Miranda looked at her husband, wondering how he had managed to mess things up so thoroughly. "You’re a good man, Walter, but you do try my patience sometimes."

Walter looked pathetic. Truly. If the truth be told, he didn’t really feel very well. Undoubtedly a combination of drinking too many vodka stingers and finding out that Neil was a better dancer. His stomach roiled apprehensively, as if sensing that Miranda’s mild-mannered expression was but a facade.

"You hate me," he whimpered.

Miranda clucked her tongue at him disapprovingly. "Walter, can the weak old guy needs sympathy act. It doesn’t suit you."

Walter sighed. "What can I do to make it up to you, Honey?"

She began undoing the tie to her robe. Within a few moments, she stood revealed in a filmy white nightgown that caressed her thighs and stopped above the knee.

"Um..." Walter was speechless. This was disconcerting, to say the least. Miranda...his Honey...was willing to make love to him, a disreputable old relic at best, in this condition?

"I need a real man, Walter. Can you still be one, my love?"

His cloudy blue eyes traveled over her small frame. She was delicious, his little pocket Venus. But she had high expectations. He approved. Highly. He just didn’t know if he could meet them.

"Cupcake..." Walter began.

"Don’t you cupcake me, you unrepentant reprobate!" With that, Miranda pounced on him, her knee shifting aside the filmy material of her nightgown. Moments later, that same knee was nudging Walter’s groin. She traced a random pattern across the fly of Walter’s jeans, and she felt the first faint stirrings of his arousal.

Her palm kneaded the front of his jeans, provoking a more than satisfactory response, judging from her and Walter’s respective groans. "I’m going to make you pay for every single minute of worry, Walter." Her tone was fierce, but her hazel eyes were soft and loving.

She pushed him onto his back on their bed, stunning Walter with the casual way she flung him backwards. "What have you been doing lately, Honey? Studying kung fu?"

She unzipped his jeans, sliding her hands down the length of the open zipper. He groaned, reaching for her, but she slipped away from him. "Not yet. You’re not ready yet."

"I’m not?" he asked, vaguely startled, thinking that if he were any more ready, he would spontaneously combust.

She worked his jeans down his legs until she came to his booted feet. Prying off his well-worn leather boots, one at a time, she was finally able to remove his jeans. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. Whatever was happening to him, Miranda was clearly in charge, and he didn’t want her to stop.

When he was completely unclothed, she straddled his body and leaned close to his face. With a delicate sniff, she said, "Hmm...whatever you were drinking, you don’t smell...too terrible."

Walter smiled weakly. "Honey, for you, I’d do anything, you know that. Even shower. But if I do, I’m afraid I might lose...my momentum," he finished, almost embarrassed to admit such a thing.

She wrinkled her nose, as if considering just how much she was willing to put up with, for the sake of love and lust. "Well..." she pretended to ponder, knowing Walter was deservedly sweating out the anticipatory moments.

Miranda lowered her mouth to his and licked his lips. "I guess I can live with the way you are...just this once."

His hands slid up her filmy nightgown, then down her naked back to her hips. His arousal knocked at the door to her femininity, and she welcomed him inside with a soft groan. "Ohh, Walter...you’d better be up to the challenge. I’m starting to remember just how worried I was...and you owe me."

He pulled her closer, his mouth seeking the tips of her well-shaped breasts. "Honey, I got what you need...and then some."

She arched her back, beginning a rhythm that would transport both of them into freefall sooner rather than later. As much as she wanted to make it last, she wasn’t about to risk losing the hard, heated length of him. Besides, the natural order of things had been restored. She was in her favorite position. On top.

His large hands caressed her thighs as she moved. He was afraid to close his eyes. She might disappear. This might be nothing more than an alcohol-induced dream. But if it was, they were sharing it. Cause it felt astonishingly real.

Her climax approaching, Miranda grabbed Walter’s hands and placed them over her breasts, the points rigid and sharp beneath his palms. As she began to pant harshly, she looked deeply into her husband’s warm blue eyes, locking her gaze on his. He rocked upwards, trying to penetrate her honeyed depths that much harder and deeper. With a cry, he climaxed, his heat piercing her for a few last moments. He could feel her shudder, and his hand slid between their joined bodies, trying to give her a stronger push over the edge.

She collapsed atop him, his essence spilling out of her and across his groin. "Now you can shower," she murmured sleepily.

He found her mouth and kissed her fervently. "Now I can’t move."

"I’ll wait for you," she invited.

