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My stomach rumbles, causing Weylen to chuckle as he helps me out of bed.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” he tells me, pressing another kiss to my lips. I watch as he leaves, butterflies fluttering about in my chest at the hopeful feeling he’s left me with. Maybe Evan is wrong about their intentions. Or maybe he said it to pit me against them when, for all this time, their intentions have been real. That they took me because they wanted me to be theirs.
I know it’s foolish to hope, but that’s what I do. Still, I need to make sure that I don’t simply fall for their sudden change. Or Weylen’s sudden change, at least. I refuse to be that naïve.
After Weylen leaves, I jump in the shower to quickly clean off the remnants of last night and this morning. I’m not ashamed, but I’m feeling rather sticky in some uncomfortable places. A girl has got to feel clean to feel good. Even if the thought of their cum still lingering on my skin is making me hot and bothered for more.
Down, girl.
It’s Sunday, so I dress down in leggings and a simple T-shirt, hoping they don’t have anything planned. I pull on my sneakers, making sure to remind myself that I need to go for a run if they will let me. Doesn’t have to be anything crazy. Even a few laps around the garden will help to curb the excess energy burning through me this morning.
Wrangling my messy hair into a quick bun at the top of my head, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen, pausing by the blade on the mantel. I’ve stopped to examine it each time I’ve come out of my room. It’s hard not to want to stare and admire it. It deserves to be admired, after all. The craftsmanship, even after all these years, is still stunning.
“It was my sword.” Weylen’s voice causes me to jump. I didn’t hear his approach.
“It’s magnificent. But I already told you that.” I’ve been wondering about Weylen’s history since I came to the mansion. Drystan’s is fairly evident. At least, where he came from is. The glimpse he gave me into his past helped to solidify what I believed, but I was still off on many things.
Like his age.
Asher hasn’t spoken about his past at all, not that we’ve had much time together that doesn’t revolve around him fucking me in one form or another. Weylen, despite being the quiet one, is the only King besides Drystan who has held a full conversation with me.
Despite the mahogany-skinned god having never shared anything about where he came from, Asher’s past is easier to decipher. It started with the accent. It’s French, but there’s a lilt to it that harshens the words, making them more southern. That tells me he’s not necessarily from France but somewhere occupied by French forces. The southern lilt to his accent tells me it’s here in America and most likely from the territory of Louisiana.
Louisiana in the 1720s wasn’t like Louisiana today. In fact, what the French called Louisiana took up about fifteen modern states, which were ceded to Spain in 1762. It took me a few days to catalogue this room and figure out how it’s all laid out, but I finally put it together the other day. The wall with the mantel is Weylen’s story, the sword being at the center of it.
The wall to the left, with the entryway to the stairs to my room, is Asher’s, and the wall opposite of Weylen’s is Drystan’s. I know this because most of the memorabilia is Middle Eastern in origin.
“It was crafted by my brother, Sven, when I came back with the first boat of treasure from Tarkhan, or England, as we learned to call it later on.” His hands go into the pockets of his gray sweats as he leans against the wide doorframe. “Our people were dying. Brothers were killing brothers in a desperate attempt to gain land for crops and growth. Villages were at each other’s throats. We lost so many over the years.”
“You brought them together,” I surmise. “I remember reading about a young Viking who became the first known king of his land. United dozens of villages under his command. They lived bountifully for generations. History calls him the King of all Kings.”
Weylen snorts, like none of it’s true. Maybe it isn’t. I wasn’t there, and neither were those historians. Still, evidence of his great deeds survives even to this day. Something I don’t have to tell him is that they also call him the forgotten king. The one history wanted to erase. One day, he was king, and the next, he was gone, and no one has ever found the reason why.
Until now.
I don’t have to have lived his life to know that his disappearance has something to do with his immortality. And he confirms that for me with his next words.
“We sailed even farther than England, across the great sea, to the unknown land.”
He’s talking about America. Evidence of Viking voyages has been found in Canada near Newfoundland, the place where Leif Erikson was said to have landed before Columbus made his “discovery.”
“When we stepped ashore, we found more than just one enemy. Many of my people died of unknown causes within the first few weeks, some within days. We thought a curse had been cast upon the land.”
That makes sense, since diseases hadn’t really been studied in that time.
“Then the pale ones came,” he continues. “Hordes of them with chalky gray skin and blood-red eyes.”
The lines on my forehead deepen at what he says. “Vampires?” I ask curiously, but that doesn’t sound like the ones I’ve seen. Sure, they’re pale, and their eyes have a tint of red that sometimes makes the hazel look more amber, but they aren’t blood red.
“Strigoi,” he snarls viciously. “The worst of our kind.”
Flashes of my nightmare the other night bombard my mind.
“They’re hybrids, right?” A lump forms in my throat that I can’t push back. “Not vampires but not dhampir either.”
Weylen’s gaze shifts to me, his eyes widening at my words. “How do you know about dhampir and strigoi?” he asks.
“I read about them,” I hedge, but the look he gives me tells me he doesn’t believe my lie.
