Black

by Donya Lynne

  The new facility had been finished just in time, too, now that it looked like all-out war was coming.

  Micah planned to stop that war and help turn the tide against their enemies with the team he had yet to put together, but it would take time, and he wasn’t sure how much time he had before Bishop and Searcy were ready to attack.

  After grabbing a cup of coffee—at least the coffee maker was still here—he headed to the medical wing.

  He tried not to hurry. He tried to tell himself he didn’t care as much as he did about whether or not Ronan was awake. But yeah, liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Pushing through the double doors, he glanced toward Ronan’s room then veered right instead. In the direction of Savill’s room. It was the only way he could keep from appearing too eager to see his flesh and blood.

  He looked in on the young male. No change. Still not awake. Still in a coma. The last time he’d talked to Dr. Snow about his condition, she’d told him his vitals were getting stronger every day, but they still didn’t know when he would wake up. It could be today, tomorrow, or next week. Maybe longer. Or he could take a sudden turn for the worse. Not likely at this point, but still a possibility.

  Once Savill woke up, he’d be inside a whole new hell. One where everything he’d known no longer existed. One in which he would have to accept he was an anomaly. The product of a mating that never should have happened. At least according to lycan law.

  He turned toward the sound of talking coming from Kieran’s room. Trevor? What was he doing here? Oh, that’s right. Trevor had a hard-on for demon boy.

  Micah quietly stepped to the side and peeked in. Demon boy’s black tattoos, which covered his arms and torso, weren’t moving right now, but that didn’t change the fact that they had. Just last week, those swirls of ink had come to life and crawled all over his skin . . . and sometimes off of it.

  Micah shivered as he remembered those tattoos peeling off Kieran’s body and wrapping around his arm as he tried to restrain Kieran.

  Yeah, that freak could stay in a coma for all he cared. Micah had seen a lot of fucked-up shit, but tattoos that leaped off the skin and moved on their own? Fuck that.

  He took a sip of his coffee and quietly listened. Trevor was kicked back in a cushioned chair, legs crossed, with a book in his lap. He was reading to Kieran, his voice cool, smooth, and calm.

  Trevor had it bad for Kieran if he was sitting with the guy during his time off, reading to him.

  The words from the story Trevor was reading were familiar. Micah had read this book. Which one was it? He could see it in his mind, and the name was on the tip of his tongue. When Trevor read the word shitter, it clicked. Christine by Stephen King. Good book. Great movie.

  And perfect for demon boy.

  He listened to Trevor read for a couple more minutes then slipped away, toward Ronan’s room.

  Dr. Snow was in with him, checking his vitals. He imagined she’d been checking them every hour on the hour.

  “How is he?” Micah said, noting Ronan’s color hadn’t improved much.

  When the doc looked up, he could see the fatigue written all over her face. Had she even slept?

  “Not much change,” she said. “He woke up a few hours after you left, but he was in so much pain, we put him back out, especially after he got upset with your father.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know what happened, but Ronan got very upset. From what I was told, Ronan became belligerent, and they were told to leave.”

  “They?”

  “Your dad and the male who brought Ronan in. Rysk.”

  Micah could only imagine what kind of shit they had tried to throw at Ronan in the short time he’d been awake.

  “If they come back, tell them to leave Ronan alone until he’s better or they’ll have to answer to me. They don’t need to unload any of their shit on him right now. He’s already got enough to deal with.”

  Did he like Ronan? Eh, the little shit was growing on him. He still didn’t think he could invite him over for tea and crumpets, but blood had to look out for blood, and right now, Micah was the closest thing to an ally Ronan had in the Black family tree. They’d both been lied to and subjected to a lot of fucked-up-the-ass-dry upheaval caused by the actions of those around them.

  Micah would be able to forgive and forget in time, but he couldn’t speak for Ronan. He hoped his little brother would be able to get over what their father, Rysk, Argon, and even King Bain had done, keeping secrets from him his whole life. Secrets that could have created a different—better—life for Ronan had he known the truth.