"I’ll only be a few minutes," he agreed. Rolling his wife onto her back, he couldn’t resist kissing her again before leaving her. Padding barefoot into the bathroom, he wondered at his luck. Logically, none of this should have taken place. He should never have gotten drunk in the first place. He should never have mistaken a club for transvestites for the real thing. He should never have been able to perform the way he just did. And Honey, by rights, should never have wanted to get as close to him as she just did.

Wasn’t real life as wonderful as it was illogical?

Derry wanted to show off what she had learned. Never one to flaunt her femininity, she suddenly found herself reveling in it. Davenport lay on his back on their bed, drowsy from too many beers, but the moment his wife-to-be started her impromptu striptease, he came totally awake.

"Darlin’! You trying to give an old man a heart attack?" His voice might have sounded gruff, but he was clearly excited by the prospect.

"Nikita says..." she drawled slowly, trying to sound as carefree as her would-be mentor. She smiled coyly, looking every inch the coquette she was attempting to be.

"What does Nikita say, baby?" Davenport asked breathlessly.

She bit her lip, and suddenly Davenport was seized with such a longing, he could hardly stand to stay where he was. "That a man likes to...look. That foreplay...is more than half the fun." She giggled softly, a bit nervous at portraying a femme fatale for someone she loved to distraction.

"She--" Davenport cleared his throat. His midnight black eyes were locked on hers. "She’s right, darlin’. I sure do like looking at you, I can tell you that."

She leaned forward and took off her bra, her breasts swinging free. "Maybe we need...music."

"Maybe you need to be a whole helluva lot closer...to me." Davenport tried to get up, but she pushed him back down onto the bed with one hand. "You’re teasing me."

She licked her lips seductively, astonished to find that certain things were not only arousing to Davenport, but to her as well. "I’m teasing both of us, Jake."

Slowly turning her back to him, she slid her panties down over her hips, kicking them free when they reached her ankles. Spreading her legs apart, she bent over, exposing an area that Davenport quickly decided needed to be explored. Leaping to his feet, he shrugged out of the rest of his clothing, earning him an ardent glance from his lover.

Usually too shy to take the initiative, Derry was gaining confidence in her ability to tantalize Davenport. Leaning against the wall, she wet her finger, then carefully probed between her legs. Groaning at the response this produced within her already hormonally-overloaded body, she continued to stroke herself while Davenport watched. His eyes devoured her artless touching, but he didn’t know how long he could watch without participating.

"Oh, baby, you are so delicious, I could just eat you up."

Derry gasped at the sensation his words provoked. Arching her head back, she plunged her index finger deep inside her body, only to withdraw it a moment later. Trailing her natural moisture across her softly curved abdomen, then her breasts, she sighed with pleasure.

Davenport knelt between her legs, placing a large palm on each thigh. He spread the silken folds that shielded the heart of her and touched her with his tongue. "Ohhh...Jake."

The sound of his name on her lips aroused him unbearably. He nibbled on her quite delicately, and her movements grew increasingly restless and erratic. Her hands clenched and unclenched on his shoulders. "Unh..."

He could sense the intensity of the climax approaching. There were fine little tremors starting in her legs, already heralding the arrival of something beyond her control. He wanted to feel her when it happened. Abruptly standing up, he hooked one of her legs over his hip and entered her in one swift move. She came almost immediately.

"Jake!" she cried as her release came upon her. Abandoning any hope of finesse, Davenport buried himself deep within her, again and again, catching up with her within breathless moments. His climax echoed hers, his hard, throbbing length erupting, to coat her warm inner depths. Completely lost in the experience of being one with his love, he sank his teeth into her shoulder. A bit too hard.

Her yelp of pain brought him to his senses. He was so contrite, Derry forgave him right away. "I’m so sorry, baby. I swear."

Tears stood in his eyes as he surveyed the already purpling area on her shoulder. "I never meant to hurt you. I’d sooner die than hurt you."

Just when he would have pulled away, leaving her body, she stopped him, holding him deep within herself. She smiled, almost blissfully. "Thank you."

"For what? For almost biting you?" He sounded incredulous.

She cocked her head sideways, surveying his beloved face. "For finally making love to me the way you want to."

"All this time we were together, you didn’t really enjoy it?"

She shook her head, vaguely surprised he could even ask her that. She had always been satisfied with their lovemaking. Jake was so caring, so considerate. But he also worried a bit too much about overpowering her. Which necessarily made their lovemaking more careful, more controlled.

