, I pause outside the door. I made sure Tommy was watching them, but the worst possible scenario slides through my mind. They are gone. Tommy couldn't stop Anise.

Except, when I open the door, my jaw loosens.

"I'm serious, once when I was a kid, I ate enough pistachio ice cream that I threw up on my sister, so basically—oh, hi, Hunter."

"Tommy?" I growl.

He is holding Kiara upside down as she giggles uncontrollably. Lacy is twisting around his neck like some sort of serpent-monkey, and somehow, he has a grip on both of them while simultaneously telling them embarrassing stories about his own childhood.

The moment Kiara sees me, her giggles fade. She is still smiling, just nervous.

Lacy scampers down from Tommy's shoulders.

Tommy gives me a sheepish grin. "So, you never mentioned where you got them from." He pokes Lacy's stomach, and she giggles. "Was it . . . a sheep farm?" He tickles Kiara. "A . . . bird nest?" Both girls are laughing now, so hard they look like they can't breathe. "How about a zoo?"

The thought of it sobers me.

No, Tommy, they were sold to the Wolves in a sex trafficking ring.

So Anise can fund her twisted, sick desires.

I clear my throat. I don't want Tommy to know for as long as possible—I don't want to take away the look of adoration in his eyes when he looks at Anise. Not yet. She is all we had as children—she is basically his mother.

"No one has come to visit, right?" I demand.

"No," Tommy says, still managing to tickle Kiara. "But I don't know why you don't want me to show them around the Underground . . . there's some really cool games . . ."

"No!" I snap. Too loudly. "They have to stay here."

Lacy's eyes glisten with dark understanding. I don't know what she knows, but . . . well. She hasn't been forced to do unnameable things yet, and somehow, I think she might have realized it is Tommy and I who are protecting her.

I'm all that stands between these girls and Anise.

Honestly, I don't know why Anise hasn't taken them. Hasn't forced my hand.

Could it be just another part of her twisted game?

Is it some small shred of decency, kindness, to allow me to save these two girls?

I don't know. Maybe she wants me on edge—paranoid.

"Hunter!" Tommy says suddenly. "I have to tell you something."

There is suddenly a nervousness to him, a thin veil of a blush over his cheeks. He has stopped tickling Lacy and Kiara, and they cling to him, breaths held.

Just like before, the worst comes to mind.

"You got a girl pregnant," I say, before I can stop myself.

Tommy's cheeks blaze red. "No!" he sputters. "I—I don't even—you know I don't have a girlfriend!"

I know, but I also know what the men in our family are like.

"What is it?" I insist.

"I got an early acceptance letter," he says, glancing down, scratching the back of his neck. "Santa Monica University."

"But you're sixteen—"

"Well, they thought I was pretty smart, with my SAT scores off the chart."

"You took the SATs?" I bark.

"They were easy. And . . . I got a near-perfect result."

Before he can say another word, I close the distance between us and squeeze him in a hug. I can't believe it—my annoying little brother, with an early acceptance to SMU?

"I'm so proud of you."

"It's—nothing," he mumbles, but I know he's glowing.

When I pull back, it is easy to see the resemblance between me and Tommy. He has my strong jaw, and his deep-blue eyes match the shade of one of mine. There is an aquiline curve to his straight nose, and when he smiles, I could almost believe he is the lead singer of a teenager boy band.

One day, once Tommy has grown into his features, he will be a heartbreaker.

It doesn't help that he happens to be taller than six feet now.

It hits me, then—how much he has grown up.

Since we left Lafayette, since we moved away from the home where I met Jude, I raised Tommy in the underground. From a little kid, to a young man . . . the realization is as fresh as a wound. Tommy isn't a little kid anymore.

And I . . . I am so proud of him.

But if he's not a kid anymore . . . doesn't he deserve to know the truth of the Underground? What goes on beneath these floors?

Yes, Hunter, he does.

"Tommy, there's something I—"

But then small, sharp teeth clamp down on my knuckles.

I let out a swear that children probably shouldn't be privy to.

Apologetically, Tommy says, "Don't worry—that wasn't a bad bite."

"There are nice bites?"

"She bites to be friendly. She likes you."

Likes me? I am practically growling until I look down. Kiara, the younger girl, has attached herself to my ankle. Her wide, adoring eyes look up at me, strawberry-blonde hair silky from the bath I gave her yesterday.

Somehow, against my will, I soften.

My arms twitch, and she takes that as a sign to dive into them. Her small face presses against my neck, her nose buried in my shoulder. She smells like buttercup and honey glaze.

For a moment, I freeze.

But Tommy gives me an encouraging look. Lacy watches, like she is ready to pounce if she thinks I am hurting her sister.

Slowly, my arms tighten around Kiara.

I breathe in the sweet scent of her, relaxing into the feel of her tiny, soft body. She hugs me so tightly, as though I might dissolve.

Tommy squints, ever so slightly. "Hey, about those rumours . . ."

"I did not have a teen pregnancy, Tommy."

"You sound kind of defensive—"

I roll my eyes, but I am still thinking of the truth. How I am going to tell him. My heart sinks lower in my chest, ice withering in my veins.

It is then, with Kiara wrapped around my body, sighing against my neck, her strawberry hair tickling my jaw, that I receive the phone call.

Tommy is saying, "If you're their biological mother, I don't mind being a . . ."

Lacy is trying to braid Tommy's short hair, twisting it around her finger.

Kiara is beginning to trace patterns that swirl over my black jacket. But the sensation of her fingertips—the sight of Lacy's braiding—the sound of Tommy's voice . . .

It all fades away as I hear a familiar, deep, silky voice.

"Hunter," Elijah greets me. "It appears you were right."

>>>

Anyone want to chance a guess what she's right about?

From the moon and back,
Sarai