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Paxton’s gasp echoed. The kid stumbled forward in shock.
Travis met Roman’s stare. Smiled a little—a smile that made Roman feel like he was looking in a mirror. “Hey,” Travis said, tossing him a sheepish wave.
Roman ground his teeth, his free hand curling into a fist. “Travis, I’m going to fucking kill you.”
A lot had happened back in Angelthene. A lot here in Yveswich, too, Ivy recounting everything that’d happened on their side, giving Darien a chance to breathe, to work on loosening his sore, taut muscles.
Where he sat at one end of the dining room table, Darien tried to focus as the others launched into their explanations, Ivy having finished with theirs a few minutes ago. Tried to think through the exhaustion fogging up his mind. The others had the habit of speaking over each other, so Darien only caught bits and pieces of information—enough to conclude that his family had made the right decision in coming here. They were better together, and had they stayed in Angelthene after the imperator and Gaven had made attempts on their lives, it wouldn’t have been good.
Loren was perched on the seat beside Darien’s, her hands clasped in her lap, the charms on her bracelet glimmering like rosy stars. She was still in her bathing suit, though he’d given her one of his clean shirts to wear for the time being, her body drowning in the fabric. As for himself, he’d pulled on a shirt too, after Arthur had removed the glass from his wounds and stopped the bleeding. No one else had any injuries that needed more than a few stitches or bandages, thank fuck.
As he listened to his family and friends, he kept an eye on Loren, his attention drifting every now and again to the bandages taped to her hip—the claw marks from that demon. It was already dead, but Darien felt like finding its wretched corpse and ripping it to bloody shreds with his bare hands. Loren, at least, hadn’t needed stitches—the best possible outcome from this shitstorm of a night, and his inability to get to her when she’d needed him most. But he still couldn’t stop worrying about her, couldn’t stop staring at her like some stalker. Every once in a while, her big eyes would meet his before darting away again, blush dusting her cheeks.
“Hold on,” Darien said, interrupting a loud argument that’d started between Travis and Malakai—a stupid one that served no purpose, other than to apparently give Darien a splitting headache. “Where,” Darien said, his gaze picking apart the group, his breaths coming faster, “is Mortifer?”
Nobody had time to answer.
Because three vehicles pulled up outside. And Roman’s face paled.
“Would you look at this?” boomed a deep, husky voice. A voice Darien hadn’t heard in many years. “Would you just fucking look at this.”
Donovan Slade stood in the doorway, flanked by nine Shadowmasters. He looked so much like Randal, Darien couldn’t stop his stomach from twisting into knots, his heart beating just as rapidly as it had the moment Loren had baited those monsters into the steam room. When she had crashed into the pool with one on top of her.
He faced his uncle in silence. Not knowing what to do, how to react, whether to talk through whatever bullshit accusations came their way or just start ripping into Donovan and his men and hope for the best.
But this was the worst timing for option two. Darien’s body was spent, his mind ready to shut down, his bloodstream screaming for a hit of Venom. If he had to fight again, he wasn’t sure he would win.
But he had people to protect. He stood at the head of the group, the others—Ivy, Tanner, Jack, Kylar, Lace, Maximus, and Dallas—flanking him. At the back of the group, partially hidden from sight, were Paxton and Eugene. Roman had taken the opportunity to hide Shay and Travis, insisting Arthur, Malakai, and Jewels hid, too—with Loren, of course. There was no chance in hell Darien was letting Donovan set his eyes on Loren, the only mortal in their group and the light in Darien’s life.
Roman still hadn’t come back. Darien trusted his cousin was doing a good job concealing the others from Donovan’s prying eyes.
“Is this a fucking family reunion or something?” Don’s harsh voice scraped through the room—another thing that reminded Darien of Randal. And from the sound of Ivy’s heart skipping a beat, his sister felt the same way. Donovan added, the words coated with a threat, “And no one thought to invite me.”
Max tried, “We just got to town an hour ago—”
“That’s not what my people tell me,” Donovan challenged. Behind him stood Blaine and Larina Barlowe. When Darien met the latter’s stare, her sensual lips curved with a smile as cold as Donovan’s.
Bitch.
“Where,” Don said, his hostile eyes sweeping about the group, “is Roman?”
No one said anything.
Darien was the one who answered—speaking before Don could detonate. “In case you didn’t notice, we just had a blackout,” Darien said, hoping to buy Roman some time without completely offending his uncle right off the bat.
Of course Donovan would choose to be offended by such a simple statement, his mouth curving with a cruel smile.
Great. Just great.
“I noticed,” Donovan said with deadly, exaggerated patience, his eyes fixed on Darien. “Do you want to know what else I noticed more? That my sons,” his upper lip curled in disgust, “failed to inform their father about this house.” He spread his arms. “This beautiful, magnificent house.”
A beat of tense silence fell.
“Chose,” Donovan continued, the volume of his voice growing with every word, “to keep it a secret from me.”
Nobody dared speak. Not even Darien.
“Where,” Donovan repeated with a baring of teeth, the many hearts in the room pounding like drumbeats, “is Roman?”