She was positively ecstatic. She had driven him beyond the bounds of his normal control, and he had taken her. Like a real woman. Not someone who needed to be protected from him.

"I love you, Jake." Her love lit her from inside. As if being pregnant made her even more radiant than usual.

"I love you, too, Derry. I swear I love you more each day."

She traced a finger down the side of his face, and he kissed it. "I love what you do to me, Jake. And I want you to do it to me again. Only this time...more slowly..."

His mouth fastened on hers. His most fervent wish was to be hers to command. She granted him that, every time they made love. "Marry me, darlin’."

"I will, love."

"No, no, I mean now. Right now." At her look of utter confusion, he said, "Let’s get dressed and find a justice of the peace. I want to marry you. Right now, Derry. I mean it."

He did. She could see that he did. It took her less than a few seconds to decide. "Right now? In the middle of the night?"

He nodded solemnly without speaking.

"First place we come to, honey," he vowed.

She threw her arms around Jake’s neck and kissed him. But a second later, she thought of Madeline. "But won’t Madeline be upset if we elope?"

Davenport grew hard inside her once more. Her mouth made a tiny "O" of surprise before she groaned her approval. He licked her earlobe before tugging it gently into his mouth. He had learned his lesson well. He wouldn’t hurt her. But he wasn’t going to treat her like she was made of spun glass either.

She thought he had forgotten that she even asked a question when he abruptly replied. "Darlin’...I ain’t...marrying...Madeline." He sheathed himself within her body again and again, driving both of them to even greater heights than the first time.

He buried his face in the space between her neck and her shoulder, his tongue laving her creamy skin. "Oh, Jake," she said with a soft laugh, "do you suppose we could make it to the bed next time?"

"Next time?" Davenport growled into her ear. "The next time I make love to you, darlin’, you’re gonna be my wife, goddammit."

She melted against him, yielding to his fervent stroking once more. "Anything you say, Jake."

He poured himself into her waiting body with a harsh groan. Sliding his mouth along her temple, he whispered, "We’ll have plenty of time to take things slow when we’re married, honey."

She moaned into his mouth a moment later. "Is...that a...promise?"

Michael heard the front door slam. Uncertain if he had dreamed it or not, he came awake slowly. Nikita was asleep in his arms. All was right with his world.

Things were indeed more secure than they had ever been during their lives outside Section. But old habits die hard, and Michael was not about to go back to sleep without determining the source of the noise downstairs.

Dressed only in a worn pair of blue jeans, he soundlessly made his way downstairs. Though he was unarmed, he was hardly defenseless. Still, he picked up his extra gun, from its hiding place, as well as its separately hidden clip. With kids in the house, Michael was careful not to store the two together. When Chris and Faith were old enough, he would teach them about guns and give them a healthy respect for what they could do. But he didn’t want their innocence destroyed a moment sooner than it had to be.

Creeping slowly toward the door, he flung it open with a brisk movement, only to discover that the figure lurking behind it was...Sasha.

Abruptly holstering his gun in the back waistband of his jeans, Michael snapped, "What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

Sasha hesitated. If he told Michael why he wasn’t sleeping, Michael might not understand. Indicating the driveway, he said quickly, "Dav just left with his girlfriend."

"Left? What do you mean ‘left’?"

Sasha pointed down the road, where Michael could see faint taillights in the distance, moving away from the house.

"Did he say where he was going?"

Sasha nodded, an anxious smile on his face. "Dav said he was gonna marry her, but he made me promise not to tell anyone. But you’re not just anyone. Right? Did I do the right thing?"

All at once, Michael relaxed with a loud sigh. Slumping against the front door, he smiled wearily at Sasha. "Yes, Sasha. You did the right thing."

Sasha broke into a wide grin, and he would have run back to his room. Except for one thing. Michael’s hand was on his shoulder. In an impossibly tight grip.

"Ummm...Uncle Michael? I need to go to the bathroom." That ploy almost always worked. Grown-ups were funny that way. They would put up with a lot of stuff, but they really hated it when you peed on their carpets.

"After you tell me what you were doing out of bed." Michael’s tone was adamant. If he wanted to know something, there was little way to avoid telling him. Unless you were Nikita.

"I..." Damn, Sasha couldn’t think of a single reasonable explanation. Or even a plausible lie. If he were still into lying. Which, he had promised Da, he wasn’t.

"You’ll tell me sooner or later. Sooner is better." The implications were obvious, even to a child Sasha’s age.