  Dr. Snow replaced Ronan’s chart on the footboard and rested her hand on Micah’s arm. “He’s stable and still breathing,” she said. “That’s something, right?”

  “Fuckin’ A it’s something.” He couldn’t hide the pride in his voice. “He’s a fighter.”

  “Just like his brother.” Dr. Snow squeezed his arm.

  “Is it okay if I sit with him for a while?” His meeting with Bain wasn’t for another hour. He had time.

  “I don’t see why not. Just don’t upset him if he wakes up.”

  “I promise, I won’t. And if he asks me to leave, I’ll go peacefully.”

  “You’re a good male, Micah.” Dr. Snow smiled warmly then nodded toward the back hallway. “I’m going to try to grab an hour or two of sleep, but if anything happens, have the nurse come get me.” She quietly slipped out of the room.

  Micah approached the side of Ronan’s bed and gazed down at his younger brother.

  The jagged blue and purple lines still covered his skin, crisscrossing him like mapped rivers. They didn’t look like veins, but they were. Micah’s stomach churned at the thought that those lines might mark Ronan’s body forever like deathly tattoos.

  But he refused to believe that was Ronan’s future.

  “You hear what I said to the doctor, little brother? You’re a fighter. And you’re going to get through this.”

  Conflicted emotions battled within his heart as he gazed down at the pale face that looked so much like his in so many ways. But as similar as they were physically, they were worlds apart mentally.

  Ronan resented him. Hated him. Loathed him to the point that he’d broken into his apartment and stolen the ankh their father had given him for safekeeping. The ankh that had almost led to his death. If it hadn’t been for the timely arrival of Rameses and his brothers, Ronan would be dead now, and Micah would have lost his brother before he’d even gotten to know him.

  Clearing his throat, he dropped his gaze to his feet, unsure what to do or say. When a member of his team was in medical, he knew what words needed to come out of his mouth. He knew how to act. Because he knew them. Malek, Severin, Io, Ari . . . any of them. He knew what they needed to hear. But with Ronan, he had no idea.

  “Ummm . . .” He shifted his weight and drummed his fingers on the outside of his coffee mug.

  Maybe he could start by sitting down.

  Taking a seat in the cushioned chair beside Ronan’s bed, he set his coffee on the meal tray placed against the wall.

  That was his blood lying in that bed. Surely, he could think of at least one thing worth saying.

  Glancing out the door to Kieran’s room, he suddenly wished he had something to read, because then he could read to Ronan the way Trevor was reading to Kieran. Perhaps that would have calmed them both.

  He rubbed his palms up and down his thighs. “Too bad I didn’t bring a book or a newspaper with me,” he said lightheartedly. “Not that you want to hear me read, but . . .” He nibbled the inside of his lip as his gaze jumped from Ronan to the beeping monitor on the other side of the bed, back out the door, to his coffee, and back to Ronan. “But at least it’d be better than listening to all this beeping, right? And, hey, I can do voices. Not good voices, but still, you should hear my Ariel or Princess Jasmine.” His attempt at humor fell flat.

  Ronan looked bad. Real bad. His haggard hair hung over his eyes, and
the black scruff on his cheeks, jaw, and upper lip had grown into a heavy five o’clock shadow.

  But at least he was alive.

  “So . . .” He eyed the stitched-up bullet wound on Ronan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about that. Shooting you, I mean. If I’d known you were my brother, I wouldn’t have. But, hey, it looks like you’ve got some mad skills with a needle. Those sutures look good.” It was obvious no one at the medical center had done them, but someone had cleaned up the area around the wound, which looked like it had been bandaged at one point, according to the red lines from the adhesive tape that had been stuck to his skin.

  He nodded awkwardly as his mind blanked out on him again.

  What would he want to hear if he were in Ronan’s place and the tables were turned? Probably not a whole helluva lot. He’d probably be too pissed off at the world.

