Neil finished reading Smoke’s chart and closed it with a decisive thump. James had that look in his eyes again. That hopeful, I-can-take-him-home-with-me-now? look.

Suddenly Neil’s entire body relaxed and he smiled. “Yes.”

“Yes? Yes? Yes!” James didn’t care who heard him. He didn’t like hospitals to begin with, and he found that he liked them even less when someone he loved was the patient.

“But you’re going to have to stay with him, take care of him. Can you do that for about, oh, say, a week?”

James blinked. As if taking care of Smoke could ever be a hardship. “Of course,” he said dumbly. He would ask someone to take over his classes at the University. Oh, wait, he was the low man on the totem pole, wasn’t he? Well, it didn’t matter. He would quit before he would leave Smoke alone and unprotected.

He must have muttered the last part out loud. All at once Michael was there, overriding his objections to doing *anything* for him. “You stay with Smoke. I’ll take care of the classes.”

“Christ, Michael! You make it damn near impossible to stay mad at you!”

Michael might have smiled if he hadn’t felt guilty. He didn’t care what anyone told him, including his son, who had unexpectedly developed a streak of altruism a mile wide. *He* knew that he was responsible, albeit indirectly, for what happened to Smoke.

That the family had survived this long was nothing short of a miracle. The truth was, it grew stronger with each and every obstacle it surmounted. The bond between them, the emotional connection, was still there, a heavy golden thread that bound them just as surely as the links in a chain.

“And Michael?”

Michael stopped, his hand poised on the handle of the door.

"Thanks. For sending Neil. I don’t know what would have—“

“Just take good care of him.”

James nodded, then turned back to the man asleep in the bed. Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to Smoke’s temple. “Hey, Pete,” he whispered. “You’re coming home with me tonight.”

Smoke smiled sleepily at his lover. The medical team had been forced to sedate him in order to evaluate all of his injuries, and the medication had yet to wear off. James could have told them that if they had only allowed him to accompany Smoke, there would have been no need for injections.

Of course, that was before Neil got there. Once Neil arrived, residents and not a few attendings as well stepped out of the way. This was *not* his hospital. But it didn’t matter. He rarely, if ever, used his influence with colleagues for favors, but he had no difficulty doing it this time. Smoke was part of the family.

“Love you.”

“Me, too.”

***

“He’s got three broken ribs. Cuts and bruises all over. They were afraid that he might have internal bleeding. That’s why they admitted him. Otherwise, we could have gone home earlier,” Jazz said softly.

Adam nodded, rubbing his nose against the younger man’s nape. “Good thing Neil came.”

“Yeah.” Jazz abruptly swatted at Adam, shaking him off the back of his neck. “Hey, stop that, it tickles.”

Adam smiled. “Feels good, though, huh?”

Jazz stared at the older teenager as though he had lost his mind. “You’re kidding, right?”

One perfectly formed eyebrow arched imperiously. “Moi? I have no sense of humor to speak of.”

“Neither does your father. Must be a genetic thing,” Jazz quipped.

Adam looked aghast, and his moue of outrage was so classically perfect that Jazz wondered if he had gone too far. But only for a moment.

“You *do* like to live dangerously, don’t you, little boy?” Adam purred into his ear.

Adam’s arms were wrapped snugly around Jazz. For someone come so late to the game, he was enjoying the time spent catching up. Jazz twisted around to face Adam, his green eyes glinting mischievously. “I may not be as tall as you, but I dare you to call me “little boy” again.”

Adam wisely refrained from commenting any further. They were at the far end of the hallway, in what passed for a visitors’ lounge, but there was no one there but them. Visiting hours long over, everyone had been forced to leave. With the exception of Smoke’s visitors. Courtesy of Neil.

“We have to go soon,” Adam whispered, surprised at the regret that filled him at that thought.

“Yeah,” Jazz answered, winding his arms around Adam’s neck to hug him. “This was nice. You’re nice.”

Adam jerked his head back at that. “Do you think I won’t be once we get home?”

Not really startled, Jazz studied him with eyes that were strangely wise for his age. “I don’t know. Will you?”

“What does this tell you?” Adam rasped, just before kissing him. Jazz smiled against his mouth. “All kinds of things.”

A light clearing of the throat announced Nikita’s presence. “Guys?”

Jazz chortled as he stepped away from Adam. “Busted.”

Nikita looked weary. It couldn’t have been easy dealing with the various personalities involved in all of this. “Time to go home.”

