It wasn’t a request. Ren slumped into the chair in front of the desk. The leather creaked under his weight. His hands were shaking, and he hid them beneath his thighs.
“What happened?”
Brody walked around the desk. He didn’t sit down. He stood there, looking down at him, and the difference in height between them had never felt so brutal.
“Zev intercepted communications this morning. Your father and your brother have been on the move for days.”
“On the move, how?”
“Looking for you.”
Ren’s heart raced. For a moment—just a moment, brief and foolish and hopeful—he thought they were looking for him to bring him home. That they’d reconsidered. That Julian Valois had looked in the mirror and felt the shame a father must feel when he sells his own son.
Brody must have read the hope on his face because he looked away.
“It’s not what you think.”
“Tell me.”
Zev spoke from the bookshelf, his voice flat and clinical:
“They’ve made a deal with Malachi. The buyer, Reznov, demanded they hand over what he bought or give him his money back. Your family doesn’t have the seven hundred thousand. So they signed a deal with Malachi.”
“For what?”
“They’ve put a price on your head.” Zev pulled a phone from his pocket and swiped his finger across the screen. “Dead or alive. They prefer dead, because that way Reznov can’t claim the merchandise and the contract is voided due to force majeure.”
The words entered Ren’s ears one by one, like drops of acid. Dead or alive. They prefer dead. His father. His brother.
“No.” The word came out hoarse, torn from somewhere Ren didn’t recognize. “That can’t…”
“There’s an order circulating among Malachi’s men. One hundred thousand for you, delivered dead. Fifty if you’re alive, but alive means returning you to Reznov, and your family would have to pay a penalty.” Zev recited the numbers as if they werestatistics from a weather report. ”The math benefits them if you’re dead.”
Ren doubled over. His stomach clenched so tightly he thought he was going to vomit right there on the wooden floor of Brody’s office. He dug his fingers into his thighs until his knuckles turned white.
His father.
Julian Valois, who taught him to ride a horse when he was six. Who took him to the theater to see The Nutcracker every Christmas until he turned twelve. Who bought him adventure books at downtown bookstores and let him pick three each time.
That same man would rather see him in a body bag than on the run.
“Ren.” Brody’s voice, closer now. He didn’t touch him, but Ren felt his warmth inches from his back.
“And my brother?” The question came out hollow. He knew the answer before he asked it.
“He signed too,” Zev confirmed.
Ren closed his eyes. The tears didn’t come. It was as if his body had decided there was no liquid left to shed, that the supply had run out days ago, that all that remained was that abrasive dryness behind his eyelids.
His brother. Andrew. His damn older brother who was supposed to protect him. Who looked at him with that mixture of pity and contempt every time Julian lent his out for a night, as if Ren were to blame for being born an omega into a family that treated him like a bargaining chip.
“How long have they been…?”
“Since the day after the auction,” Zev said. “Malachi contacted your father that very night when they discovered you’d escaped. Your father offered to cooperate immediately.”
Immediately. Without hesitation. Without a moment’s hesitation.
Ren opened his eyes and looked ahead. The map on the desk. Lines, marks, names. His gaze slid over the papers without really seeing them until a name caught his eye like a hook.
