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Phury shook his head. “He’s got some serious separation issues, that one.”

“Oh, and you’re much better?”

Phury turned around. Cormia was on the couch, their sleeping son, Ahgony—or Aggie, as he was known—in her arms. The young’s fat fist was holding on to his mother’s thumb, as was his habit even when he was out like a light.

“I resemble that remark.”

“Story, Uncle?” Nalla said. “Please?”

“Of course, which would you like?” Even though he knew.

As he sat down on the couch next to Cormia, Nalla pointed to the book of fables he had made for her. “The one of the warrior.”

“Now, that’s a surprise.” He winked at Cormia. “Do you mean the one with the warrior and the maiden?”

“No, Uncle. T’other one.”

“The warrior and the ship.”

Nalla giggled. “No, Uncle!”

Phury nodded with grand seriousness. “Right. The warrior and the game of pinochle.”

Nalla looked confused. “What knuckle?”

Cormia laughed, her beautiful green stare so lovely Phury couldn’t look away. For a moment, he was struck once again by the fact that their son had his mother’s eyes, that incredible shade of spring leaves.

As Nalla squirmed, Cormia said, “Phury, don’t torture her.”

Phury settled his niece on his lap, kissed his shellan, and brushed the smooth cheek of his son. Then he opened the book and started to read in the Old Language.

“‘There once was a warrior strong of limb and stout of heart, who tarried in the woods upon a windy day. . . .”

Aggie’s eyes opened and he let out the sound that young did when all was well with them, a kind of contented bubbly sigh. Phury recognized it well, because he’d heard it a lot from Nalla and now from Aggie. The sound was something they did when their bellies were full and their parents were right with them and a voice they found pleasing to the ear was embarking on a story.

As Phury lost the rhythm of his words, Cormia reached out and squeezed his hand.

She always knew, he thought. She always knew. . . . She knew he was thinking of his parents and of his brother, of the past and the future, of hopes and dreams and fears.

She knew everything that was in his head and everything that was in his heart, and none of it put her off. She knew he worried about staying sober, even after all these years. And knew he was glad their son looked like her, because he took it as a sign that whatever biological link to addiction he carried might not have been passed on to the young. And she knew that he still struggled with feeling like he wasn’t doing enough for everyone around him.

She knew all of this and she loved him anyway.

He kissed the inside of her wrist and looked at the next generation. He hoped that life had only good things in store for the young, that the moonlit night would always be clear for them, and that the wind would always be gentle, and that their heart’s deepest love would be returned by a worthy mate.

But he knew it wasn’t going to be easy, and they would face challenges he couldn’t even imagine.

Here was the thing, though: He had faith in what he saw in those eyes of theirs. Because they came, on both sides, from survivors. And that, more than any guarantee of an easy life, was going to see them through.

Phury cleared his throat.

And kept on reading to them.

So those are just a few examples of what I’ve taken out. You’ll note there isn’t anything from Dark Lover, because Wrath’s manuscript was tight from the get-go—with only that scene I’ve posted on my Web site (www.jrward.com) being deleted. There isn’t much from Lover Eternal, because again, I used almost all of the Butch and Marissa material in Lover Revealed. Lover Unbound was likewise tight.

There are a couple more scenes in old files. It was so much fun rereading these, maybe someday I’ll go back and see what else I can find!

Kicks and Siggles

One of the greatest things about writing the Brothers is the way they crack me up. On a regular basis, I’ll be at the computer upstairs, laughing my butt off at one thing or another. Butch reliably throws out some good ones,