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“Valentine, what happened to your face?”

Oh. Right. I hadnottold my mother about getting repeatedly shit-kicked in the face by a very large goon named Nico. Which meant she had no idea why there was a tracery of still-pink scars on my right temple, cheekbone, and jaw.

“I, uh, had a problem at work.”

“What kind of problem?” she demanded.

“The kind you don’t tell your mom about,” I replied. “But I’m fine, Mom, really. And we got the bad guys, so it’s all good.”

She swatted at my arm. “You need to be more careful, sweetie.”

“Yeah, I know. I will be.” I deliberately didn’t look at Taavi, who had been royally pissed at me for letting myself get nearly beaten to death.

She reached up and patted my cheek. “My poor baby. Take better care of yourself.”

And then she turned the biggest smile I think I’d ever seen on her face at Taavi, who—understandably—looked a little alarmed.

I was a little alarmed myself. No, strike that. Alotalarmed. This was Mom-in-full-on-settle-down mode.

Double fuck.

“And you must be Taavi!”

He nodded his head, looking even smaller than normal in my too-big-for-him parka. “Yes, ma’am.”

My mother threw her arms around him, and he staggered a little—he might be shifter-strong, but I’m pretty sure my mother actually packs more weight on her five-four frame than he does. And then she stepped back and put her hands on his cheeks and squeezed. “Oh, no need to ‘ma’am’ me, sweetpea. You can call me Mom.”

“Or Mrs. Hart,” I put in over her shoulder, because ‘Mom’ was probably too far too soon. I also didn’t know what to do with my mother’s adoption of ‘sweetpea’ for Taavi, because I’d never heard her use that term before in my life. ‘Sweetheart,’ yeah. ‘Sweetie.’ ‘Honey.’ Then again, she does call Elliot her ‘honey-badger,’ and I’m not sure she knows that’s a whole different animal than what he is. But Elliot just rolls his eyes and lets her do it.

Taavi’s expression said he didn’t like either of those options, which I guess I understood, since to him,Iwas Hart. So calling anyone, even my mom, ‘Mrs. Hart’ might be weird.

“Don’t be a stick in the mud, Valentine,” my mother scoffed, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. My mother knows full well I hate my name, but she uses it anyway. Because it’s lovely, apparently.

“You call me whatever you want, sweetpea,” my mother told Taavi.

He nodded, mismatched eyes wide.

She hugged him again, then gave him a critical eye. “Is that Val’s parka?”

“Mom,” I interrupted. “He’s from Arizona. He doesn’t own a winter parka.”

“Oh, sweetpea! We’ll get you a nice coat. Marshall’s got an extra—just in case he gets his regular one wet when he’s out ice fishing. And you can call me Judy if that’s better.”

Taavi looked a little like he’d been, well, hit by a truck. Which I know isn’t an appropriate metaphor because he actuallyhadbeen hit by a truck, but I would bet anything he’d looked pretty fucking surprised then, too. He’d also been angry—now he just looked alarmed.

“I—”

“Don’t you worry, sweetpea.” My mother barreled on, oblivious to everything but her mission. “We’ll get you all kitted out.” She took his arm and started pulling him toward the car. I tried to communicate with my expression that I was sorry for having dragged him into this as I took his duffel off his shoulder and put it and my backpack in the back of the Explorer, then crossed around to sit behind my dad.

“Hey kiddo.”

I reached forward and set a hand on his shoulder. “Hi, Dad.”

“Flight okay?”

“It sucked, as always.”

“That’s cuz your legs are too long for those things,” he pointed out.