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His phone chimed cheerfully with a text.
It was from Grimbold.
A verdict had been reached.
The council had voted in Alistair’s favor—his clutch was saved—but Bertram’s job was far from over. The Topaz clan was not happy, and they would be out for blood. Kalfken’s outburst guaranteed it.
* * *
With business adjourned, the council went their separate ways, taking their agents with them. Piers and Merewin returned to Europe to oversee matters abroad, but upon Grimbold’s request, Bertram remained in America. While Alistair’s clutch had been sanctioned, the Topaz clan were up in arms, and there was no telling what they might do in revenge. Bertram, therefore, was given a mission: keep Alistair’s clutch safe.
As far as missions went, it was easy. All he had to do was keep an eye on Alistair’s small and surprisingly defendable lair. But the issue wasn’t that it was easy—it was that spending the majority of his day sitting quietly in a rental car while he watched people come and go from Oracle Point Towers gave him too much time to think.
And like always when his mind was idle, he thought of Sorin.
What was he doing now?
Where was he staying?
Was he safe?
It killed him that he didn’t know.
He hadn’t seen Sorin in a few years—the Vanguard had been keeping Sorin busy in Europe, and Bertram hadn’t been able to escape his duty long enough to sneak away overseas—and while technology had advanced in leaps and bounds since they’d first met each other, so too had the ways people could eavesdrop. It was far too easy to tap a phone call, and text messages were such an insecure method of communication, they might as well have been public confessions of guilt. The safest way to stay in touch was snail mail, and while Bertram had secret PO boxes solely for the purpose of keeping in touch with Sorin and the Vanguard, it had been quite some time since Sorin’s last letter.
Should he try writing again?
He daydreamed about what he would write as he kept vigil outside Alistair’s penthouse, and began composing his letter in his head as he followed Alistair’s nestler-carrying mate to Sebastian’s lair, where he found a group of Topaz goons lying in wait. They were easy enough to dispose of—thank god—and only a few made it into Sebastian’s atrium that day. Few enough that Sebastian was able to deal with them, and all eggs, whelps, and lizards made it out unscathed.
Bertram disposed of the bodies and left the scene without being detected, then made a report to his father and retook his post outside Alistair’s lair. He was tired, but it was possible this was the first of a two-pronged attack, and he couldn’t afford to leave until he knew that Alistair and his clutch were safe. Teetering on the edge of sleep, sipping black coffee that had gone cold hours ago, he thought of Sorin opening his letter and smiling. They were too far apart for him to feel any emotion through the mate bond, but he imagined the little shiver of quiet happiness Sorin might feel in that moment. The way his heart might skip with joy, knowing that after all these years forced to live apart, he was still loved.
Bleary-eyed and delirious from monitoring Alistair’s lair overnight, Bertram rewarded himself for a job well done with a trip to his PO box the next morning, where, to his delight, he discovered a letter waiting.
It was from Sorin and had been postmarked in Russia.
Giddy, Bertram put his back to the cold box doors and pried the envelope open with his thumb, but his excitement didn’t last long—Sorin’s handwriting was jagged and erratic, and in some places he’d scratched words out so violently, he’d torn through the paper.
There was only one thing such sloppiness could mean.
Heart sinking, Bertram smoothed the torn edges of the paper down into place and started to read.
B—
We’re in Russia now, conducting an investigation. Tell me you’ll come find me soon. I don’t know how much longer I can stand being without you.
I need you.
I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
Please help me. Please find me. Please. I’m trying to be strong, but it feels like I’m breaking inside. I don’t know what else to do. My head is worse than ever, and nothing helps. The only time I ever feel like I can breathe is when I’m with you.
The letter ended there, as abrupt and jarring as Sorin’s handwriting. It made Bertram’s heart ache. He wanted to be there for Sorin—to love him, and keep him safe—but what was he to do? If he left, not only would Alistair’s clutch be in danger, but he would be deserting his position. The council would send its agents after him, and even with Piers’s help, he would not escape them for long. They would find him, and they would discover the Vanguard and realize he was a traitor, and then everything would come undone.
He would die, and Sorin would die with him.
The Vanguard would fall apart, and nothing would ever change.
The Pedigree would go on, unchallenged, and the abused omegas caught up within it would be left to forever suffer.
