by Donya Lynne
“You’re such a romantic.”
“Not even close.”
He rolled her to her back, needing to feel her come again. Every time she came, her body shuddered like she was having an internal earthquake, and something about knowing he did that to her made his chest swell with pride. He gave her pleasure, and, in return, that pleasured him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Despite her contrary words, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him place.
“Claiming my female.”
“You enjoy claiming her, don’t you?”
He eased inside her, and nearly came at the way her fingernails bit into his back as she closed her eyes and moaned.
“I can’t resist.” He thrust his pubic bone against her mound, making her gasp and shiver. “She’s just so”—he pumped into her again, and her entire body fell into an orgasmic spasm—“fucking responsive.”
“You b-bastard.” Her thighs shuddered against his hips as she whimpered through an aftershock. “You shouldn’t be taking advantage of my centuries-old sensory deprivation like that.” It was obvious she loved that he took advantage of it as much as he did.
“Not so big and tough now, are you, sweetheart.” He pumped into her and moaned at the way her inner muscles contracted and quivered around his cock.
Her eyes flared as they met his. “You talk too much.” She linked her hands at the back of his neck and pulled him down so her lips pressed against his. “Now, shut up and fuck me.”
He grinned. “You tryin’ to boss my dick, baby?”
She smiled and nipped his bottom lip. “Every day.”
That was exactly what he wanted to hear.
He began pumping in earnest. “Don’t you ever stop, either.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
“Never.”
* * *
Late in the afternoon, Cordray trailed behind Trace as he led her into the living room of Micah’s home. He still had a slight limp but no longer needed the crutches, thanks to feeding from her several times in the last couple of days.
Toys, crayons, and coloring books were strewn everywhere, and it looked like Micah and Sam had purchased a gaming unit and every video game known to man to play on it, which Gavin and Faith were taking full advantage of while Null colored.
Panya was in the kitchen with Sam, baking what smelled like chocolate chip cookies.
Micah had grown particularly fond of Aiden, who was now, this very moment, perched beside him on the couch, braiding his shoulder-length hair in dozens of skinny braids.
“Look at you,” Cordray said to Micah, taking a seat across from him. “If you were in a beige bathing suit running along the beach in slow motion to Ravel’s ‘Boléro,’ I’d think you were Bo Derek from the movie, Ten.”
“Yeah,” Trace added, “looks good, Mike.”
Micah surreptitiously flipped them both off.
She smiled and said to Aiden, “You’re doing such a good job, honey. I can’t wait to see his hair when you’re all finished.” To Micah, she asked, “Where are Mya and Brenna?”
“Shopping for more clothes.”
They were still replacing everything they’d lost in the fire.
“You have soft hair,” Aiden said, twisting and tying off another braid before starting another, her fingers working with the confident sureness of someone ten times her age.
“Well, I condition every day,” Micah said, lightly tapping her nose.
“Don’t let him fool you, Aiden,” Sam called from the kitchen. “His hair is naturally soft like that.”
“Hey now,” Micah said over his shoulder, “I condition . . . occasionally.”
Aiden giggled.
Cordray glanced at Null. “Hey, little man, are you about ready to leave so you can show Trace whatever it is you want to show him?”
“Where are you guys going?” Micah said.
“Null said he wanted to take Trace somewhere.”
Null hopped up and thrust a picture toward Trace.
Trace took it and held it out where Cordray could see it.
The picture showed a burning building in the background and a dark-skinned male in the foreground. He was wearing a blue and red cape and held hands with two little kids with blond hair and blue eyes.
Cordray smiled and nudged Trace’s arm. “I think he’s trying to tell you you’re his hero.”
Humility crossed Trace’s face as his eyes softened. He nodded. "I get that.” He smiled proudly at her.
Null grabbed Trace’s hand. “Come on, Twace. I wanna show you something.” He tugged Trace off the couch and started for the front door.
Cordray stood at the same time Micah did, hoisting Aiden up with him and resting her on his hip.
“Looks like Null is eager to get going,” she said.
“Yeah, me, too,” Micah said. “I’ve got to work tonight.” He looked at Aiden. “So you’ll have to finish my hair later, okay?”
She giggled and swiped her fingers left to right over the ends of his braids, making them sway side to side like strands of beads. “Okay.”
“Are you paying our friend a visit tonight?” Cordray knew Micah had been watching Ronan for the last forty-eight hours, making sure he fell back into his complacent routine before striking.
Micah’s eyes narrowed mischievously as one corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. It was all the confirmation she needed.
“Thought so.” She ruffled Aiden’s hair then said to Micah, “Good luck. Not that you’ll need it.”
“I don’t.” He held her gaze for a long moment. “But thanks.” He set Aiden down and joined Trace by the door, locking forearms with him in a bro hug. “I’ll see you later. You gonna be around?”
“We’ll probably stick around for a while.” Trace met her eyes. “But we’ll be spending the night at Cordray’s place again.”
Micah rolled his eyes and turned as he dashed his hand in a downward motion at them. “You two are like rabbits.”
Trace chuckled. “Takes one to know one.”