Jazz began to walk down the hall towards Smoke’s room, looking back over his shoulder at Adam and Nikita. When Adam went to follow, Nikita stopped him with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Oh, and Adam? Try not to do that kind of thing in front of your father.”

Adam automatically protested, knowing that Nikita was right. “But he said that he understood.”

Nikita nodded. Dark circles of exhaustion, just under her usually vibrant blue eyes, stood out against her pale skin. “And he does. Just…give him some time to get used to the idea, okay?”

Adam glanced at her shyly from beneath thick sable brown eyelashes. “Y’know, I wouldn’t tell anyone else this, but—I could use a little time myself here. Slow things down.”

“You take all the time you need, Adam.”

She peered down the hall to find that Jazz had stopped to look at them. He was probably wondering what they could be discussing. Leaning forward, she said conspiratorially, “I bet if you asked Jazz, he’d say the same thing.”

Adam brightened visibly. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.” She ruffled Adam’s shaggy dark brown hair. “You know, it’s times like these, I can see your mother in you. You have her eyes. So dark, and gleaming with intelligence.”

“Really?” The light in Adam’s eyes abruptly faded. “I wonder what she’d think of me and…you know.”

Nikita smoothed her fingers through Adam’s hair, pushing it back from his face. “I think…your mother would be the first one to say…she’d want you to be happy. More than anything else.”

“Yeah. That sounds like her.” Tears suddenly welled up in the handsome teenager’s dark eyes. “Sometimes I miss her so much, I think I can’t stand it. But when I talk about her to someone who knew her, like you, it’s almost as if she’s still alive. Y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” she replied softly.

His voice nearly inaudible, Adam continued. “I want to talk about her to Dad, but—I think he would get mad.”

With a sharp exhalation of breath, Nikita said, “Oh, Adam, if he got mad, it wouldn’t be at *you*. It’s just that your father feels so—“

“Guilty. That’s the word you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

Shaking her head silently, she agreed. “Yes. But I didn’t expect you to know that.”

Adam gave a bitter laugh. “I recognize it…because I see it in myself.”

“Oh, Adam, no. You’re too young to waste your life blaming yourself for things beyond your control.”

“No. I’m not.” A tear spilled over, tracking down Adam’s cheek, and Nikita caught it on her fingertip.

This time, when Adam began to cry, Nikita held him, absorbing his pain as though it were hers. “Your mother wouldn’t want you to hurt this way. Neither would your father.”

“I’m sorry if I made him feel worse,” he managed to say. “I was just so damn—angry.”

“He knows, Adam, and he understands,” she consoled the sixteen-year old.

“Does he?”

“Yes.” Michael’s sibilant response echoed across the silent solarium.

Now there could be healing.

Michael put down the cell phone and risked a small but heartfelt smile. “Someone is…coming…for you.” That sounded positively ominous.

His dark brown eyes widening to an almost impossible degree, Jason sputtered, “But who? I mean why? When?” amongst other, less intelligible phrases. If he didn’t know better, and he didn’t, he would swear that Michael was enjoying his discomfiture.

“I think you know who.”

Jason grew pale. There could be only two reasons for Mr. Jones to come for him. One, to cancel him. Two, to re-acquire property that belonged to him. He was so flustered that he didn’t know which one to wish for.

“You seem…worried.” Michael looked pensive for a moment. “Didn’t he say that he was reluctant to give you up?”

“Yeah, well, you’re only as good as your last…review.”

Michael seemed unperturbed. “Do you think he might punish you?”

Jason gulped, what little color he had left abruptly vanishing. “He has. Before.”

His mind wandered of its own accord, back to the last time. It was not an easy memory. “Do you want to make things worse for yourself? Admit what you did.” Jason’s color returned all at once. Now the young man looked almost feverish.

“You don’t have to let him hurt you.”

Jason’s eyes flew to Michael’s, as if he were aghast at what he might have revealed. “I don’t—it’s not—that is…”

“You think you deserve it?” Michael asked softly.

“Oh, I—“ Jason closed his eyes on a wave of embarrassment so extreme that he couldn’t speak.

“I’ve been bad. Especially bad this time.”

Michael frowned. He had the strangest urge to hug the younger man, but he knew that he wouldn’t take it kindly. “What did you do?”

Jason’s dark eyes slid away from Michael’s well-meaning but intense scrutiny. “I…didn’t do as I was told.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t wait here like I was supposed to. I went…out…on my own…initiative.”