Sasha suddenly exhaled, all the breath leaving his body in one fell swoop, like a tiny steam engine that ran out of steam. He hung his head, his long dark hair covering what Michael could see of Sasha’s face. He murmured something that Michael couldn’t hear. "Say that again. Louder, please."

Sasha’s head whipped up, his dark brown eyes making tearful contact with his inquisitor. "I-I couldn’t sleep. I ran into Dav in the hall."

"Where?"

"Upstairs." The word sounded like it was torn from him.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. "What were you doing upstairs?"

"I came down here to see which way they were going," Sasha continued, seemingly without hearing Michael.

"Fine. But what were you doing upstairs?"

Huge tears welled up in Sasha’s eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. "I-I went to see..."

Michael’s patience was wearing thin. It was apparent that Sasha had a secret. But it wouldn’t be a secret for very much longer, if Michael had anything to say about it. "See what?"

Not what. Who. Sasha heaved a great sigh as the tears began to roll down his cheeks. "Skye."

"My Skye?" Michael couldn’t keep from asking.

Sasha resisted the urge to say, No, my Skye. My angel girl. But he knew, somehow instinctively, if he said such a thing, he might never be allowed to see Skye again. So he settled for a slow nod of the head.

"You don’t see enough of each other during the day?" Michael said incredulously. If he’d thought about it, though, he might have seen the parallels between Sasha’s feelings about Skye and his own about Nikita.

Sasha shook his head. "It’s just that--I couldn’t sleep, Uncle Michael. And Skye..."

What does she do for you? Michael wanted to scream, but it just wasn’t his style. Tell me what my daughter does for you. But he was almost afraid to hear the answer. If Sasha admitted to molesting his daughter, he would be forced to do something drastic. Not to mention unpopular.

"What did you do to Skye, Sasha?" Michael’s voice might have sounded calm, but he was anything but.

Sasha looked puzzled. "I didn’t do nothin’ to her. I just needed to see her. That’s all. Sometimes...I just watch her..."

Watch her what? Michael held his breath.

"...sleep," Sasha finished.

"She’s so pretty...and I dunno why she likes me...but I know why I like her...and it’s not just cause she’s pretty..." Now that Sasha had started talking about this, he didn’t know how he could ever stop. How could he possibly convey the depth of his young feelings for Michael’s daughter? There was nothing improper brewing between them. He wouldn’t do that. Not to her. She was the most wonderful, unspoiled thing in his almost-six-year old life.

Suddenly Sasha threw his arms around Michael’s legs, effectively trapping him where he stood. "Please don’t say I can’t see her, Uncle Michael. Please. She thinks I’m a good boy, and I’m trying real hard to be one. I swear. I promised Da I would be, and he trusts me. Can you? Trust me, I mean?"

Coming hard on the tail end of that breathless speech was the implication that Michael’s daughter had inspired some very strong feelings in Sasha. He might even call what Sasha was describing...love.

Starting with that assumption, Michael said, "If you love Skye, then you must understand how important it is to protect her."

Sasha nodded frantically. He was in total agreement with Michael. "I would guard her with my life," the young boy pledged.

How could Michael argue with that? It was how he felt about Nikita. "Sometimes a reputation...is just as important as someone’s...physical body... Do you understand what I mean, Sasha?"

He could see that the boy was not following what he said. He tried again. "In other words, you can’t visit Skye at night, alone, in her bedroom. A good boy wouldn’t do that. People might think that you were doing something bad to her."

Sasha’s mind clicked into place instantly. "I wouldn’t!" he cried hoarsely, fresh tears running down his face. "I swear I wouldn’t!"

After a moment, Sasha became a bit calmer. He sniffled and wiped his nose with the end of his pajama sleeve. He closed his eyes and buried his face against Michael’s thigh. "I love her. And I think...she loves me."

Michael ran his hand over Sasha’s head, ruffling his long dark hair. "I know."

And suddenly he did know. He certainly understood.

"Let me walk you back to your room."

Sasha’s eyes grew wide. "You won’t tell Da, will you?"

Michael shook his head. He was sure that Declan already knew. He was extremely attuned to Sasha.

"I think Daddy knows. But he doesn’t hate me for it."

No, Birkoff wouldn’t. Birkoff was a hopeless romantic. Besides, how could you hate someone for loving someone? His mind clouded with memories of how Operations repeatedly thwarted his relationship with Nikita. Well, he was nothing like Operations.

"Sasha? I don’t hate you."

"Then it’s okay? How I feel, I mean?"