“Come on, Twace.” Null tugged Trace toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Cordray waved to Sam over her shoulder as Micah disappeared around the corner. “Save us some cookies. We’ll be back later.”
Sam looked up from helping Panya stir another batch of cookie dough and waved. “We’ll have plenty. I think we’re going to make snickerdoodles after this.”
What was up with that female? She’d become an eating machine. There were already platters of chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and something that looked like deconstructed s’mores, and now it looked like she was making some kind of peanut butter cookie.
“Is Sam okay?” Cordray said to Trace as they closed the door and followed Null to the Denali.
He helped secure Null in his car seat. “She’s just feeling maternal with a household of kids is all.”
Cordray’s instincts told her that wasn’t it, but for lack of a better explanation, Trace’s would have to do.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Trace followed Null into the woods behind Asylum. The remains of the dorm had already been cleared, leaving only a charred rectangle of dirt, but construction on the new dorm was to begin in a few days. King Bain had already assigned a team of architects to design a new one. A larger one.
The kids would be back at the ranch before they knew it, and they would live in style.
“Over here, Twace.” Null motioned him toward a stream.
With the sun dragging toward the horizon, the afternoon light was quickly fading into evening, but it was still light enough to see where he was going.
He sidestepped down a steep embankment and knelt beside Null at the edge of a sandbar.
Cordray waited quietly behind them.
Null squatted and inspected the earth then began digging his tiny fingers into the wet soil.
“What are we looking for, little man?” Trace asked, unsure what he should be doing to help.
“Just wait. I’ll find it.” The little boy continued digging, getting his shoes wet. Mud turned the hem of his jeans brown.
Five minutes passed.
Ten.
Fifteen.
The sun was beginning to set.
“A-ha!” Null yanked his hand out of the stream, showering them with water.
Trace shielded himself then lowered his arms.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” He peered closer at the rock Null held in his hand. It was whitish in color, speckled with black.
“It’s a wock. Like the one in my collection. You said you had one like it when you wewe my age.”
Trace gingerly took the rock from Null’s tiny hand and let it rest in his palm as he slowly lowered himself to a crouch.
It wasn’t just a similar rock to the one from his childhood collection. It was the same rock. The same exact one.
Mother.
She’d brought it to him. Somehow, she’d found it and brought it here so he could find it. Tears stung the backs of his eyes.
Null dropped to his knees in front of Trace and patted his little hand over the rock as he turned up his chipmunk-cheeked face and smiled so brightly it was a wonder the sun didn’t get jealous. “This is a hewo’s rock.” Pat-pat-pat. “You’we my hewo, and one day, I’ll be a hewo, too.”
Cordray placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
He didn’t have to look at her to know she had a smile on her face.
“I told you you’re his hero,” she said.
He shook his head and ruffled Null’s hair. “Naw, little man. I’m not a hero.” He winked and glanced skyward. “I’m a guardian angel. Just like my mother.” He turned his gaze toward Cordray as he stood, holding her eyes with his. “I’m a guardian angel, bound to protect those I love and care about with the power my mother gave me.” His heart swelled with happiness and pride as he gazed at her. “Until now, I thought my power was a curse, but now I see it was really a gift.” He wrapped his hand around hers. “A gift meant to lead me to you, and I swear on my every heartbeat that I will protect you, your children—and ours—for as long as I live. You are my family now, and I will destroy anyone who tries to harm my family.”
He’d come full circle, closing the last remaining door on his past.
He wasn’t a freak. He was a protector. He’d been created to protect, not destroy.
As he turned and led Cordray and Null up the embankment, he swore he heard his mother’s contented sigh on the breeze and felt her smile at his back.
But he knew if he looked, he would find nothing but burnished sunlight, shimmering water, and shadows.
I love you, Mother.
A refreshing breeze scented of jasmine was his only reply.
But it was enough.
Enough to know she was with him and always would be, in death as she had been in life.
Forever.
Epilogue
The moment he heard the key slip into the lock, Micah raised his Sig and pointed it at the door. He’d been waiting in the shadows inside Ronan’s rental home for nearly an hour. Silent. Deadly. Ready for answers and retribution, not necessarily in that order.
Ronan’s silhouette slipped inside. He shut the door then fell still as he peered into the darkness, as if he knew he wasn’t alone. Micah actually felt the air prickle with Ronan’s sudden awareness.
Perceptive little fucker. Micah couldn’t deny that a part of him was impressed with the little shit. He was resourceful and cunning, with strong instincts and keen senses. He reminded Micah of how he’d been when he was younger, and in any other circumstance, he would have considered recruiting Ronan. AKM needed talented enforcers, and Ronan clearly had talent. But this shit was personal, so yeah, there would be no sales pitch about how Ronan needed AKM as much as AKM needed him.
Without turning on the light, Ronan pulled a gun from the back waist of his pants and swung it around, prepared to fire.
Micah fired first, catching him in the shoulder.
Ronan staggered backward and slammed into the door.
