It wouldn’t do me any good to feel irritated that yet another male in my life seemed to think I needed a human shield to get through the day. I knew J.B. was asking because he cared, not because he had a secret agenda.

“I’m cool,” I said. “I can always call Jude for backup if I need it.”

“What’s Nathaniel doing here? Weren’t we trying to get rid of him?”

I explained about Lucifer’s deal with my former betrothed.

“I don’t like it,” J.B. said. “He could be double-dealing again. Who’s to say he’s not a plant from Azazel come to stab you in the back when the time is right?”

“I don’t disagree,” I said. “I’m not sure I can trust him, which is why I’m not officially accepting him yet. But I don’t think I can send him back to Lucifer knowing the Morningstar will kill him for failing.”

“You seemed perfectly happy to stab him to death a week or so ago in Azazel’s court,” J.B. said.

It annoyed me that J.B. was presenting the same argument I’d given Beezle only a short time before.

“That was different,” I said crossly. “He was the enemy then.”

“And now he’s not?” J.B. pressed.

“I don’t know!” I said angrily. “Call it the privilege of a pregnant woman. My hormones are confusing me…”

I trailed off, because J.B.’s face had gone white.

“I forgot that you didn’t know,” I said in small voice.

“When did you find out?” he asked, sounding strained.

“Today,” I said. “Lucifer told me.”

“He must be thrilled,” J.B. said flatly.

“Oh, believe me, he is,” I said grimly, thinking of the possessive look on Lucifer’s face.

“And you?” he asked carefully.

“I… I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It’s a little piece of Gabriel inside me, and part of me is thrilled to have that.”

“But?”

“But once my pregnancy becomes widely known, the target on my back is going to get even bigger.”

“Does Nathaniel know?” J.B. asked.

“I don’t think so. I’m sure he would have acted like I had an infectious disease if he knew I was carrying the ‘thrall’s’ baby.”

“Don’t tell him until you have to,” J.B. advised. “It might push him over the edge.”

“Yeah.”

We looked at each other.

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” J.B. said. “Things would have been a lot easier if you’d fallen in love with me instead.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said sadly. “Your baggage is about as heavy as mine.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Be careful.”

“And you,” I said.

He left without another word, and I was left alone, as always.

* * *

I tried to sleep, but was dogged by nightmares of blanketing darkness and monsters worse than anything I’d imagined before. At dawn I gave up the pretense and stumbled into the kitchen to find Beezle eating Nutella from the jar with a spoon.

“You look like garbage,” he observed.

“Don’t speak,” I said shortly, feeling my way toward the coffeemaker.

“No coffee for you,” he said with way too much cheer in his voice. “You might harm the little biscuit.”

Right. Pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink coffee. I slumped over with my head on the counter. “Can I have anything that makes life worth living?”

“Herbal tea,” Beezle said.

“I said something that makes life worth living.”

“Sorry,” he replied, and he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Where’s Samiel?” I asked.

Beezle rolled his eyes. “Entertaining Chloe.”

“Entertaining… Chloe?” I asked.

“You heard me right, so there’s no need to stand there blinking those big brown eyes at me,” Beezle said.

“Chloe who works at the Agency?” I asked.

“Do we know any other Chloe?”

“How long has this been going on?” I wondered how this could be happening right under my nose.

Beezle shrugged. “She’s been sniffing around here pretty much since the first time she saw him at the Agency.”

“How could I have missed this?”

“Easily, since you’ve spent most of the last week in a depressive funk.”

“My husband died,” I said. “How else am I supposed to behave?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t mourn him,” Beezle said hastily. “But you can’t lay around the house in a daze anymore, especially not if the faeries have put a blood price on your head.”

“Been listening at windows again?” I said nastily.

“You don’t have time to cover your head with a pillow.”

“I’ll thank you not to tell me how to deal with my own grief,” I said, storming out of the kitchen and into the bathroom.

I turned on the water for the shower, fuming. It didn’t matter that part of me knew Beezle was right. I didn’t want to be told that my behavior was unacceptable, that it wasn’t okay to feel so sad, so sick with loss that I couldn’t get out of bed. Because if losing your first and only love wasn’t justification for that, then what was?