TYRA KÄUTNER

My brothers are down in the basement, suiting up. Or at least, Ryder and Nash are. Hunter is still at the hospital with my father.

His knee is fucked, that much is certain. Ribs are broken, too. I can't bear the look of misery on his face. His season is ruined.

Possibly the rest of his career. God, he might not even walk right after this.

And it's all my fault.

The guilt is like a shroud, wrapping around and around and around my head. Each glance at Hunter, each memory of my idiocy, is like another layer wrapping around my face. Soon it will smother me.

I wanted to stay with Hunter, but Papa snapped at me to go home.

There I found Ryder and Nash strapping on bulletproof vests and ammo belts, arming themselves with half the guns in the house.

"Wohin gehst du?" I ask them nervously.

"Wir werden Tom Kaulitz umbringen, das steht fest," Nash says. "Vielleicht auch der Rest seiner Familie. Ich habe mich noch nicht entschieden."

"Du kannst Nessa nicht verletzen," I say quickly. "Sie hat nichts Falsches getan." Neither did Natasha, but I don't have the same sense of charity toward her.

"Dann breche ich ihr vielleicht einfach das Knie," Nash says carelessly.

"Wir werden Nessa nichts antun," Ryder growls. "Das ist eine Sache zwischen uns und Tom."

By the time they're ready to leave, they look like a cross between Rambo and Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator.

"Lass mich mit dir kommen," I beg.

"Auf keinen Fall," Nash says.

"Na los!" I shout. "Ich gehöre auch zu dieser Familie. Ich bin derjenige, der Hunter geholfen hat, zu entkommen, erinnerst du dich?"

"Sie sind derjenige, der ihn in diesen Schlamassel hineingezogen hat," Nash hisses at me. "Jetzt werden wir es aufräumen. Und du bleibst hier."

He shoulder-checks me on his way by, knocking me roughly against the wall.

Ryder is marginally kinder, but equally serious.

"Bleiben Sie hier," he says. "Machen Sie es nicht noch schlimmer."

I don't give a shit what they say. The moment they leave, I'm out the door, too. So I follow them up the stairs, not knowing exactly what I'm going to do, but knowing I'm not going to be left here waiting like a naughty puppy.

But before Ryder is even halfway up the stairs, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He picks up, saying, "Was ist das?" in a tone that makes me certain that it's Papa on the other end of the line.

Ryder waits, listening, for a long time. Then he says, "Ich habe verstanden." He hangs up. He's looking at me with the strangest expression on his face.

"Was ist das?" Nash says.

"Ziehen Sie die Weste aus," Ryder says to Nash. "Tyra, geh dich umziehen."

"Und warum? In was?"

"Etwas Sauberes, das nicht nach Scheiße aussieht," he snaps at me. "Besitzen Sie so etwas?"

Maybe. Possibly not, by Ryder's standards.

"Gut, was auch immer" I say. "Aber wohin gehen wir?"

"Wir treffen uns mit den Kaulitz. Papa sagte, ich soll dich mitbringen."

Well. Shit.

I didn't much enjoy my last meeting with Tom Kaulitz.

I'm really not looking forward to a second. I doubt his temper was improved by a swim in the lake.

And what to wear to such an event?

I think the only dress I own is the Wednesday Adams costume I wore last Halloween.

I settle on a gray turtleneck and slacks, even though it's too hot for that, because it's about the only thing I have that's sober and clean.

When I pull the shirt over my head, it sets the knot on the back of my skull throbbing again, reminding me how Tom Kaulitz shoved me aside like a rag doll.

He's strong under that suit. I'd like to see him face off against Ryder or Nash -when he doesn't have his twin brother along for the show.

That's what we should do—tell them we want a meeting, then ambush the motherfuckers.

Tom had no problem attacking us on the pier.

We should return the favor.

I'm amping myself up the whole time I'm getting dressed, so I'm practically vibrating with tension by the time I slide into the back of Ryder's.