"Feelings are always okay. They’re yours and no one else’s. But no, I don’t hate you for having them about Skye."

"You don’t?"

Michael shook his head yet again. "We should always cherish the ones we love."

"I do."

Michael smiled. Right about now, someone else was saying those very words, unless he was much mistaken.

The naming ceremony came as a complete surprise to Sasha. One minute, he was plain old Sasha Birkoff, late of Section One. The next, he was Sasha Kane Birkoff-McLaren, the middle name lovingly bestowed upon him by Birkoff.

He and Sasha had discussed the issue at great length once. Birkoff suggested that perhaps one day, when he was older, Sasha might want to be called Alexander. Sasha snorted at his father and dismissed the likelihood of that ever happening. So Sasha it remained. As for Kane, it was a strong, monosyllabic name that Birkoff liked for just that reason.

"Jeez, Dad, some kids get a bike for their birthday, I got a new name!"

Birkoff smiled at his son. "You can have a bike if you want one, Sasha."

"Hell--um, I mean, Heck, no! Anybody could get a bike, for cripes’ sake!" Sasha sidled up to Birkoff, more or less leaning on his father. It was one of his ways of surreptitiously touching his father without outwardly conveying too much emotion. He didn’t want anyone thinking he was a baby or something. He was six years old today.

A carefree grin quirked the corners of his mouth. "Hey, I’m older than the twins! I never knew that!"

It was true. Born in November, Sasha’s birthday fell a couple of months before the twins’ birthday, which was at the end of January. As if in answer to that, Chris folded his arms in front of his chest, looking for all the world like a blond version of his father. "I’ll catch up soon, Sasha," he reminded the older boy.

Sasha nodded cheerfully. He and Chris were fast friends now. Especially since Sasha had confessed his undying devotion to Chris’ younger sister, Skye. Chris logically extended his protection of the innocent to Skye. As a would-be knight, he had a duty to uphold. He took it very seriously.

Sasha and Skye spent countless hours, away from school, together. Afternoons after school would often find them, side by side, watching one of Skye’s favorite videos on the television in Michael and Nikita’s sitting room downstairs. It was a bit dated, a Disney classic from a few years back, but Skye adored it, and frankly, Sasha adored Skye. Hence, her wish was his command.

Besides, Skye had convinced him that the hero reminded her of Sasha. Mostly because he longed to have the beautiful heroine return his love. Following endless airings of the video, Skye came up with her own version of a pet name for Sasha. Beast. As in Beauty and the... If anyone else had dared to call him that, he might have objected strenuously. But Skye could call him anything at all. In like fashion, Sasha would have called Skye Beauty. Except for one important thing. To Sasha, she would always and forever be his angel girl. So Skye, despite her inspired thought to teach Sasha a few words of French, in order to keep up with the Samuelle kids, became not Belle, but Ange.

As for the others, Chris continued to call Emmy Soleil. French for Sunshine. But he loved the way Declan called her Princess Em, like she was royalty. To him, she was. His very own princess. As for the erstwhile Irish princess, she frequently called Chris Tosh, which he soon learned was Gaelic for chieftain. Occasionally, she called him Fendeilagh, which roughly translated as protector. But more often than not, it was Tosh. Which was shorter and easier on Chris’ untrained ear for Gaelic.

Faith and Connor shared a less esoteric vocabulary. When Connor called Faith Fee, it wasn’t always an abbreviation of her name, as in Fay, but sometimes the French for fairy. Still, not to be left behind by the others, Connor discovered they shared a love for Winnie the Pooh. And soon, Faith was Tigger, well-known for bouncing in restless motion, while Connor, her constant companion, was Pooh.

Sasha pulled on Birkoff’s jeans-clad leg. "Dad! Mr. Elliott said that when I go to school, I won’t have to be in kindergarten with the little kids. He said I could go right into first or second grade." Sasha’s chocolate brown eyes glowed with enthusiasm. He was coming along nicely, with healthy doses of TLC at regular intervals from all the people who mattered.

Birkoff seemed perturbed by the news. He called James over with a wave of his hand. "James, what’s this I hear about Sasha getting bumped a couple of grades?"

James beamed at Birkoff. "I’ve never seen a kid turn around like this. Now that he’s actually focused on something constructive, he’s like a learning machine. He just can’t get enough. He’s way ahead of Chris and Faith, and they’re both above-average students themselves."

