Micah sat across from King Bain in the back of his limousine as it pulled up to the royal mansion. A uniformed servant standing at the side of the drive stepped forward and opened the door then stood aside to allow them out.
He stared up at the royal mansion, but his mind was still obsessing over what King Bain had said to him less than fifteen minutes ago.
Because I’m on it.
Bain was on his family tree?
What did that mean? Surely, that was code for something else, because if Micah and King Bain were on the same family tree, that would mean . . .
Micah didn’t want to take that thought to its natural conclusion.
King Bain had said nothing further on the drive here, instead taking the opportunity to read his emails and text messages. A king’s job was never done, but Micah got the impression Bain was biding his time. That he wasn’t in any rush to spill the details about his hospital room confession and was, in fact, not looking forward to it any more than Micah was.
Micah wordlessly followed Bain up the steps to the imposing double doors, which had to be at least ten feet tall and made of thick slabs of wood not easily breeched by an enemy. Once inside, they passed through the main foyer with its twenty-foot-domed ceiling and enough splendor for the queen of England. They were greeted by gold walls, hand-carved tables, and matching floral arrangements that perfumed the vestibule.
Bain strolled past it all as if he’d seen it a million times and no longer registered just how grand his home was.
“This way.” Bain directed him out of the foyer and into the main hall that split the home into two equal halves. The wide passage from the front of the building to the back reminded him of the inside of a giant cathedral, with intricate murals painted on the arched ceilings and priceless works of art lining both walls. Their heavy footsteps echoed in the large, open space.
Toward the end of the hall, Bain veered them to the right, into another hall—this one narrower—with large picture windows overlooking a sprawling lawn dotted with trees. It was still dark, but he could see that the property extended down a sloping hill to a line of trees in the distance. Beyond, the lights of the city illuminated the night sky.
The next stop was a well-appointed study with hand-carved mahogany wainscoting. A polished Elizabethan hutch sat along the near wall, holding a silver tray set with expensive bourbon and crystal tumblers. Victorian-era furniture was strategically placed throughout the room.
Then there was the desk. The size of a baby elephant and stained a rich, deep, cherry brown, King Bain’s desk matched the mammoth leather chair behind it and presented an imposing air of power and sophistication. This wasn’t just his office. It was his throne room.
“Care for a drink?” Bain flipped over two tumblers and lifted the bourbon.
“Sure.” Micah had a feeling he was going to need it.
Bain handed him a glass and took a drink from his own.
“So,” Bain said, “I guess the past couple of days have been a little rough.”
“You could say that.”
“How’s Sam holding up?”
“Better than I am.” It didn’t feel like the right time to announce she was pregnant.
Bain nodded and took another drink. “Good. That’s good.” He seemed distracted, as if he were intentionally putting off the reason for bringing Micah here.
Micah downed his shot of bourbon and helped himself to another glass. “With all due respect, sire, it’s been a long night. It’ll be dawn soon, and I really want to be home with my mate when the sun rises.” He swallowed his second shot of bourbon and poured another. “So, can we get to whatever it is you want to talk to me about?”
Bain swirled the bourbon in his own glass as he regarded Micah out of the corner of his eye. Then he smiled and strolled toward his desk. “I remember the first time I met you.” Bain’s voice held a paternal note. “I didn’t know much about you except that you were young and had already risen to the top of my father’s guard. You had quite the reputation as a lethal warrior even then.” He chuckled. “He admired you, you know. My father. Dare I say he was even proud of you. The way he spoke of you often made me think of you as a brother and not just my mentor.”
Bain the First had employed Micah to train his son, and given King Bain’s wry tone, Micah was beginning to question if there was a greater reason for his assignment to train the young prince—at the time—than he’d been aware of.
Bain took another drink. “Then my father told me the truth about who you were.”
The rough edges on Micah’s nerves tingled with impatience.
“And, now, it’s time for me to tell you.” Bain approached a pedestal that held what appeared to be a large, ancient book. “There’s something here I want you to see, Micah.”
Micah’s skin prickled as a chill ran down his spine. The book was open, the dull, yellowish pages lightly wrinkled, as if they’d seen their share of the elements and were lucky to still be in one piece. Elegant cursive writing in black ink covered the page. It was the kind of writing one would associate with historic records.
Undeniably curious, he stepped closer, trying hard not to stare at the tome but unable to take his eyes off it.
“What is it?” Tension filled his shoulders, and he realized he was holding his breath. He already knew what was on that page. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to face it.
He was faintly aware that Bain was watching him. He tore his gaze from the book as he stopped in front of the pedestal. When he met the king’s eyes, he found warm benevolence gazing back at him.
“This is your family tree,” Bain said.
Even though he’d already known that’s what the book contained, Micah nearly dropped his drink as his eyes shot once more to the leather-bound book.
His gaze devoured the page whole, unable to focus on any one name for the excitement blasting through his veins. This was his lineage. All of it. If he could just focus long enough to tame his eagerness, he’d be able to see the names of his ancestors.