“Jason, you know that you don’t have to return to Section, don’t you?”

The Center operative shook his head. “I have to go back.”

“Why? Because you have no place to stay? We’ll find you a place to—“

“You don’t get it, do you? My brother would never stand for me being within a mile of Declan. Staying here is *not* an option.”

“The world is a big place, Jason.”

“Yeah, yeah, and my brother’s a real decent guy, too. But that wouldn’t stop him from knocking my teeth down my throat.”

“Then this is about Birkoff?”

Jason allowed himself a small sigh. “Let’s leave my brother out of it.”

“Then tell me why you feel—“

Inexplicably Jason’s eyes filled with tears. “Cause *he’s* there, okay?”

“Because you’re afraid of him. Afraid of what he’ll do to you.” Michael thought he had it all worked out.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut until a few errant tears made their way down his face. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard.

“I understand,” Michael said compassionately, tapping the younger man on the shoulder.

That’s what *you* think, Jason muttered to himself inaudibly. *I* don’t even understand. How can you?

***

When Mr. Jones showed up, Michael wasn’t certain that he was doing the right thing. Handing the young man over, as if he were so much Section chattel, seemed unnecessarily cruel, not to mention unfair. That Jason Crawford still harbored a great deal of resentment towards his twin was obvious. But Michael wasn’t convinced that they couldn’t have a more positive relationship. Someday.

As soon as he could, Michael sought out the older man, hoping to shed some light on the mysteries that still eluded him. If only for his own peace of mind. “Mick?” At the head of Center’s querulous look, Michael started again. “I’m sorry. Force of habit. Do you have another name?”

“Mick’s fine,” Mr. Jones replied, not really answering the question.

“Jason seems a bit…unwilling. Isn’t there some way you could let him go?”

“Let him go? Michael—“ His response was cut off by a tremendous bark of laughter. “You do say the funniest things, you know that?”

“Set him free then?”

“Free? He’s free.”

“He is?”

“Free as you and me.”

Michael looked puzzled. Now he really *was* confused. “You’re not *forcing* him to go back?”

“God, no! What would I do that for? I actually like the kid, y’know?”

“Is there something…” Michael was nothing if not circumspect. As someone who needed privacy himself, he was sensitive to what others needed. “…unusual…about your relationship with Jason?”

Mr. Jones’ face closed down like an iron lattice ringing shut in a dungeon. Finality came through loud and clear. “I dunno what you may have heard, Michael, but you can forget it. Right now. I’m here to collect my property. That’s all.”

“That’s all he is to you?”

“There are…things…beyond your ken, Michael. Things you don’t *need* to know. Just…leave it alone. Okay?”

The fact that Mr. Jones didn’t exercise his well-trumpeted prerogatives re Michael’s status made him fairly trustworthy in Michael’s eyes. So he backed off, content for the moment to know only that there *was* a secret agenda, and that that agenda could best be served, at least for now, by letting it go.

***

“Get in the car.”

Jason obeyed without speaking. The voice wasn’t harsh. Just commanding. He was used to that.

Once he was seated in the shiny black Mercedes, he automatically lowered his head, staring a hole into the mat at his feet. Mr. Jones climbed in from the driver’s side and glanced at Jason quickly before starting the engine.

It wasn’t until they were en route to Center that Mr. Jones spoke. “You know you disobeyed me.”

“Yes,” Jason said meekly.

“You were supposed to come right back. What were you thinking?”

That maybe you wouldn’t do this to me. This time.

“I’ve killed people for less.”

That didn’t even require a response. Jason involuntarily shivered, his breath catching in his throat.

Mr. Jones made an exasperated noise. “You are well and truly fucked, my lad.”

***

How he managed to sleep he couldn’t imagine. But when he woke, it was late afternoon, and they were pulling into the drive of a very old, very grand hotel.

Despite himself, he broke the tense silence between them. “We-we’re not going back tonight?”

He couldn’t help it. He kept thinking, The condemned man ate a hearty meal, over and over until he almost said it out loud.

Mr. Jones didn’t answer. He merely opened the passenger side door.

***

He was offered dinner. But he couldn’t eat. The thought of food passing his lips made him vaguely sick at his stomach. Nerves again. The anticipation would kill him.

He started to chuckle to himself, but stopped when he saw the fierce glare that Mr. Jones gave him.