Birkoff raised startled eyes to James’ calm gaze. "He reads? At his age?" Wait, Birkoff didn’t know why he was so surprised. When they were back in Section, Sasha claimed and proved that he could read, well enough to decipher computer programs and vanquish firewalls he himself had built. He not only could read English. He could read scientific language. He not only could read code. He could write it as well.

James shook his head, wondering at Birkoff’s reaction. "He’s a gifted child, Sey. But you must know that."

This raised all kinds of flags in his head. He knew what it felt like to be different. To be exceptional. Even brilliant. He wasn’t sure he wanted that for his son. He wanted Sasha to live a normal life, have a normal childhood. The kind Birkoff never had.

"I know," Birkoff agreed, letting his troubled gaze settle on James’ face. "But skipping grades?"

"You don’t want to hold him back, do you, Sey? His mind needs to be fed, or he’ll get bored. You must know how destructive that can be to a young mind."

Of course he knew. He lived through a scenario similar enough to be frightening to him. "It’s just that I don’t want you to push him, James. Let him progress at his own pace."

"Sure." James wasn’t sure at all. Why would Birkoff, of all people, want his son to be treated like an average kid? He wasn’t an average kid.

"I’m thinking of getting some of the younger kids into a class. I’d love a chance to evaluate them, too. What do you think?"

Birkoff looked almost pained. "I think they’re all kids. And they need to play and have fun and enjoy being kids."

Declan heard the tail end of the conversation and slung an arm around his lover’s waist. "What are you two going at, so hot and heavy, back here?" he said in a bemused tone.

To his amazement, Birkoff faced him with anxious eyes. "James thinks Sasha is gifted."

"So do I." Declan popped a morsel of birthday cake into his mouth.

"You do?"

"Aye. That kid’s as smart as a whip. Never mind the fact that he’s six going on sixteen." Declan smiled fondly at James, who silently agreed with Declan about Sasha’s apparent maturity.

"But Declan...James thinks he should go straight into first or second grade when he starts school."

"Why does that bother you, Sey?" Declan’s cool grey eyes flickered appraisingly over his lover’s face.

"It doesn’t. Not really." He was lying. And Declan knew it. "It’s just that he needs a chance to play...and...and, I don’t know, grow up emotionally. It’s one thing to be smart, but Sasha only thinks he’s an adult. He’s still a kid."

"Sounds like you still have issues with the way you were treated as a child, Sey," Declan said, sympathizing with Sey’s dilemma. He was clearly proud of his son, and he obviously wanted him to succeed. But he was afraid that his son would suffer the same emotional fate that he did.

Sasha tapped his father’s leg, drawing his attention to the fact that he had overheard everything they were discussing. "Sasha, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to act like you weren’t here."

"Can I say something, too, Dad?"

Birkoff nodded.

"Mr. Elliott, when you test the other kids, can you test Skye first? She must be just as smart as me, I swear, cause she understands most of the stuff I tell her. And she won’t be four until May."

Sasha’s enamored outlook might be prejudicial, but he was right. Skye was indeed gifted. James didn’t get much opportunity to mingle with the younger children, but from what he’d seen, he was certain that Sasha was right. The little girl was a precocious three-year old, with an amazing vocabulary, both in English as well as French.

Sasha’s agile mind was already plotting ways for Skye to go to school with him. He didn’t want to leave her behind. Life just wouldn’t be the same. "She can read!" Sasha proclaimed proudly, beaming across the room at his beloved Ange.

Sasha smiled at Declan. "Da, if I only skip one grade, and Skye skips a couple of grades, we could be in the same class at school."

James nodded. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sasha?"

"You bet!" Birkoff sighed at the sound of his son’s unbridled enthusiasm. How could he hold back a child that eager to go to school?

Declan tightened his grip around Sey’s waist, non-verbally conveying his love and support. "Sey..." Declan whispered, "he’s not you."

"I know," Birkoff replied, still feeling strangely conflicted about the whole thing.

"He’s got us, Sey. He’s got people who love him and want the best for him. That’s a helluva long way from what happened to you," Declan said firmly. "Besides...you never had a choice. He does."

Sasha looked hopefully from parent to parent. James joined him a moment later, a wistful smile on his handsome face. "Say yes, Sey," James encouraged.

"Say yes, Dad."

"Say yes, acushla."

Birkoff looked at each one of them in turn. Suddenly his heart lightened. Breaking into a genuine smile, he glanced lovingly at his son. "Happy Birthday, Sasha Kane Birkoff-McLaren."

Emmy sat in the corner, nibbling delicately on a slice of Sasha’s birthday cake. Chris was mesmerized by the way she ate. "You want some more?"