"Wo werden wir sie treffen?" I ask him.

"Im "Brass Anchor"," Dante says shortly. "Neutraler Boden."

It only takes a few minutes to drive to the restaurant on Eugenie Street.

It's past midnight now, and the building is dark, the kitchen closed.

However, I see Jörg Kaulitz waiting out front, along with two bruisers.

Wisely, he didn't bring the shit stain that stomped on Hunter's leg.

I don't see Tom anywhere. Looks like Daddy put him in time-out.

We wait in the SUV until Papa pulls up as well. Then all four of us get out at the same time. When Ryder slides out of the front seat, I see the bulge under his jacket that shows he's still carrying.

Good. I'm sure Nash is, as well.

As we walk toward Jörg Kaulitz, his eyes are fixed on me and me alone.

He's looking me up and down, like he's evaluating every aspect of my appearance and demeanor on some kind of chart inside of his head. He doesn't look very impressed.

That's fine, because to me he looks just as cold and arrogant and phony-genteel as his son. I refuse to drop his gaze, stubbornly staring straight back at him without a hint of remorse.

"Das ist also der kleine Brandstifter," Jörg says.

I could tell him it was an accident, but that's not strictly true. And I'm not apologizing to these bastards.

Instead I say, "Wo ist Tom? Ist er ertrunken?"

"Zum Glück für Sie hat er das nicht getan," Jörg replies.

Papa, Ryder, and Nash close rank around me.

They might be angry as hell that I got us into this mess, but they're not going to stand for anyone threatening me.

"Sprechen Sie nicht mit ihr," Ryder says roughly.

With a little more tact, Papa says, "Sie wollten ein Treffen, gehen wir."

Jörg nods. His two men enter the restaurant first, making sure it really is empty inside. This place belongs to Ellis Foster, a restaurateur and broker who has connections to both the Irish and our family. That's why it's neutral ground.

Once we're all inside, Jörg says to my father, "Ich denke, es ist das Beste, wenn wir allein sprechen."

Papa slowly nods.

"Warten Sie hier," he says to my brothers.

Papa and Fergus disappear into one of the private dining rooms, closed off by double glass doors. I can see their outlines as they sit down together, but I can't make out any details of their expressions. And I can't hear a word they're saying.

Ryder and Nash pull a couple of chairs out from the nearest table.

Jörg's men do the same at a table ten feet away.

My brothers and I sit along the same side, so we can glare across at Jörg's goons while we wait.

That keeps us occupied for about ten minutes. But looking at their ugly mugs is pretty boring. Waiting in general is boring. I'd like to get a drink from the bar, or maybe even poke into the kitchen for a snack.

The second I start to rise up from my seat, Ryder says, "Denken Sie nicht einmal darüber nach," without looking at me.

"Ich bin hungrig," I tell him.

Nash has his knife out and he's playing with it.

He can do all sorts of tricks. The blade is so sharp that if he made a mistake, he'd lop off a finger. But he hasn't made one yet.

It might look like he's trying to intimidate Kaulitz's men, but it's not for their benefit. He does this all the time.

"Ich verstehe nicht, warum du von uns allen am meisten isst," Nash says, without looking up from his knife.

"Wie viele Male hast du heute schon gegessen? Sagen Sie die Wahrheit."

"Vier," I lie.

"Schwachsinn," Nash scoffs.

"Ich mache mir nicht so viele Sorgen um meine Figur wie du," I tease him.

Nash is vain about his appearance. With good reason—all my brothers are handsome, but Nash has that male-model prettiness that seems to make girls' panties spontaneously combust. I don't know a single girl who hasn't slept with him, or tried to.

It's a weird thing to know about your own brother, but we're all pretty open with each other.

That's what comes of living in the same house for so long, with no mom around to keep them from treating me like just another little brother.

