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The next morning, Brandy’s SUV bounced down the dirt driveway as she and Dylan went on their breakfast date. Reardon wished he could have joined them. Their moods had been so jovial, and he understood they were celebrating the boy’s learning success. A boy who took his studies seriously was definitely cause for merriment, and it had been a while since Reardon had been involved in any true merriment.
Besides, everything was better with Brandy and Dylan. In the time he’d spent at Silver Moon Wolf Sanctuary, Reardon had grown quite fond of both of them. He’d learned quite a bit about the Wendon family. About their dedication to one another. About their superior work ethic. About their deep concern for all things nature.
About the love that was a tangible presence on that sanctuary every single day.
Reardon had never been part of such a community. His own family had barely been functional. He’d been born out of wedlock to the town strumpet. His mother hadn’t been able to tell him who his father was with any certainty when he was a small boy. She’d pointed out several big, strapping lads when they were in town—ones that looked as if they could have carried stallions on their shoulders—and said, “Aye, he could be your father.” She’d said that so many times he’d stopped listening.
It didn’t matter anyway. He hadn’t needed a father. He’d had his mother and a younger brother—also a bastard child—and that had been family enough. He grew up quickly and discovered his size made him good at one thing and one thing only—fighting. He started out getting into small scrapes for the fun of it. Poking at trouble here. Throwing a punch there. If an altercation was happening somewhere, Reardon had a gift for sniffing it out. Literally. Raised levels of testosterone were easy to smell when you were part wolf.
Only he hadn’t known he was part wolf at the time. He believed he had a knack for being in the right place at the right time for a fight. Then one day, he came home with a terrible fever from the job he had helping a local blacksmith. His entire body ached. His very bones felt strange. His mother took one look at him and her usually smiling lips formed a grim line.
“I know who your father is.”
“I care not, Mother. I’ve told you this.” He shivered and yet his skin was clammy, his cheeks burning.
“You will care.”
Her response was cryptic, but he was too ill to make much of it. He barely heard the door to their cottage open and close. His mother was gone for what had seemed like forever while he wavered between feeling icy and fiery. His throat grew incredibly dry and an all-over itch crawled along inside his veins. He was quite certain death was near. Jaemus watched him with wary eyes from across the room as if he didn’t want to catch whatever plagued Reardon.
When his mother returned, she wasn’t alone.
“Reardon.” Her voice sounded far away, tinny. “Wake up, lad.”
He forced up his heavy eyelids and regarded his mother through fevered vision. Her image wavered as his stomach pitched. A looming shadow behind her barely registered in his mind.
“This is Zian McDade,” his mother said. “He will take care of you now.”
Before Reardon could protest, that looming shadow became a hulking man bending down and scooping him off his bed.
“Aye, I will help you with the transition, lad.” The man’s voice rumbled in the small room.
Transition?Reardon didn’t get the chance to voice his questions because his mother’s crying squeezed at his heart. She was a promiscuous woman, but she loved her boys.
“Don’t be afraid, son. Zian knows what to do.” She gripped his hand. “You will see me and Jaemus again. I promise.”
A soft kiss on his forehead and his mother turned into a retreating shape as Zian carried him out of the cottage. The hard wooden bottom slammed into his back when the mountain of a man deposited him into the back of a horse-drawn wagon.
“Where are you taking me?” he managed to choke out.
Zian paused. “A safe place.” Without elaboration, the man climbed onto the wagon, clicked his tongue once, and guided the horses out of the town, away from people, away from his mother, his brother, the life he knew.
They rode for most of the night from what Reardon could tell. He wavered in and out of consciousness, but when the wagon finally halted, he sat up and looked around. Trees stretched out in every direction and the night was pitch black.
And yet, Reardon was able to see perfectly. The details of tree bark were crystal clear. Each feather on a night owl perched high on a branch was visible. The stars were touchable so great was their clarity.
“What is this place?” The question came out on a whisper.
Zian helped him out of the wagon. “It is our sacred space.”
“Our?” Reardon’s legs wobbled and his head swayed.
“I am part of a brethren as old as these trees.” Zian spread his arms out to encompass the woods surrounding them. “A brethren of special men.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Reardon put his hands on his head to stop the spinning. It didn’t work. “I’m nothing special. I’m no one.”
Zian shook his head, a mane of black hair swishing around his shoulders. “You are my son. My Seventh Son, more specifically.”
Reardon’s eyes widened. “You have seven sons?”
