“I’m maturely choosing not to really think about it,” I finally said, “except when the most annoyingly intrusive thoughts force me to. But I have some questions for Bruce Wilson. Fucker doesn’t get the name Bellerose any longer. It’s mine.” “Ours,” Jace murmured, and I turned fully to face him, keeping just the one hand on the pool wall. “Ours? As in yours and mine?” “You are mine,” he said with a shrug. “So, logically, it stands to reason that what is yours is mine.”