After dinner, Mr. Jones stared at him quite coolly and asked, “What am I supposed to do with you, Jason?”

You don’t really want me to answer that question, do you?

Suddenly Mr. Jones stood. “Take your pants down,” he barked.

Jason dropped to his knees on the floor, his head pressed almost to his chest. “Please—“

Mr. Jones leaned over and said in a low but menacing tone, “Take your pants down before I kick the shit out of you.”

Jason fumbled with his belt, somehow managing to unfasten it, and unzipped his pants, allowing them to fall below his hips. Mr. Jones sat down again, on the edge of his very old, very elegant chair. “Come over here.”

Jason moved slowly, as if to his death, but rough hands reached out and grabbed him, forcing him over Mr. Jones’ knees. With a wrench, his shorts were pulled down as well, exposing his muscular but pale flesh to the relatively cool room temperature.

His hand raised high to deliver maximum impact, Mr. Jones paused to say, “You deserve worse than this, you know.”

Jason nodded as the first blow fell on his buttocks, staining them pink. Slowly but surely, his skin grew flushed until it was hot and red and incredibly sensitive. He never lost consciousness; he felt every blow of Mr. Jones’ hand, certain that if he could but look, there would be a hand-shaped imprint there.

As his skin became more and more heated, he hung his head, letting the tears fall where they may. He couldn’t hope to hide from Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones knew everything.

A sharp yank on his hair pulled his head up, revealing his tears. Mr. Jones shook his head and said softly, “Oh, come here, you wretched boy.”

Mr. Jones held Jason, almost gently, while he cried, his silky head buried against his chest. “Ssh, ssh, ssh. You belong to me. You’ll always belong to me.”

“You w-won’t s-send m-me away ag-again?”

“No, sweeting,” Mr. Jones murmured against Jason’s ear. “I love you.”

“D-Do you?” Jason asked, his voice muffled as he snuggled closer to the older man.

“I left my mark on you, didn’t I?” Mr. Jones smoothed the firm young flesh under his hands.

Jason was unbearably aroused, something he was sure that Mr. Jones would discover any moment. “Mick,” he whispered, the secret name pulled out of its hiding place in his heart, his face turned up, his lips offering, seeking, waiting.

The kiss, when it came, was every bit as possessive as the spanking that claimed his flesh minutes before.

Not all prisons have bars. Some traps are of our own making.

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

“Mommmmm!”

Moans and groans filled the living room. “It’s not even Halloween! Why are you telling that story? I don’t want *that* story!”

Nikita put down the book she was holding and attempted to give Luc a stern look. “You asked for a scary story, Luc.”

“Like Terminator! Go, Terminator, go, go, go!” Luc cried out, pumping his fist in the air.

Kiarra fell over onto her side, laughing hysterically. Normally a fairly reserved five-year old, she became strangely animated whenever Luc showed off for her. No one knew why. Including Luc. But he *liked* the attention.

“I’m not going to tell you a story about a ruthless robot who wants to systematically wipe out the human population. In alphabetical order.”

“Please?”

“No. Kiarra looks like she’s half-asleep anyway, honey. I think it’s time for her to go home.”

“Can she sleep over, Mom?”

Nikita raked a hand through her pale blonde hair. It was getting far too long. Perhaps it was time to brave the idea of cutting it with Michael. Again. “No, Luc. She’s a girl. Girls don’t sleep over at boys’ houses,” she answered automatically.

“But Teal’s mom lets her!” he protested.

“Luc, you don’t even know Teal!”

“Do, too! She’s in my class at school!”

“Luc, I’m not going to argue with you. Kiarra has to sleep at her house. End of story.”

“You’re meannnn!” Luc pouted, fully aware that thrusting his lower lip out was one of his cuter moves and almost guaranteed to soften up his mother.

“Story time is over,” Nikita said in a tone that brooked no refusal.

“Mommm…read one of Daddy’s stories, then. ‘kay?”

“Those are much too old for you, Luc.”

“I’m bored.”

“I think it’s time you went to bed, too. Say good night to Kiarra.”

“G’nite, Kiarra,” Luc said, shaking his head sadly. It continued to amaze Nikita how Luc could look so much like his father and yet be completely opposite in nature. He was a spirited child, given to impulse and temper, and unlike his father, who valued a certain degree of emotional control, Luc had none. Everything he felt came right out and smacked you in the face. Sooner…or later.

