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Get them to trust you. Evan’s words ring in my head.
“What other business do we have to discuss?” Drystan asks the lawyer, turning his attention back to the remaining men in the room. With a soft sigh, I lean my head against Asher’s shoulder and close my eyes, letting my body relax against his. I listen to their conversation behind closed eyes, taking in what I think is important. But soon, the soft lull of their voices has me drifting in and out of sleep.
“Are you sure you want to take her along?” I’m not sure how long I dozed on Asher’s shoulder, but the question the lawyer poses has the fog lifting and my ears perking up.
“Yes.”
The lawyer coughs uncomfortably. “Taking a warmblood to the fights is not advised, Sire,” he urges. “Especially one that is so mingled with your scents and bears your marks. Not to mention her family history. She will be a target.”
“As long as she is with us, no one would dare.” Asher’s tone is cold and deadly. A chilling frost spreading against soft blades of grass. “Nothing will happen to her.”
“You’re waving a red flag at a bull, Sires,” the last vampire says. He’s older, with graying hair. No, he’s not a vampire. He’s different from the others. I wonder idly if he’s fae, like Miriam, or something else entirely. But he can’t be a vampire. His skin is flushed, like a human, but unlike a human, his eyes have the same red tinge around the irises that vampires get when they’ve fed. Maybe he’s a dhampir. A half vampire, half human. “He will take it as a sign of war.”
“Let him,” Weylen mutters darkly. “He doesn’t control us any longer. And what’s ours does not belong to him.”
Ours.
The fairy tale in my heart springs to life again in my head, unbidden, at his words. Meanwhile, my brain is raising red flags like a maniac, telling me to see the danger, Will Robinson.
“If he figures out what you are doing with her…” He trails off. Why? What are they hiding from me?
They only want the heirloom, remember?
The sudden reminder deflates my fairy tale faster than a rhinoceros in a bounce house.
“We will deal with it.” Drystan’s tone ends the conversation with utter assuredness. “You’re all dismissed.”
The three remaining men bow their heads in deference and leave without another word. The four of us are left alone in the office. For several moments, no one speaks. The only sound is the scratch of Drystan’s pen as he signs a few documents, huffing every now and then in annoyance at what he’s seeing.
“I’ve got a meeting with the security team.” Asher sighs as he stands from the wingback chair with me in his arms. He turns and sets me gently in his place. “I want to go over the security measures and protocols for the fights.”
Drystan barely acknowledges him as he leaves, his attention elsewhere. Weylen also excuses himself, dropping a kiss to my forehead before heading out the door, shutting it firmly behind him.
And then I’m alone with Mr. Broody Vampire.
He doesn’t acknowledge me. He simply goes about his work as if I’m not there. Not wanting to draw his attention, I pull my legs up into the chair and lean back, letting my gaze roam over him as he works. Drystan doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m focused on him, and after a while, it feels as if he has forgotten me, so I unabashedly study him.
Drystan is much older than the other Kings. Not just in vampiric years. Weylen and Asher both look as if they were changed in their late twenties to early thirties, although it’s hard to tell, since becoming a vampire usually washes away most traces of age.
I say most, because with the man sitting typing away at his desk, there are still hints of graying hair threaded through his dark locks and trimmed beard. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. His hands are more gnarled and his features more distinguished than the others. I wonder how old he was when he was turned. Forty maybe? Although he doesn’t look a day past thirty. His skin is flawless, his vampiric DNA smoothing out any imperfections such as aging from his time as a human. Large muscles flex underneath his tight-fitting button-down with every move.
I wonder if he’d let me call him Daddy.
I loose a rather unladylike snort, unable to stop myself. Drystan’s hands freeze over the keyboard, and he turns to me.
“What is it you find so amusing?” he asks, unamused.
“Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
There goes my plan not to catch his attention. Now I’m a mouse caught in the gaze of a ferocious cat.
Here kitty-kitty.
Drystan raises one finely manicured brow. “And yet you did.”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? He rises from his office chair and comes to stand in front of me. His hand comes down to grip my chin firmly, turning my head from one side to the other, surveying my neck.
“They’ve fed from you.” There’s a dark glint in his eyes as he studies the marks on my neck.