After being told their family records had been destroyed, he’d never dared to hope he would one day learn the truth. It wasn’t as if he could go to Ancestry.com, plug in his information, and get a dozen little leaves tracing his origin. It was a pretty good bet Ancestry.com didn’t contain vampire records. But here he was, only inches away from all the answers about where he’d come from. Answers he would now be able to relay to his own children someday when they were old enough.
“Breathe, Micah.” Bain rested his large hand on Micah’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.
He sucked in a breath and blew it out, leaning closer. “I’m just . . .” The decorative letters began to come into focus, forming names. “I thought all my family’s records were gone.”
“No. They’ve always been in my possession.”
Most of the names were unfamiliar to Micah. Only a few were ones his father had shared with him, such as the name of his grandfather.
Then a name on a side branch caught Micah’s eye.
He bent forward, blinked, and looked up at Bain, pointing to the name on the page. “What’s this?”
Bain followed where the tip of Micah’s index finger rested lightly on the page. “That’s me. That’s my name, Micah.”
Micah turned his gaze back to the page and followed the bloodlines.
Bain the Second.
Bain’s name extended up through Bain the First to a male named Ryland, whose brother had been—
Wait a second.
“Is that . . .?” He took a closer look. “Does that say ‘Rysk’?”
Bain’s eyes never left him. Micah could feel the king watching him like a hawk would a field mouse. “Yes.”
“As in . . .?” Micah thought back to Digon’s buddy. The guy he thought was named Rule but just found out tonight was really named Rysk.
Bain spoke quietly as he began to explain, pointing to the various names as he ticked them off. “My ancestor, Ryland, was the brother of Rysk the First, who was the father of Rysk the Second.”
Micah couldn’t put words to the question trying to make its way from his brain to his mouth. All he could do was stare at Bain with his mouth hanging open.
“Micah, Rysk the Second is the male who was with Ronan tonight. The male who is friends with your father. But, as you can see, they’re not really friends. Rysk is your father’s great-great-grandfather.”
Micah dropped his gaze back to the family tree and followed the generations from Rysk’s name down to his then back up, searching for anything to explain how his name had gotten there, ensuring this wasn’t a crazy mistake. It wasn’t. His line flowed directly to Rysk the Second, up to Rysk the First, and on up to King Cato himself.
“Are you telling me Rysk is my . . .” He counted the generations from his name to Rysk’s. “My great-great-great-grandfather? That King Cato was my—”
He couldn’t choke out the words. Micah descended from the very first king of the vampire race.
Bain took a cautious step toward him, as if he wasn’t sure what to expect from Micah’s reaction. The king appeared just as ready to defend himself as he was to catch Micah if his knees buckled.
“That’s right.” Bain spoke slowly. “He’s your ancestor.” Then his features tightened. “And so is Digon. But that’s not his real name, either.” He turned back one page in the book, revealing another family tree. “Digon’s real name is Argon. He’s been using Digon as an alias to keep his true identity a secret.”
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.
Digon—or Argon—was a dreck. A full-blooded dreck. If Argon was Micah’s ancestor, that meant . . .
“I have dreck blood in me?”
Fiery heat erupted in his chest, and his hands clenched into fists. The one thing he despised the most—drecks—and his body contained dreck blood. He wasn’t sure if he was going to throw up or destroy something.
“Yes, Micah.” Bain remained close, but not too close.
This couldn’t be true. He couldn’t have dreck blood in him. That would mean . . . oh God, he wasn’t a pure blood after all. He was a mixed-blood, and the worst possible kind. The kind that could get him ostracized by his peers.
Like Severin, he had to hold this new truth tight to his vest, because there were assholes who would surely love to use this knowledge to destroy him. Apostle, for one. And just about everyone he had ever roughed up, locked away, or otherwise insulted.
What if this got out? Would it put Sam and his unborn children in jeopardy? Would they all suffer because of this?
Panic flooded him as the walls closed in. The room suddenly felt far too small.
“Micah . . .” Bain came toward him, but he appeared to move in slow motion.
Micah had already had a hell of a night. His emotions had been played like Ping-Pong balls in a Chinese tournament for the better part of eight hours, and he’d run the length of the scale, from livid to furious to happy to elated and back again. And back once more.
And now he worried about the safety of his mate and children.
He’d reached his limit.
Done. Finito. Wave the checkered flag. Adios, muchachos.
Lights out.
Micah stumbled backward, teetered as blackness pushed in from the edges of his vision, which swam with milky white orbs.
“Micah!”
He listed to the side, staggered, and then his vision poofed out on him entirely as gravity pulled him down. The back of his head slammed against the arm of a nearby settee, casting him sideways. He rolled onto his stomach, his bourbon puddling on the floor and his nose mashed against a very expensive—and very gawdy—tapestry rug.
Well, fuck. There went his man card.