Kiarra returned to her usual somber demeanor, and for a moment, Nikita was positive that she was going to shake Luc’s hand, just like an adult. But she didn’t. Instead she hugged him, as if he were a kid-sized teddy bear. “Nite, Luc.”

Once she made it as far as the doorway, she stopped, pirouetted and waved a tiny hand at him. Kiarra was a delightfully contradictory bundle of femininity and coltish beauty. Not only did she have both parents’ good looks, but she appeared to have inherited her father’s relative calm. Still, there was that adorable giggle that only Luc seemed to provoke.

Nikita suddenly had a vision of a much older Kiarra giving Luc a run for his money. Now *that* might be worth raising a houseful of teenagers.

Maybe.

“I’ll walk you out, Kiarra. Your Dad should be here any minute now.”

“That’s okay, Auntie Nikita. I know the way,” she said in a perfect imitation of a grown-up.

Nikita lounged against the wall and watched the little girl as she walked away. Luc came up silently, reminding her once again of his father, making her wonder again just how much of Michael’s routine behavior was Section-conditioned and how much was his personality.

“She’s a good kid, Mom,” Luc said, all eyes and seriousness.

Nikita tousled his cinnamon-colored hair. “So are you.”

She would be the first one to admit that she occasionally had trouble disciplining Luc, but for all the difficulty he could give her, he was worth it. Sometimes, when she let herself remember, her mind would drift back to a time when Michael lost his memory. That Michael, in all his softness and openness and vulnerability, was part of who Luc was now.

“Bed, huh?” he asked, the slightest of smiles framed on his lips.

“Yeah,” Nikita nodded. “Go on up. I’ll catch up with you.”

***

Luc disrobed in the same haphazard fashion that he got dressed every morning. A pair of pants slung over a chair here, a pair of socks wadded up in a corner over there. He seemed to be in constant motion, stopping for meager moments, to hop on one foot to the closet and back again to the bed.

He was in the process of kneeling to say his prayers when Nikita entered his bedroom. “God Bless me and Mommy and Daddy and Kiarra and…and…” His handsome features scrunched up in deliberation of an apparently important decision, Luc paused.

“And?” Nikita prompted.

Luc gave an exaggerated sigh. “And Fee and Chris and Gran’pa and Mamie and—“

The list seemed endless. It very nearly was. Who knew that a few short years after escaping Section One, Michael and Nikita would be able to claim enough family to make their own small community?

And when Luc was nearly done, he paused, as if for effect. “And—“

His half-brother suddenly appeared in the doorway next to Nikita. “Hey, brat!” he called affectionately.

“Adam!” Luc’s face lit up. At first dismayed at having to share his father’s attention with a new brother, Luc was coming around to the idea that there might be an advantage or two. For one thing, his oldest brother spoiled him. Often.

“I heard there might be a storm later.”

Luc shivered. He didn’t like thunderstorms. Biting his lip, he asked wistfully, “If the thunder comes, can I come sleep wit’ you?”

“Sure, munchkin.”

Nikita raised an eyebrow at that, but it was too late to say anything. She didn’t want Luc to think that he could split family without paying the consequences. On the other hand, however, she did *not* want to see Luc grow up without knowing his brother. Though he had clearly settled down a great deal, Adam was far from stable yet, and Nikita could easily see him taking off impulsively.

She knelt down to kiss Luc good night, surprised that he seemed to be even taller than last week. Giving him a quick kiss, long enough to satisfy her, not long enough to embarrass him in front of his new big brother, Nikita said “Good night, Luc. I love you.”

Showing none of the reticence of his father, he burst out, “I love you, too, Mommy! G’nite!”, the presence of Adam seemingly having no effect on his natural spontaneity. In fact, he wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck and clung to her for a few more seconds.

His whisper took Nikita by surprise. What he said revealed an insight far beyond his years. “I’m hugging you extra long, Mommy, cause I’m glad I still got a Mom, and…and…I’m giving you a hug for Adam, on accounta cause he doesn’t no more.”

Luc protested mildly when Nikita unconsciously squeezed him a bit too tightly. As she released him, she addressed Adam softly. “You be good to my son. He thinks the world of you.”

Bestowing one of his rare smiles on the young boy, Adam replied, “I think he’s pretty special, too.”

Wagging a finger at Luc, she added, “Please don’t stay up more than a few minutes, and I *will* be back to check.” With that, she was gone.

