Page 77
I see it in his eyes. The tightening at the corners of his mouth. I see it in the way his fingers curl and uncurl, and his gaze flits around the cell wildly, the intrusive thoughts creeping in and making it impossible to focus.
He’s confused. Searching for something he’ll never find. A lost little boy, pretending he knows his way home and refusing to admit—even to himself—that somewhere along the way, he took one too many wrong turns.
My Beast recognizes it as easily as I do. He salivates, canines dripping as he paces back and forth, poised to strike. I lean into that feeling and slide across the cell, erasing the distance between us.
“I asked you a question.”
“What—what question?”
I soften my expression, throwing him a lifeline. “Who says Idril can’t be Fated to both of us?”
“Who says—” He shakes his head, like he’s trying to force his thoughts to rearrange. He takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “Tell me something, Soren. Have you ever met a human Fated to a Supernatural?”
The way he slips into lecture mode makes sense. This is probably where he feels most comfortable. Confident. The male who explains every scientific, historical, and psychological nuance to everyone else. I play along, allowing him to relax in his illusion of superiority.
“Of course. My Omega cousin is Mated to a human Alpha. They’ve been Bonded for half a century.”
Daxen stands straighter, clasping his hands behind his back like a professor in a lecture hall. I force my lips not to twitch as he continues.
“Have you ever known a whole Pack of Supernaturals—vampires or wolven—who Mated with a human?”
I feign confusion, like I’m unsure what point he’s trying to make.
“Well, no,” I admit, then hurriedly add, “But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.”
He inclines his head, like he’s magnanimously conceding my point.
This fucking idiot is so used to being the smartest male in the room, he’s never even considered the possibility that a room exists where he’s not.
“Fair enough,” he replies in the most insufferable tone imaginable. “But what about a wolven Omega Mated to a human Alpha and a vampire Alpha?”
This guy is on my last nerve. He does realize I was fucking there when he went through this the first time, right? I really, really hope he never has children, and if he does, someone bans him from helping with homework. Otherwise, the poor kid will drop out by the first grade.
I start to respond, but he cuts me off. Apparently the question was rhetorical.
This male is insufferable.
“The answer is no, you haven’t. There are no cases in the wolven archives, the vampire annals, or what passes for the humans’ historical records. There’s never even been a rumor of an Omega claiming two Fated Mates of different Species. Not in thousands of years of written and oral history. Again—it’s impossible.”
By the Mother, how does his Pack put up with him? He’d try the patience of a Saint!
“Improbability and impossibility are separate, distinct shades of plausibility.”
Daxen hums. His eyes fill with pity. “You Scent-Matched to that Omega, and now you believe her every word without question. Why?”
“Watch it, Daxen,” I warn.
“Believe it or not, I’m trying to help you.”
I’m sure this has nothing to do with the way he’s frantically grasping at the threads of his own logic. I don’t know why or when, but something in this male shifted. Whether it was a single event or a thousand little moments doesn’t matter to me. I’m not doing this for him; I’m doing it for Idril.
He’s had fun playing his little patronizing game.
Now it’s my turn.
“What if you’re wrong?” I keep my tone calm and curious, not the slightest bit combative. It’s clear that Daxen’s world is built on empirical, objective, evidence-based thought and reasoning—selective as it may be. And he doesn’t even realize how much of a disadvantage that is, going through life with all the confidence of a male who truly believes the rest of the world adheres to the same rules—just because some asshole published a study in a textbook.
“What do you mean ‘what if I’m wrong?’”