  “You know,” he said softly, dropping his gaze, “maybe I shouldn’t be here right now. Maybe you think I have no right to be.” He looked up again, letting his gaze land on Ronan’s deceptively serene face. It was the first time he’d looked upon his brother and not seen hatred and resentment flashing back at him. “You probably don’t even want me here.” He pushed back in the chair and laid his arms on the armrests. “Well, too bad. You’re my brother. And while that might not mean anything to you, it means something to me.” He crossed his ankle over the opposite knee. “And what it means to me is that there’s nothing I won’t do to make sure you get through this. In fact”—he snorted—“I gave a pint of blood for you last night. You know what that means, right? It means that not only do we share genes, but my blood really does run through your veins now.”

  He plopped one hand on his thigh. “So get used to having a brother, Ronan, because I’m not going anywhere. And since you already know from personal experience how stubborn those born with the Black name can be—because I suspect you’re just as stubborn as Dad and I are—you know I’ll wear you down before you do me. After all, I’m older. Older brothers always win. It’s family law.” He chuckled at the idea that he could now call himself an older brother. “God, that sounds crazy, doesn’t it? Me. An older brother. Who would have thought?”

  He exhaled heavily and brushed back his hair. If only Ronan could answer him. He would have liked to hear his smart-assed retorts right about now, because then at least he would know Ronan was getting better.

  “By the way, I forgive you for breaking into my apartment and stealing the ankh. I’m sure you had your reasons.” He shrugged, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward again, elbows on knees, gaze locked on Ronan’s pale face with the trademark angular jaw males in his family were born with. “I have no idea what those reasons are . . . well, maybe I do a little. It’s clear you and our dad don’t get along, so I’m assuming that’s part of it, but I’ve never gotten a chance to know you, so I can’t say for sure what’s happened in your life to lead you down this road.” He glanced at his hands, which were loosely joined between his knees. “God willing, you and I will get to know each other once you get out of this place, and then maybe I’ll understand your reasons better.

  “But you’re going to have to cut me some slack, okay? I’m pissed at our father, too. But I also understand his reasons for doing what he’s done. For being the way he is.” He looked back up. “I’ve been in his shoes, Ronan. It’s not a good place to be. Losing a mate is something I hope you never have to experience. It’s a kind of hell it’s almost impossible to pull yourself out of. You can’t pull yourself out of it. The only thing that can is taking another mate. And our father hasn’t done that, yet, so he’s still swimming in the bowels of hell. It’s amazing he’s even made it this long without losing his mind, and my guess is you’re partly responsible for keeping him from being six feet under. He may not act like it, but he cares about you. He loves you. You’ve never known the father I knew. You never got to know the kind of male he really is. If you did, you would understand, and you’d be able to forgive him.”

  He’d never once met a male who’d lost a mate and fully healed. He hadn’t even been able to. It had taken finding Sam to drag him from his own bout with suffering’s insanity to find peace again, but even that didn’t rid him of the memories of how agonizing his life had been after Kat’s death. And, yes, he would always experience at least some pain from that loss. It just wouldn’t dictate his life, anymore. Thanks to Sam.

  “I assume you know that I have a mate. Her name is Sam. Well, Samantha, but I call her Sam. We’ve been together since January. I know she’d love to meet you.” No doubt Sam would know just what to say to get through to Ronan. She had that way about her. Hell, she’d become besties with Cordray overnight. If she could turn Medusa into a friend, who knew what she could pull off with Ronan?

  “She’s pregnant. Twins. Which means you’re going to be an uncle.” He stood and wrapped his hand around Ronan’s. “I know you’re angry with me. Ours isn’t exactly an ideal family situation. I know you’ve been forced to live a shit life. We all have. Our father, you, me. We’ve each had to face hell in one way or another. But we’re still standing. We Blacks are strong motherfuckers.”