But as it happened, she didn’t go far. She sagged against the wall, wiping at the helpless tears that suddenly welled up. Whether it was magic or sheer luck or just serendipitous timing all around, Michael appeared. “Kita? Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes, knowing just what to expect to see reflected in his eyes. “Better than all right, Michael. I’ve got you.” Her voice broke on the last word, and he caught her in his arms, kissing her sweetly, as if she were the most fragile thing in the world.

“I love you just as much as the first day I saw you,” Michael whispered. For him, it was a veritable speech, but it came from the heart.

Love lent him the words.

“Hey, you guys, wait up!” Sasha careened down the hallway, the soles of his athletic shoes making almost no sound as he approached the others.

Jazz turned to greet his best friend. “How come you’re so late?”

Out of breath, Sasha leaned forward, his hands on his knees. “I…overslept.”

Jazz blinked curiously, the effect making his green eyes flash vividly, like a verdant flame sprung to life. “*You* overslept? Mr. I-have-so-much-energy-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-it-all?”

Sasha nodded, but he didn’t elaborate further. Instead he reached over Jazz to grab a cookie from Adam’s hand. “Thanks.”

Adam’s expression never changed. For a moment, he considered complaining about Sasha’s obvious lack of boundaries, but then he realized something important had happened when he wasn’t looking. He had been accepted. He was one of *them* now.

Suddenly Adam grinned, and it transformed him from an overly serious young man with too many things on his mind into a distinctly boyish teenager. “Want to play soccer?”

Sasha almost dropped his cookie, but recovering quickly, he popped the last morsel into his mouth, wiping the crumbs on his jeans. “Sure. But we’ve gotta get to class.”

“I have a study hall first period. What about you?”

Sasha rolled his eyes dramatically. “I have the Dragon Lady for English. I can’t miss that.”

“Sure you can,” Adam replied, amazed that he, of all people, studious to a fault, was advocating that Sasha cut class.

“No, I can’t,” Sasha maintained. “Da would *kill* me if he knew.”

“So don’t tell him.”

Jazz stared at Adam. “Are you serious?” he exclaimed incredulously, unable to believe that Sasha had been *that* much of a good influence on him. Once he would have gleefully taken up Adam’s challenge without thinking twice. But now…Sasha’s earnest desire to accomplish something with his life had firmly taken root in Jazz as well.

“Well, if you boys are too scared—“

Sasha made a derisive noise. “I don’t go to school to please Da. I go to school because I want to *be* something, *do* something, relatively important.” His hands cut restlessly through the air.

Adam shook his head. “It’s just one class.”

“That’s how it starts,” Sasha said impatiently. “Next thing you know, you’re maybe living on the streets like Jazz here. Where do you think *he* was headed?” Sasha knew that Jazz wouldn’t mind being used as an example. The older boy had come so far in the past year. In fact, during that time, he came to discover almost as much about himself as about the people he had come to live with.

Adam was suitably chastened. Although Adam never took his education lightly, he abruptly realized that he *had* taken it for granted. As a God-given right. Instead of the privilege it so clearly was to Sasha. And now, by extension, Jazz.

Slinging an arm around Jazz, Adam said, “How about we all meet after school then?”

A relieved smile broke out on Jazz’ face as Sasha accepted the offer. “Cool. I’ll be there.”

Sasha gently cuffed Jazz on the arm before taking his leave. “See you guys later.” When he was a few steps away, he half-turned, calling back over his shoulder, “Oh, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

His impish grin was met with an equally mischievous look from Jazz, who stuck out his tongue at his best friend. “You think that’s going to stop me?”

Sasha laughed. “It’d better.”

***

“I have to go,” Jazz whispered forlornly to Adam. Unlike the older teenager, Jazz did not have a free period. In many ways, he was still playing catch-up because of all the time he had spent out of school. But he no longer regretted having to attend school and he had Sasha to thank for that. Sasha truly loved to learn, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

Adam nodded absently, but the truth was, he would give anything to be able to show Jazz one of those public displays of affection that were forbidden within the school’s confines.

Words seemed somehow inadequate. Adam couldn’t even begin to describe how he felt. A lump of unexpressed emotion tightened his throat alarmingly. “I’ll see you later then.”

“Yeah.”

“Be good.”

“I’m *always* good,” Jazz quipped dryly, finding refuge in humor.