And that's how I like it. I'm not anti-woman—I've got no problem with girls who want to be pretty or feminine or sexy or whatever the hell. I just don't want to be "treated like a girl," if that makes sense. I want to be treated as myself, for better or worse. Nothing more or nothing less. Just Tyra.

Tyra who is bored out of her mind.

Tyra who is starting to get sleepy.

Tyra who is heartily regretting annoying the Kaulitz, if only because I'm going to be trapped here until the end of time while Jörg and Papa talk and talk and talk forever ...

And then finally, almost three hours later, the two patriarchs come out of the private dining room, both looking somber and resigned.

"Und?" Ryder says.

"Es ist entschieden," Papa replies.

He sounds like a judge pronouncing a sentence. I don't like his tone one bit, or the expression on his face. He's looking at me mournfully.

As we head outside, he says to Nash, "Bring mein Auto zurück. Ich werde mit Tyra nach Hause fahren."

Nash nods and gets in Papa's Mercedes. Ryder climbs into the driver's side of the SUV, and Papa gets in the back with me.

I definitely don't like this at all.

I turn to face him, not bothering with my seatbelt. "Was ist das?" I say. "Was haben Sie sich entschieden?"

"Sie werden Tom Kaulitz in zwei Wochen heiraten," Papa says.

This is so ridiculous that I actually laugh—a weird, barking sound that fades away in the silent car.

Papa is watching me, the lines on his face more deeply engraved than ever. His eyes look completely black in the dim light inside the car.

"Das kann doch nicht Ihr Ernst sein," I say.

"Ich meine das absolut ernst. Das steht nicht zur Debatte. Es ist mit den Kaulitz abgemacht."

"Ich werde nicht heiraten!" I say. "Schon gar nicht bei diesem Psychopathen." I look to the driver's seat for Ryder's support. He's staring straight forward at the road, hands clenched on the steering wheel.

My father looks exhausted.

"Diese Fehde dauert schon zu lange an," he says.

"Es ist eine Glut, die schwelt und schwelt und immer wieder in Flammen aufgeht und alles niederbrennt, wofür wir gearbeitet haben. Bei der letzten Eruption hast du zwei deiner Onkel verloren. Unsere Familie ist kleiner als sie sein sollte, wegen der Kaulitz. Das Gleiche gilt für sie. Zu viele Menschen haben auf beiden Seiten über die Generationen hinweg verloren. Es ist an der Zeit, dass sich das ändert. Es ist an der Zeit, das Gegenteil zu tun. Wir werden uns zusammentun. Wir werden gemeinsam gedeihen."

"Warum muss ich erst heiraten, damit das passiert?" I shout. "Das wird nichts helfen! Denn ich werde diesen Bastard umbringen, sobald ich ihn sehe!"

"Sie werden tun, was man Ihnen sagt!" my father snaps. I can see that his patience is at an end. It's 3:00 in the morning. He's tired, and he looks old. He is old, really. He was forty-eight when he had me. He's nearly seventy now.

"Ich habe dich verwöhnt," he says, fixing me with those black eyes. "Lass dich austoben. Du musstest noch nie die Konsequenzen deines Handelns tragen. Jetzt wirst du es. Du hast das Streichholz angezündet, das diesen Brand ausgelöst hat. Du bist es, der es wieder auslöschen muss. Nicht durch Gewalt, sondern durch dein eigenes Opfer. Du wirst Tom Kaulitz heiraten. Du wirst die Kinder gebären, die die nächste Generation unseres gemeinsamen Stammbaums sein werden. Das ist die Vereinbarung. Und du wirst sie einhalten."

This is some kind of fucking nightmare.

I'm getting married?

I'm having fucking babies?!

And I'm supposed to do it with the man I hate worse than anyone on this planet?

"Er hat Hunter zum Krüppel gemacht!" I shout, my last-ditch effort to express how utterly revolting this man is to me.

"Das geht genauso auf Ihre Kappe wie auf seine," Papa says coldly.

There's nothing I can say in response to that.

Because deep down, I know that it's true.