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her, to know she was real. And once he had, he should have been man enough to walk away but he couldn’t. He sighed. He had baggage, unresolved and far too dangerous, and he had to find a way to resolve those issues before he claimed the woman he knew was meant for him.
    The large padlock on the gate fel to the ground of its own accord and the gates began to swing open. There was intense satisfaction in that. The Drake gate only opened for those who belonged. No one knew how it recognized the family and their men, but the house, capable of protecting those within, welcomed him.
    â€œSee, El e?†he whispered. “Even your home says it’s time.†Past time. He should have acted a long time ago, started a war, or rather ended one, and then just locked her to his side. If he’d done so, this wouldn’t have happened.
    He drove up the road toward the house, noting how rich and green and beautiful everything always was. The house loomed ahead, old, standing in the wind and salt spray without a crack or chip in the paint, looking as if it had just been built. He drove around to the parking area up above where the yard overlooked the sea. He stood for a long moment staring down at the churning, dark water. Sometimes the ocean looked like glass, but this evening the sea appeared angry, in great turmoil, matching his mood.
    Waves crashed against the rocks, spraying white foam high into the air, the sound like thunder, reverberating in his head. “El e, baby, where are you?†He whispered into the wind, needing an answer.
    â€œJackson.†Jonas Harrington came up behind his friend, knowing enough to say his name in warning and not come up behind him silently.
    Jackson turned slightly and from the look in his eyes, he’d known Jonas was there al along.
    â€œI should have stopped her,†Jackson said. “I knew she was involved in something dangerous and I should have stopped her.â€
    Jonas shook his head. “The Drakes aren’t so easy to stop.†But even as he said it, he knew Jackson would never agree with him. He was a throwback to the warriors of old. El e was his woman and it was a duty, privilege and right to look after her. He didn’t care about women’s rights, or customs or society. Jackson had a code, an honor system. El e was his woman and he was supposed to keep her from harm’s way. He hadn’t done it and no reasoning was good enough or ever would be for him.
    â€œShe’s alive, Jonas, you know that, and her cover has to be blown, which means her life is in danger. Wherever she is, they’re hurting her and they have to kil her when they’re done finding out everything she knows.â€

    Jonas studied his friend. Jackson was Cajun, with broad shoulders, roped arms, a heavy powerful chest and shrewd, cool eyes—black obsidian, glittering when upset, or absolutely flat and cold, showing no emotion whatsoever. His thick, unruly, wavy hair was as black as midnight. Scars ran down his face and neck and disappeared into his shirt. His features were etched with lines of hard violence and a stil ness that belied his lightning-fast reflexes.
    Jackson rarely spoke of his family, and from what Jonas had gleaned from the few times he’d mentioned them, they’d lived in the bayou itself, on a smal island, boating to the mainland for supplies. His dad had been a fighter, a veteran of more than one war and a biker who left his family often because he couldn’t settle, but returned just as often because he couldn’t be away from them. From the things Jackson had let drop, his father had begun teaching him survival and fighting and the use of weapons at a very early age.
    He seemed to love and despise his father, feeling as if the bikers he’d run with had been his family and Jackson and his mother had gotten the leftovers. Although the details were sketchy, Jonas knew that Jackson had