“Welcome home, asshole.” Micah rose from the chair he’d been sitting in and trained the gun’s sight on the center of Ronan’s forehead. This fucker had broken into his apartment, stolen his property, and toyed with him. Now he would pay the piper.
Ronan regrouped and started to bring his gun back around to attempt another shot.
“Don’t even think about it”—Micah kicked the gun out of his hand—“or I’ll blast a hole in your other shoulder so you won’t even be able to hold your dick to take a piss. Because one way or another, asshole, you’re going to answer my questions, return what belongs to me, and then—if you’re lucky—I might let you live.” He took a menacing step forward, gun trained between Ronan’s eyes. “If you’re lucky.”
From the angry sneer that overtook Ronan’s full lips and the way his thick, black eyebrows bunched over his nose, he didn’t seem willing to cooperate. “Fuck you. I don’t owe you shit.”
“Wrong answer.” Micah surged forward, fisted the collar of Ronan’s shirt, hoisted him away from the door, and pressed the Sig’s muzzle against the underside of his chin.
Contempt fumed from Ronan’s gaze. “Go ahead. Kill me. Then you’ll never know the truth.”
“Oh yeah? And what truth is that? That your pecker is the size of a thumb drive?” Micah tried to burrow inside Ronan’s head but saw nothing but black. A vast, empty darkness like what he’d come up against with Digon and that odd fucker, Rule. The black hole felt more like a vacuum of sight and sound than a wall. Ronan wasn’t blocking Micah. Micah simply couldn’t see inside his mind.
Ronan sneered then let out a mocking chuckle. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
Micah’s hold cranked more tightly on Ronan’s shirt. “You’re really starting to piss me off, you little prick. Maybe I should just kill you now and count my losses.” He applied pressure to the trigger.
“Go ahead then. What’s stopping you?” Ronan’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Kill me.”
Micah had never seen such intense resentment and animosity in someone’s eyes, not to mention indifference for one’s own life.
“Do it! Kill me!” Ronan’s jaw clenched as his breath came in tight, urgent bursts. “Your own family! Your own brother!”
Micah’s finger abruptly released the trigger. What the fuck? Was he serious?
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” The skin around Ronan’s eyes pinched. “Then why can’t you see inside my thoughts? You can’t, can you? I know you can’t. You know why? Because I’m your blood.” He barked out a derisive laugh. “Big bad Micah Black.” Sarcasm snapped over every syllable. “Mighty Micah, right? You, who can do no wrong. You can’t see my thoughts because you’re my godforsaken flesh and blood.” He spat in Micah’s face. “Lucky fucking me.”
Micah let go of Ronan’s shirt and wiped the spittle from his cheek then glared back at him. “No.” The single syllable burned his throat like betrayal. “I’m the last. There are no others in my line.”
But Ronan’s declaration was enough to give him pause. Could it be true? The family resemblance was there. The black hair. The angular jaw. The lean, powerful build. Could he be . . .? No. Ronan couldn’t be Micah’s brother. That would mean . . .
Doubt sliced through his confidence. Maybe he had been wrong about his parents’ deaths.
Ronan’s mocking laughter rankled Micah’s last nerve, and, in a rush of aggression, he swept forward and clocked him hard across the chin, tossing Ronan sideways.
“I don’t believe you!”
Ronan recovered quickly and spun back around to face him, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Then kill me. What’s stopping you?” His eyebrows dug a malicious trench over his eyes, casting a shadow over the bitterness burning from his blue-grey irises. “If you don’t believe me, then kill me and end this.”
Micah lifted the Sig, lined up the sight
with Ronan’s forehead, applied pressure to the trigger . . .
And froze.
He couldn’t do it.
If there was even a chance Ronan was of his blood, he couldn’t kill him.
He had to know the truth.
“How . . .?” He uttered the question more to himself than to Ronan. “How could this even be possible?” No scenario he came up with provided an answer.
Ronan let out a disgusted exhale. “All these years I’ve had to listen to stories about Micah”—he did his best to straighten his shoulders, given his injury—“the greatest warrior in the king’s guard. The prodigal son! He who could do no wrong!” Ronan spat at his feet again then uttered a brittle laugh. “Why can’t you be more like Micah?” he said mockingly, as if quoting someone. “Do you know how many times I heard that growing up? Do you? I half expected you to be a god when I came face to face with you, given all the buildup. But you’re not a god. You’re nothing special. You’re—”
“That’s enough, Ronan!” A shadow moved to Micah’s right.
He whipped toward the movement, training his gun on the backlit silhouette that entered the room. A cold pit opened inside his stomach. He knew that shape. He knew that voice. He knew the energy coming off that male’s body.
Micah’s voice quivered with forced denial when he spoke. “Who are you?” But he already knew. With the certainty of the setting sun, he knew.
The tall male flicked on the light switch.
Micah blinked against the instant brightness then gasped as he laid eyes on a face he hadn’t seen in over nine hundred years. Hair as black as coal. Eyes the color of midnight. It was like seeing a ghost. He staggered backward until the backs of his legs hit the couch, and he dropped onto it, unable to tear his gaze away.
This couldn’t be happening. That male couldn’t be his . . .
“Father?”
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