by Donya Lynne
“Um, do you have a ladies’ room I can use?”
“Sure, I’ll take you.”
The nurse led her out of the exam room. She kept her face hidden as she passed the lycans, but her eyes remained alert, glancing back and forth, searching for her best friend. Within seconds, she found pay dirt.
As the nurse took her past a set of rooms, she saw Ronan in one of them, lying like a corpse under layers of blankets, eyes closed, face gaunt, his skin almost translucent. It looked like he’d lost twenty pounds in the last few hours. Jesus! What had that werewolf venom done to him?
“Here you go.” The nurse opened a door marked for females and flipped on the light switch. “I’ll wait for you over there.”
Thanks.
She went inside and locked the door. Okay, so she’d found Ronan and satisfied her curiosity that he was at least safe, even if he looked like death. Now she needed to find the other patient currently in AKM’s care that she was personally attached to. The patient she’d been sworn to protect but had let get captured by Bishop’s lackeys, anyway. A mistake she would never forgive herself for, considering what had been done to him.
First, she needed to convince the nurse to let her stay in the medical unit just a little longer. She cranked on the cold water and splashed some on her face then lightly blotted it dry before pressing her hands against the damp paper towel for several seconds. Just long enough for her hands to feel cool and damp.
After waiting a little longer, she opened the door and took a shaky step out, pressing her hand to her forehead.
The nurse rushed forward. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, yes, I think so. Just a little woozy.” She made it a point to touch the nurse’s hand so she could feel how “clammy” she was. “I think I just need something to eat. I haven’t eaten in hours, and then giving blood, you know . . .”
The nurse nodded and guided her to a chair. “Sit here. I’ll get you some juice and crackers.” She hurried off.
Alexis glanced around. The lycans were still gathered on the other side of the room, chatting quietly to one another, not paying her a bit of attention.
She peeked into the room nearest her. Empty. The next one was occupied, but she couldn’t see by whom, even though the main area of the trauma unit was arranged in a large circle, probably so the nurses at the station in the center could keep an eye on every patient.
Her gaze traveled to the next room, and she leaned forward in her chair as she sniffed the air.
“Here you go.” The nurse appeared in front of her, holding a bottle of orange juice and a package of cheese crackers.
Alexis quickly leaned back, pressing her fingers to her forehead as if she were woozy.
“Thank you.” She took the offered refreshments and unscrewed the lid on the juice.
The nurse patted her on the shoulder. “Take your time. When you’re ready, just call me over and I’ll escort you out. My name’s Jan, by the way.”
She ripped open the package of crackers and pulled out one of the little round sandwiches. “Thanks, Jan. I should be fine in a few minutes. Don’t let me keep you.”
Jan hurried off, leaving Alexis alone. As she nibbled on her crackers, she tipped her head to the side and peered into the room three doors down.
There was a doctor in the way of her seeing the patient’s face, checking the bags of fluid hanging by the bed.
Come on, move.
She swallowed more juice and started on another cracker.
The female doctor remained at the bedside. It looked like she was taking the patient’s pulse or maybe listening to his breathing. As she grabbed the blood pressure cuff that hung on the wall, a nurse joined her. From what she could pick up of their conversation, it sounded as though the doc wanted some of the patient’s blood drawn.
Several irritatingly long moments later, the doctor removed the cuff from the patient’s arm, folded it, and stuffed it back in its station on the wall next to the bed. Then she made a quick notation on her tablet and left the room, finally revealing what Alexis assumed all along.
The patient was Achilles.
Or, rather, Savill. That’s what the human couple who had adopted him named him.
But to her, he would always be Achilles.
Her sister’s son.
Hunter’s son.
The most important secret she’d ever possessed.
She glanced back at the lycans still huddled in discussion.
If they figured out what lay less than fifteen feet away from them and made a move for her nephew, this trauma unit wouldn’t just have three more patients. It would have three DOAs.
She had failed to protect Achilles once. She would not fail a second time.
Chapter 20
Drake Black stepped quietly into Ronan’s room.
Dr. Snow stood at his bedside, checking his vitals. His sallow skin looked thin as paper. Blue veinlike tracks ran up and down every inch of exposed skin like rivers on a map. Bite marks marred both arms where Priest had bitten him at least a dozen times.
Through it all, Drake had been able to do nothing more than watch and pray to whatever God answered a vampire’s prayers to save his son. Both of his sons. Because Micah was being just as uncompromising as Ronan.
Micah had refused to hear him out earlier. To hear nothing of Drake’s explanation for why he had never let Micah know he was alive. Before Drake could get out more than a couple of sentences, Micah had bolted without so much as a backward glance.
And the anger! The fumes of animosity that had come off Micah had been like those from a gasoline can, ready to ignite if sparked.
Drake had hoped for a warmer reception from Micah, the son he’d been so proud of both as a child and now as an adult. He’d obviously misjudged the situation, but that didn’t mean Drake shouldn’t try again. And he would keep trying until Micah heard him out.
