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I should have killed this monster when I had the chance—screw my moral code. There is nothing good or worthy about this man. He’s a spoiled sociopath who would have been dead a long time ago from sheer stupidity if his father hadn’t hired a fleet of men to protect his idiot offspring.
Pax doesn’t have street smarts or book smarts.
The only thing he’s truly good at is causing pain.
But I can take comfort in knowing he won’t be causing me any more pain or suffering. And he won’t be putting babies in me or anyone else.
The knowledge rises from that well of truth inside, and I purr, “You can fuck all you want, buddy, but you’re shooting blanks. You’re never going to be a daddy. Your line ends with you.” As soon as the last word is out, my eyes blaze bright gold behind the green.
A laugh burbles from my lips. I’m delighted by the way I’m connecting to my gift, learning to sense it and communicate with it, but Pax clearly thinks I’m laughing at him.
Which is just fine by me.
As he lets forth a flood of increasingly vicious threats, I pull the phone away from my ear, call out, “Your dick is way smaller than average, too. In case you were wondering,” and hang up, still grinning.
I have no idea if that’s true, but I know the insult will torture Pax until the end of his days. And I do know he’s smaller than the two other cocks I’ve seen in my life. Zeke’s was at least an inch longer and Maxim’s…
Well, Maxim has a fucking monster between his legs, which is fitting. A monster dick for the monster prick calling the shots in this tower.
But maybe not for long…
Smile fading, I look into the mirror, a little afraid by what I might find there. But when I meet my gaze, there’s no glow. But there’s no invisible shield either and nothing flows from that well of wisdom inside me.
Maxim’s destiny isn’t certain yet. And neither is mine.
But I know more than I did before, and I’m betting at least one person in this tower would be interested in hearing my thoughts about prophecies and power and how far I’m willing to go to make sure I never help crown a monster. Pax said all the top level alphas know about this prophecy.
Time to see if that’s true…
I pick up the phone again, dialing the tower operator. When he answers, I say, “Could you connect me with Jukebox Thorn, please? Tell him it’s about his future grandchild.” When the sputtering operator asks me to hold, I coo, “Of course, not a problem,” and sit down on the edge of the desk to wait for Jukebox to answer.
I sense he won’t keep me waiting long.
Chapter Six
Maxim
I sleep for just a few hours—plagued by nightmares filled with explosions and bloodied swords and the sound of Willow weeping at my feet—and awake more exhausted than I was before.
But as soon as I settle at my desk with a cup of coffee and a binder of prophecy intelligence Maggie pulled together so swiftly that I suspect she’s been preparing for this potentiality longer than a few hours, the synapses begin to fire. I read everything through once to get an overview of the situation and then go back to the beginning, jotting down notes of the most pertinent pieces of information as I go.
And then I sketch out a rough response plan.
The quickest way to defuse this situation?
Prove the prophecy wrong and suck the air out of the crazy peoples’ hope balloons. The fact that my brother is likely one of the crazy people is troubling, but upon further consideration, not entirely surprising. I worshipped Bane growing up and have missed him every day since he left, but my brother…
Well, self-esteem was never a problem for him.
Bane thought a lot of himself.
If they’d had a category for “Most Likely to Believe He Deserves to Be Crowned King of the World” in the high school yearbook, Bane would have won, hands down.
Still, the fact that he put our people at risk with that explosion doesn’t sit well. That’s not the man I knew, and I can’t stomach holding him responsible for that kind of violence without more evidence. The penalty for acts of terror perpetrated upon our people is death. I won’t put a price on my brother’s head unless I know for damned sure he’s to blame.
By the time I finish with my preparation, it’s nearly two in the afternoon. I emerge from my office to see a frantic expression on Samantha, my secretary’s, face and a pile of messages by her phone.
“Your father’s been calling every fifteen minutes,” she says, pushing the stack of notes across her desk. “Last time he threatened to come up here and put me in a time out if I didn’t go in and get you.”