She smiled and shook her head, causing a smidgen of whipped cream on her top lip to quiver. "No, Tosh," she said softly.

Chris looked surreptitiously around the room for the location of their parents. His father was talking to James, while Nikita looked ready to fall asleep on her feet. Declan was leaning against the wall, idly conversing with Walter, while Birkoff played a computer game with Sasha. When he was certain that no one was looking their way, he leaned forward and wiped off the whipped cream with his fingertip. A moment later, he kissed Emmy. She giggled nervously.

"It’ll be time for your birthday soon, Soleil," Chris whispered. "What do you wish for?"

Without hesitating, Emmy replied, "To be with you." Her beautiful face crumpled as it always did when they talked about Chris going to school. Without her.

She rubbed at her eyes with a tiny hand, and Chris felt his heart squeeze. "Aw, don’t cry, Soleil. I don’t go to the real school till next fall."

"You’ll make new friends...and...and...forget all about me, Tosh."

"Never," Chris vowed. "I won’t ever forget you, Soleil. You’re my princess."

"For now," she declared with the fatalism of the very young.

"Besides, we’ll see each other after school. Every day. We live in the same house, ‘member?"

She nodded tearfully, but they were both pretending that Chris’ entry into private school wouldn’t make a major difference in their lives.

***

Meanwhile, Faith was having a similar conversation with Connor. Although Connor was only her junior by a year or so, the gap was wide enough that it would cause them to be separated when Faith started private school. She poked Connor in the tummy with her finger. "No, Pooh. You can’t come with me when I go to school. Mom said."

"My mom can do ‘most anything. Maybe she could--"

"No, Pooh," Faith snapped at Connor, her own pain making her strike out at the young boy. "Your mom can’t do anything ‘bout this. Not even my mom can."

Connor blinked, tears welling up in his blue eyes. He had been through a great deal in recent months. Being ignored, then smothered by his mother. Being kidnapped. Now his whole reason for being was smiting him with her acid tongue. Connor dropped his head, in an effort to hide his reaction, and a tear fell onto the back of his hands, which were clasped together too tightly in his lap.

For a long moment, there was no sound at all but Connor’s ill-disguised harsh breathing. He wasn’t very good at concealing his emotions yet, and he felt like crying. But since Faith was his confidante, he was temporarily at a loss.

But Faith was strangely intuitive. Her twin might be far more perceptive than she was, but she wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing. "Pooh? Are you crying?" she whispered.

Connor refused to look at her. He closed his eyes and wished she would go away. Right now. If she didn’t want to be with him, that was fine. But she should go. Before he made a complete fool of himself, blubbering like a baby. Faith watched Connor’s chest rise and fall too quickly for normal breathing and sighed.

Ignoring the fact that her father was currently glancing in her direction, she grabbed Connor and hugged him. He might not be openly sobbing, but his face was so wet, it saturated her T-shirt. Her hands patted his hair awkwardly, and he rubbed his hot cheeks against her shoulder. He wanted to apologize. He was a big boy now. He could cope with rejection. They had to split up someday. He knew that.

"I’m sorry, Pooh." I didn’t know you were going to get so upset. I don’t feel very good about leaving you behind either. But it’s not like I have a choice. I have to go to school. So will you. Someday.

He wiped his nose on his arm. His eyes were reddened, and his nose was running. But he was still the most special friend she had. "Sorry, Tigger, I just--" He would have said he loved her, if he could have gotten the words out. But everyone’s attention was suddenly drawn to the doorway. There was a stranger in their midst.

An apoplectic man in badly matching plaid pants and sports jacket stood in the doorway, holding the leash of a beautiful, purebred golden retriever in one hand, the scruff of the Samuelles’ mutt, Zero, in the other. "Is this your dog?"

Nikita woke up instantly. She knew this man. He lived way down the block. He was retired, but he raised purebred dogs as a hobby. He was constantly complaining about Zero getting into his yard. She disliked him intensely. "You know it is," she said brusquely, belatedly realizing that she wasn’t setting a terrific example for the kids. Manners, Nikita, manners.

"We’d invite you in, but as you can see, we’re in the middle of a birthday party. Sasha’s six today. I’m sure you’d like to wish him a happy birthday," Nikita sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

"What I’d like is for your freaking dog to stay out of my yard! But it doesn’t matter now! Now he’s really done it!"