Adam chuckled softly, trailing a hand along Jazz’ arm. Though it was not a romantic gesture, it nevertheless conveyed a certain depth of feeling. Feeling that made Adam shiver inwardly. “Well, don’t be good with anyone else but me.”

Jazz’ hair fell forward, obscuring his expressive eyes for a second, and Adam felt cut off in a way that he couldn’t explain. Peering under the curtain of silky hair, Adam said quickly, “You’d better go. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Jazz looked up then, his eyes glowing bright green, and Adam felt as though he had taken a fair-sized punch to the chest. So this was love. Sure felt like the real thing.

“Thanks,” Jazz said huskily.

“Jazz?”

“What?”

“Just…Jazz.” I like saying your name. How dumb is that? And what would you think if I just blurted that out?

A shy smile crossed Jazz’ lips. “No one calls me by my real name, but—“ he began hesitantly.

Adam knew he must be grinning. He could feel the skin at the corners of his mouth tugging. How did God decide that he deserved a gift like this in his life?

Jazz unconsciously touched the back of Adam’s hand, and Adam sucked in his breath. “It’s Nicolas,” he whispered.

Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, but there was such intensity there that if anyone had been around, they would have felt compelled to look away.

Adam’s smile faded as he knew that he must let Jazz go. For now. But this moment felt so important. There had to be some way to mark it.

Reaching out so that only their fingertips barely touched, Adam whispered, “Can I call you Nicky?”

Jazz bit his lip, his eyes flickering wildly with some untold emotion. “My mother used to call me that. When I was real little.”

“Sorry,” Adam muttered, his face beginning to color.

“It’s okay.” Jazz moved closer, but it still felt like he was too far away. “You’re not my mother,” he said bemusedly.

“No, I’m not,” Adam echoed, mesmerized by the look in the younger teenager’s eyes.

“And I’m not your little boy.”

"No, you’re not,” Adam repeated dutifully, his lips starting to twitch with laughter.

“So…you can call me Nicky.”

Adam brightened.

“On two conditions.”

Adam looked dubious.

“One, you only use it when we’re alone.”

Adam nodded.

“And two…” Jazz paused significantly. “When you scream out my name, you better not confuse me with anyone else.”

“I never scream,” Adam said dryly.

“You haven’t been with me yet,” Jazz said flirtatiously.

Adam swallowed hard. There could be nothing sexual between them until they both reached the age of consent. He promised Nikita and, though he had never directly spoken of it to him, Michael.

It was going to be a long, dry spell.

How would he ever survive the next few years?

Faith turned over a card and placed it carefully on the table in front of her. “Just so there’s no arguments, *I’m* the Princess this time.” She cast a sharp glance at Emmy, who placidly ignored her and concentrated on plotting her next move.

They were heavily embroiled in a pen-and-paper role-playing game called Wizards and Warriors. “It was just a suggestion, Fee,” Emmy finally said with a sigh.

“Just cause you’re Irish doesn’t mean you automatically get to be Princess, Em. It’s time someone else had a turn.”

Emmy scowled into the cards she held. “I don’t see you offering one of the boys a turn.”

“Now that would be silly. Boys can’t be Princess.”

“Why not?”

Faith all but rolled her eyes, quite dramatically, as if to emphasize just how clueless she found Emmy. “Why do you think?”

“I know what *I* think, Fee. I’m still trying to figure out what *you* think.” Not to mention why.

“Besides,” Emmy continued, rather cleverly, if she did say so herself, “I would have expected you to want to be Warrior. It’s what you’re good at.”

“Hmm…” Faith mulled that over. It was true. She made a very good Warrior. But there was a part of her that longed to be Princess. To be accorded the respect that post commanded.

Emmy’s silver-grey eyes scrutinized Faith. “Why don’t we make a new category? You could be Warrior Queen.”

“Oh, sure. Let’s just do away with the rules.”

“You don’t like rules anyway, Fee.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Ha! Spoken like a true Princess, Em.” Faith finished dealing the cards that would determine what major events would occur during this particular game.

Emmy wrinkled her nose and contemplated her opponent. “You can bully Connor that way, Fee, but it won’t work on me. I don’t know why you even try.”

“God, you are so much like Uncle Declan sometimes.”

Emmy broke into a brilliant smile that illuminated her entire being. “Thanks, Fee! That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

***

Skye crept into the bedroom as quietly as possible. Her long blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail that easily reached her waist. Her blue eyes held none of their usual sparkle. Truth to tell, Skye was beginning to feel lonely. She missed Sasha. Sasha went to a different school now. He spent most of his time with Jazz and Adam. His interests, well…they weren’t the same as when they first met.