A long time ago, Drake had been a male of strength and honor. But that male had died with Isabel. He had died with his entire village. It was only dumb luck that had allowed him to survive, but once he realized everyone he’d loved and watched over his whole life had perished or fled to start a new life elsewhere, all he’d wanted was to die, too. And he would have if Argon and Rysk hadn’t saved him.
Saved.
Such a subjective term.
They had saved his physical body, but his mind and soul had already been fragmenting into a living death state. His heart beat. His lungs processed oxygen. His organs still functioned. But could this really be considered living? This wraith he’d become who wasn’t even half the male he used to be? He had failed everyone he loved, especially his own children.
Look at Ronan. Ronan resented him. Maybe he even hated him. All because Drake had never been able to forget the past and forgive himself for abandoning Micah.
But that didn’t mean he didn’t love Ronan. He loved him more than his own life. Ronan was the only reason he hadn’t killed himself and ended his misery years ago. But every time he tried to tell him he loved him, the words came out wrong. Every time he tried to show him how much he cared, he ended up behaving like a bastard. It’s like he wasn’t in control of his faculties. Not his thoughts, his words, or his actions.
But he refused to stop trying. Someday he would get it right. Someday his mind would fuse back together again, with all the right pieces where they belonged, and he would be able to convey all he’d failed at for the last thirty-six years, since Ronan’s mother left.
He stepped farther into the room and placed his hands on the rail at the foot of Ronan’s bed. “How is he?”
Dr. Snow glanced up, her index and middle fingers pressed against the underside of Ronan’s wrist. “He’s sedated,” she said quietly. “As soon as Priest gave us the word his blood was clean, we tranquilized him so he could sleep off the pain.” She offered a compassionate smile. “He’ll be fine . . . eventually.” She let go of Ronan’s wrist and gently placed his arm over his stomach before pulling a blanket over h
im. “You should get some rest, too. He won’t be awake for hours and won’t be in any shape to receive visitors for a while.”
“I’d rather stay.” He eyed the cushioned chair in the corner.
Dr. Snow gave him what he imagined was her patented, placating-doctor smile then nodded. “Okay.” She tucked her iPad into the crook of her arm. “Once we know he’s completely out of the woods, we’ll move him to the new facility to begin rehabilitation. He’s suffered temporary nerve damage and will need help adjusting as the nerves heal. You can stay with him in one of the suites there. I’m sure he’d like that.”
“Doubt it,” said a familiar male voice from the door.
Drake turned just as Micah strolled into the room then stopped and crossed his arms. “I doubt Ronan would appreciate either of us offering him a helping hand. Right, Dad?”
Dr. Snow gave them both a confused frown, as if she wasn’t sure whether Micah was joking or serious but felt it best not to ask. “If you need anything, I’ll be right outside.” She quickly left the room.
Silent stares passed between father and son.
Finally, Micah broke eye contact and crossed to the side of Ronan’s bed. “How is he?”
“Stable. Recovering. Sedated so he doesn’t feel any pain.”
“Lucky him.” Micah spoke under his breath but just loudly enough—and sarcastically enough—for Drake to receive the message he was sending loud and clear.
“Son—”
“Cut the son crap, Dad.”
“What do you want from me, Micah?”
Micah’s head jerked up, his gaze slicing clean through him. “Honestly, I don’t know. I really don’t. I don’t get why you lied to me all this time, letting me think you were dead. My last memory of you was of you lying halfway inside our cottage, blood pouring from stab wounds all over your body. I thought you were dead. With what I thought was your last breath, you told me to take the box and guard its contents with my life. And then I assumed you died and have lived with that horrible knowledge all my life. The knowledge that I couldn’t save you. That you died, leaving me as the last of our bloodline, with nothing but the contents of that box to remember you by.”
The box was what Drake had called the small wooden chest that had contained everything of value to their family, including a gold crest, gemstones, and faded scrolls detailing the specifics—but not all of them—of his, Isabel’s, and Micah’s births. It had also contained the ankh he’d found during the last war prior to his “death,” while Micah had been training in the king’s city.
Drake knew the ankh’s purpose. He’d always known, because his father had taught him, and his father had taught him, and so on up the family tree, in the same manner Drake had intended to teach Micah when the time was right.
His mistake had been in thinking they had time. Time to find a way to return the ankh to the lycans. Time to talk about their family tree. Time to share all the secrets passed down through each generation of their family. If only he’d possessed the foresight to see what was to come, he would have shared his knowledge with Micah sooner.
But then the attack on their village had occurred, and all that time he thought he had ran out. At that point, all he’d had time to do was tell Micah to take the box and guard its contents, especially the ankh, with his life.
And then he had fallen unconscious, certain he would die.
As Micah continued unloading verbal vomit on him, Drake pulled himself from the past and caught back up midsentence. “ . . .save myself and Kat. You told me to look after the survivors. But it wasn’t your last breath, was it? You lived. And you never came to find me. You never thought to let me know you’d survived. You let me think you were dead. Do you know how much I suffered after you died? When I’d lost both you and Mom?”
“Son—”
“No, Dad.” Micah held up his hand. “You lost the right to call me your son when you let me believe you were dead.”