"Done what?" Michael moved to stand beside Nikita, presenting a united front. Gradually, the others moved as well, almost in unison. Their movement must have threatened the man’s peace of mind, at least a little, because he backed up a step at a time.

"Your stupid mutt knocked up my bitch!" the man screamed, apparently uncaring that this was a birthday party for children under ten.

Birkoff glared at the man. "In the first place, he’s not a stupid mutt. He’s my dog."

Finishing his lover’s thought, Declan said coolly, "And all I see is a female dog."

"You stay out of this, you frigging fruit! You think I don’t know what kind of people you are?"

Michael held up a hand, and everyone grew hushed. "I think...you must have had a point when you came in here. I suggest you find it. Fast." The threat was not even implied. Michael would stand for no one coming onto his property and endangering the well-being of his family. Any of his family.

The man glowered at Michael, but he said, in a voice that was slightly shaky now, "My purebred golden retriever was worth a small fortune. But now that your...dog...", he inserted neatly, "has been...with her...I have no recourse but to put her down."

"Put her down?" Birkoff asked, horrorstricken.

"As in put to sleep?" Nikita exclaimed.

Faith uttered the words no one wanted to hear spoken aloud. "What does put down mean?"

The irate neighbor leaned into Faith’s face, his sour breath making her cough. "It means my dog ain’t worth keeping alive! I might as well drown the freaking dog and save myself the trouble of getting rid of six or seven puppies!"

Faith shrieked in her mother’s ear. "Mommy! He wants to kill the doggy?"

Chris joined his twin in anxious protest. "Mom, Dad, don’t let him kill the puppies!" Before long, no one could hear a thing but the wailing of the children. Emmy promptly burst into tears, and Chris hugged her, his little face working at the thought of any animal being treated so unkindly.

Sasha watched his little sister cry and felt impotent. A bad kid would feel no compunction in taking down such a man. But he wasn’t a bad kid anymore. His inner struggle must have made itself evident, at some point, however, for Declan put him out of his misery a second later. "Sasha, there are some times when good people have to take action against bad people. That doesn’t make the good people bad. Do you understand what I mean?"

Sasha grinned at his father. "Yeah, Da, you hold him while I kick him!"

Birkoff glanced skeptically at his lover, as if to say, what the hell have you been teaching him? "No one’s going to kick anyone," he began. But he was cut off by the neighbor’s continued epithets against his sexual orientation. Blood in his eye, Birkoff stepped back, releasing his son. "Sasha, he’s all yours, kiddo."

Michael intervened, apparently just in time, as Sasha’s feet came dangerously close to kicking the wrong man. "That’s enough. You can’t drown the dog or the puppies."

Echoes filtered through his mind. Echoes of long ago. His own voice telling Nikita that her cat was a distraction. Get rid of the cat. She set it free rather than have him deal with it. What would he have done? Would he have...killed...her cat? He liked to think he wouldn’t have gone that far, but...he had to wonder.

"Wait here," he commanded, striding purposefully out of the room.

When he returned a moment later, he was holding a pen and his checkbook. The man laughed bitterly. "You think you can buy me off? To forget what happened?"

"I know I can. Your type can always be bought. The only question left is, how much?" Michael opened the checkbook and waited.

"I won’t forget this," the man reiterated.

"I don’t care if you forget it or not. This was a very happy family party until you got here. I want to know how much it’s going to cost me to get you to leave."

Declan’s silver-grey eyes glittered fiercely. "Let me convince him, Michael."

Michael glanced significantly at the neighbor. He was backing down. Michael could feel it. He waited.

"It’ll cost about $300 to put the dog down."

Michael shook his head. "We’ll take the dog off your hands. What’s she worth?"

The man sputtered as if he couldn’t believe this was happening. Nevertheless, a moment later, he accepted a check for an even more unbelievable sum. To go away.

When the man left, he turned over the dogs to Birkoff and Declan. Birkoff knelt down and buried his face in Zero’s warm, furry coat. "Hey, boy, you really know how to get into trouble," he whispered.

Sasha crept closer to the dog and glanced at his father. "Think Zero knows we saved his girlfriend?"

As if in answer, Zero wagged his tail vigorously.

"Maybe." Sasha threw his arms around his father’s neck and hugged him. "I love you, Daddy," he whispered. "This was the best birthday I ever had!"

"Sasha," he said, a trifle overcome, "this is the only birthday you’ve ever had."

"That’s okay, Daddy. You would’ve been there if you could. I know you," he whispered against Birkoff’s neck.

"I know you, too, kiddo," he whispered back to his son. "And I love you."