  He squeezed Ronan’s hand and stepped closer to the bed. “Do you hear me? We’re strong. We don’t let life beat us. We don’t let our circumstances dictate who we are. That’s how I know you’re going to get through this, my brother. It’s how I know you’re going to be stronger for it. Whether you want to accept me into your life or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re a Black. And that means you’re one tough son of a bitch. You won’t let anything beat you. Not even this.” He motioned toward Ronan’s prone, unconscious body. “You’ll recover, and when you do, you’ll be as ornery as the rest of us again.”

  He took a deep breath and pressed his lips into a determined line. His words had run out, his mind suddenly quiet. All that remained was him, Ronan, and their joined hands. A physical link between brothers.

  Micah bowed his head and closed his eyes, willing Ronan to get better, trying to give some of his strength to his brother simply by way of energy transference.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed when he became aware of another presence in the room.

  Opening his eyes, he found his father standing across from him.

  “How is he?” his father asked.

  “Alive.” Micah let go of Ronan’s hand. “I heard he woke up last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “I also heard he got upset. So upset the doctor had to drug him up.”

  “Micah—”

  “You and Rysk don’t need to be making shit worse right now by giving him the big reveal.”

  “It’s time he knew the truth.”

  “No. It’s time he healed. Then we can tell him the truth. He’s got enough shit to deal with right now without adding our family secrets to the pile.”

  His father closed his eyes and nodded. “You’re right, you’re right.” He sounded mentally exhausted. Just like the rest of them. “We’ll wait until he’s recovered to tell him the rest.”

  Micah checked the time. He should leave soon. “You knew, didn’t you? When I was a child, you knew our bloodline went straight to the king.”

  Heavy sigh. “Yes.”

  “You lied about our family tree. You said it had been destroyed. But it hadn’t. You knew all along we were part of King Bain’s bloodline. You’d been protecting me even then.”

  His father nodded.

  “Bain has asked me to be his crown regent. Did you know that, too?”

  “It’s been discussed.”

  Micah wanted to be angry at his father, but he just couldn’t find the emotion, anymore.

  “You’re the one who should be next in line for the throne, not me.”

  “You know I’m not up to it.”

  “And I am?”

  “You’re more than capable, Micah. I always thought you’d make a fine king if the crown had come down our line as it should have. But things as they are between the d
recks and vampires, that’s not how it happened.”

  Micah made a motion for the door. “Yeah, well, I hope it never does. God willing, nothing will happen to Bain, and my services won’t be needed.”

  His father nodded absently, drawing his gaze back to Ronan.

  “So, you’ve accepted the title?” he asked.

  Micah palmed his watched. “I’m on my way to give Bain my answer now.”

  His father nodded again, appearing somewhat lost. It hurt to see him like this. So unsure. Dependent even. Like a human with early Alzheimer’s who couldn’t quite remember where he was or what he was doing there.

  But being around Ronan wasn’t going to do him or Ronan any good if his brother woke up again. Dad needed to give Ronan some space.

  “You have someplace else to be, Dad.” Micah took him by the arm.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Where?”

  Micah ushered him out the door. “Anywhere but here. Ronan doesn’t need you here right now.”

  “Micah, please . . .”

  “Look, Dad . . .” Micah came to a stop a few feet outside Ronan’s room. “I forgive you for not telling me you were alive. Okay? I’m done being angry with you about that. I’ve had time to process everything that was thrown at me last night, and I just want us to get to know each other again. I want us to be a father and son again, but Ronan . . .?” Micah pointed into his brother’s room. “He’s not ready for that, yet. He needs more time, and he needs you to give him space. You’re doing him more harm than good by being here. He’s got a long fucking road ahead of him, not just with his injuries, but with everything he’s going to learn about our family once he’s well enough to hear it.” Micah angled his father toward the exit. “Let him heal. Let him get better. And let him figure himself out without you interfering. He’s going to have a lot of shit thrown at him, and his life is going to change. Don’t expect him to accept it all overnight, and don’t expect him to be happy about it for a while.”

  They walked toward the double doors, his father sullen and silent. As they passed the nurses’ station, Micah stopped and asked one of the nurses for a piece of paper.