It started, as most catastrophes do, with cheap tequila and a full moon the color of a fresh bruise.

"Bring me the baby shower registry by Friday," he growled. "And it better not have any of that pastel, woodland-creature nonsense. I want black lace, obsidian rattles, and a onesie that says 'Daddy's Little Apollyon.'"

"You knocked up my daughter," he said. Not a question. A death sentence.