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“So he’s due in August?”

“Yep.”

Adam tried to smile. He really did.

“Are you all right, Adam?” Annie asked.

She didn’t have any magic but didn’t need any to sense that he was off. He picked up the box.

“Yeah. Too many late nights. Thank you for letting me do this.”

“I actually appreciate it. The backyard has always been so bare.”

“Well, if they take off, you and Bobby will have fresh herbs for cooking, and Vic wouldn’t mind any extra you could spare.”

“Of course.”

Adam started taking plants out of the box. He’d prepped the raised bed on his last visit. He’d just had to wait for the garden center to get herbs in stock.

Sage, which did great in Colorado. German chamomile and rosemary, which didn’t. Thyme, he’d have to see about. Bobby had a sprinkler system, which should help with the dryness. He’d even grabbed a tarragon plant, mostly for Vic’s sake, though some sources said it would help with protection and consecration. All of his research, mostly done in the small library of books he’d collected, said that sage was the most important one. It was the main ingredient in a lot of protection spells, so he’d bought a few varieties.

He poured his will into the planting, into the effort, working a binding into the plants to shield them from any late snow or hailstorms, both of which were common in Colorado spring.

One of his legacies as a Binder was a connection to the earth. Some of his ancestors had been natural druids. He didn’t have that power, but he could feel the roots, the web of life in the soil.

The Binder family grimoire said to talk to the plants, but also to listen. If he focused, he thought that maybe there were whispers, little squeaks like baby chicks, but he could admit that it was probably just his imagination.

Annie watched him from inside the house.

She was careful with him. She knew what he’d gone through, had seen it up close and personal. He knew she felt guilty about it, since her father was responsible, but he wished she didn’t. She hadn’t given the order. She hadn’t wielded the scalpel—Adam pushed the trembling aside and stood.

This was good. Planting was good. It calmed him. He should do more of this and maybe try to get a plot at the community garden near their apartment.

“All done,” he said when he’d stepped inside.

“Are you going to refresh the wards?”

“Yeah,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.”

Some of her worry wasn’t for him.

Her parents were still in the wind. They’d fled the country, largely thanks to Annie having given the feds everything she could to take Patrick’s businesses apart.

She had cause to be angry. Her parents had controlled and manipulated her for her entire life. They didn’t see her as a person, but as a vessel, a tool. What Wilcox wanted was an heir, a male heir, because he was the sort of jerk who only saw value in boys.

White had taken Annie too. They’d both been at the hotel, though in her case the point was to heal her so she could have Ian. Adam had been a test. The chance to torture him, a bonus.

Some of her worry was for Bobby, and probably for herself. Once the baby was born, her father might not see the value in keeping her alive.

He knew he had to broach the subject somehow, to explain about the book and what her father wanted, but it wasn’t easy. He’d work up to it, and he’d set the wards first.

Adam had mixed up a blend of herbs and wood. Sage and cedar. He’d used as little salt as possible to avoid poisoning the ground and hoped he knew what he was doing.

He walked the boundary of the property, backyard and front, carefully sprinkling, pouring all of his will into the line, and sealed the spell with a touch of two fingers.

He swayed at the effort but kept pushing. His power remained slight, but he had to use what he had.