Oh, he was still a kind, caring boy. Scratch that, teenager. Since he turned 13, he avoided being alone with her. She missed his awkward gestures, his touching smiles, but most of all, she just plain missed *him*. She told herself that it was only natural that Sasha spend time with people closer to his age.

But she felt left behind. In a way that she had not before.

She was only ten. Where he went, she could not follow. But maybe someday…things would be different. They had to be. They belonged together.

She knew it in her heart.

Skye found what she was looking for. Sasha was out. Hanging out with his friends. Playing soccer, from what she heard. He would never know she had been here.

She knelt down next to the bed. This was *his* room. Where he slept. Where he dreamed. Pulling the pillow off the bed, she clutched it like a lifeline. Burying her face in the pillow, she imagined that she could smell him. His young boy-into-man scent that so clearly identified him as Sasha.

She meant only to hold it. Truly she did. But she couldn’t help it. The feelings, when they came, were so overwhelming, they couldn’t be held in check. Tears came unbidden, flowing smoothly and silently down her cheeks as she wept.

When she heard a noise, she jumped. Rapidly replacing the pillow, she fluffed it, certain that no one would know that she was here.

Bolting through the door, she flew down the stairway as though the Gates of Hell had opened behind her.

***

Sasha came home early. Limping. He, Jazz, and Adam met on the field at school to play soccer, and Sasha, largely because of his superior speed and agility, was winning.

Until he fell.

After he twisted his ankle, he continued to play through the pain, but eventually, even his stoic demeanor couldn’t hide the fact that his ankle would no longer support his weight.

Bowing out of the game, he insisted that they keep playing without him. By the time he walked all the way home, he was more than tired. His ankle was swollen and aching. Unable to bear the thought of climbing three flights of stairs, Sasha ventured into the Samuelle kitchen, seeking ice.

Awkwardly lowering himself into a chair, he realized that he should have looked in the freezer first. Now he would have a devil of a time trying to stand up again. His ankle throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the pounding growing worse with each passing moment. Damn, it must be a bad sprain. He was counting on it being just a mild strain, but it was beginning to feel as if he’d torn a ligament.

Luckily for him, there was no one around. He hated the thought of anyone seeing him feeling this way. Woozy, light-headed, almost nauseated from the pain.

“Shit, this hurts.”

“What did you do?”

Sasha was so preoccupied that he didn’t hear her come up on him. That scared him more than anything. “Skye!”

“Did you hurt yourself?” She bit her lip anxiously. She couldn’t prevent her stomach churning at the thought of Sasha being injured.

“Sorta. Twisted my ankle. I think it’s sprained.”

“Oh, no,” Skye exclaimed, her blue eyes filling with tears.

“Hey, it’s not *that* bad. Honest.” He reached out to reassure her, and his balance abruptly shifted, dumping him onto the floor. “Ow!”

“Holy shit! I take it back. Maybe it *is* that bad. Now.” He doubled over, holding his ankle in a vain attempt to make it stop throbbing.

Immediately regaining control of her runaway emotions, Skye opened the freezer and withdrew a bag of frozen peas. Whisking the dish towel from its place by the kitchen sink, Skye dropped to her knees beside Sasha. After wrapping the towel around the icy package, she carefully applied it to Sasha’s now discolored ankle.

“Ouch! That hurts!” he yelled, wincing at both the pain and the horrified expression on Skye’s face.

“It’ll help,” she said, unable to raise her voice above a whisper. She was a very strong little girl, perhaps stronger than she had any earthly right to be, but she was definitely Michael and Nikita’s daughter. Still, seeing Sasha as vulnerable as he was right now, made her insides ache in a way she had never experienced before.

“Skye…please don’t cry.”

She hadn’t realized that she was. Swiping at her face with both hands, she scrubbed almost furiously, leaving both cheeks reddened. “You…called me Skye.”

Sasha nodded. “Yeah.” Then it hit him. “I didn’t forget, I swear. You’ll always be Ange. You know that.”

“People shouldn’t make promises that they can’t keep,” she said sadly.

She was too young for Sasha. She had always known that. But she was too old for Luc and the younger children. She didn’t fit in anywhere. Where was *her* place?

She sniffled.

Maybe she didn’t have a place.