Micah’s words cut through his heart with surgical precision, but he swallowed his pain and took the lashing he deserved. The choices he’d made hadn’t been easy. In fact, many had been made for him, both by Argon and Rysk, as well as by the suffering that gnawed and devoured him in turns. He’d been kept in a coma-like suspension for much of the time between the loss of his old life and the discovery of the new, when he met Ronan’s mother. Only then did Argon and Rysk step aside to let him return to a more or less independent way of life. But they were never far away, always keeping an eye on him.
Then, after Ronan’s mom was gone, he fell back into suffering, just not as deeply as before. Otherwise, Rysk would have stepped in and put him under to raise Ronan himself.
Drake stayed just aware enough to prevent being put back into a coma, but at no time had he been in the right frame of mind to consider finding Micah.
But what should he have done? He was a male caught deep inside suffering’s grasp, enduring the loss of a bonded mate, as well as the loss of a female he’d fallen in love with but not bonded to. Most males in his situation would have died long ago. And yet, somehow, Drake survived.
Why?
To what end?
He couldn’t be fortunate enough to find another mate, so why did fate keep him alive?
“I’m sorry, Micah. I truly am, but I can’t go back and undo what’s been done. But I can try to explain if you’ll let me.”
“Can you?” The words bit back at Drake with the force of a cobra bite. “Can you really explain, Dad? Because from where I’m sitting, none of this makes a damn bit of sense.”
Drake lowered his gaze. He had much to atone for. “Honestly, I don’t know, son—Micah. Sometimes, I don’t know if I have the strength to even understand what happened to me, let alone explain it.” He lifted his gaze to Micah’s, surprised to find a sliver of compassion in those navy blue eyes that were so like his own. “But I can sure as hell try. I owe you that.” He turned his gaze to Ronan’s motionless form, which had needles and tubes coming out both arms and an oxygen tube taped under his nose. “I owe both of you that.”
_________
Micah stared in dumbfounded silence at the male in front of him. The male he hadn’t seen in so long it was just easier to say it had been a millennium. The male he’d once looked up to as larger than life but now, despite his physique being only slightly thinner than what he remembered, appeared half as tall and frailer than a blade of drought-weary grass.
Something had taken a heavy toll on his father.
He blinked, and in the split second his eyes were closed, he once again saw his father how he’d been that final day. It was the last memory he had of him, lying just inside the threshold of their home, blood spilling from his wounds.
He’d never found his father’s body. He’d assumed the sun had claimed him. Now he knew the truth.
In less than six hours, Micah had gone from being the last surviving member of his bloodline to having a brother and finding out his father was alive. He was no longer the last hope to carry on the family name, and a certain amount of relief came with that knowledge.
But he still had so many questions. He hadn’t been ready to hear the answers earlier, which was why he’d bolted only moments after Ronan did. Seeing his father had shocked him too much, and not in a good way. But now he was ready.
“What happened to Mom?”
His father’s eyebrows pulled inward as if just thinking about Micah’s mom hurt him. “You know what happened to her, Micah. She died. She was trying to protect—” He winced and blinked several times. With emotion choking his voice, he continued. “Your mom tried to protect me after I’d been injured.” He squeezed his eyes shut then blinked back tears as he opened them again. “She should have fled when I told her to. She’d still be alive if she had.”
Micah gave him a moment then asked, “How did you survive? I didn’t think there was any way you were going to live when I left you.”
His dad dragged a thick inhale through his nose as he wiped his pa
lm down his face. “I came to. Must have been only minutes after you’d left. The sun was about to rise. I saw your mom. I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t. She was already gone. I couldn’t feel her life force inside me, anymore. Her spirit had already left her body.” He blinked several times and pressed his lips together, shifting uncomfortably. “Somehow, I managed to drag myself farther into the hut. Into the shadows.” He cut off and cleared his throat, obviously still tormented by the guilt and sorrow he’d felt that day. “I couldn’t save your mother,” he said softly, bowing his head. “I couldn’t save her.” His whispered words broke with grief.
He sounded like he was talking more to himself than to Micah, chastising himself, facing his guilt but unable to look it in the eye. “I should have let myself die for failing her, but I didn’t. I was too selfish to join her in death, and not a day passes that I don’t wish—at least once—that I could go back, drag myself to her body, and hold her one last time as I let the sun consume us both, together.”
It was as hard to hear the account of his mother’s death as it obviously was for his father to tell it. It was equally hard to hear his father talk of his desire to go back in time and die with her.
“She died, Micah.” His dad’s voice was barely a whisper. “And a piece of me died with her. A very large piece.” He shook his bowed head. “I’m nothing but a coward.”
“A coward?” Why the hell would his dad think that?
The other male’s eyes briefly met his before falling away again. “If I were really as courageous as I thought I was, I would have died with her. Only a coward saves himself while his mate burns to dust under the sun’s light.”
Finally, Micah understood. The vacancy in his father’s eyes. His absence all these years. The pain. The tormented suffering. The mental wasteland that became not just where you lived but how. Micah knew that life all too well, because he’d walked a million miles in those shoes after Kat died. Hadn’t his father walked those same miles? Was still walking them?