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From the driver seat of his rental car, parked opposite Marduke Brand’s estate, he wrote to Sorin about the continued conversations he’d had with his father urging him to cancel the experiment.
But Sorin did not reply.
From brunch tables in crowded restaurants and the counters of swanky bars, he put to paper ideas about how the Vanguard could convince the council to abolish the Pedigree without violence should the experiment produce results.
But Sorin did not reply.
While sitting in a bush outside of Ian Brand’s bedroom window, he tried to write about how there was still hope for those trapped in the Pedigree, but was too distracted—and horrified—by the loud debauchery happening on the other side of the wall.
It turned out one of the Brands was plotting to do unspeakable things to a member of the Drake family, and Bertram had never wished for anything more than to strike that particular piece of intel from his mind.
But while Sorin never replied, it seemed as though Bertram’s letters were getting through to him. The Vanguard did not burst out of the shadows with their guns blazing, and although the experiment had begun, none of the omega candidates went mysteriously missing.
Perhaps Sorin would get in touch soon to discuss how to best proceed.
Bertram, more hopeful than he’d been in quite a long time, clung to that hope, and when one day, during a mission to investigate some shady business going on with Marduke Brand, an unlisted number called his phone, he answered immediately, sure that Sorin would be on the other end of the line.
But it wasn’t Sorin.
It was Grimbold.
“Come home, child,” he said, voice far graver than Bertram had ever heard it before. “Reynard has bonded with his omega, and we fear they both shall die.”
* * *
The benefit of being a wealthy reptile was that, at any given moment, a literal mountain of wealth was at your disposal, and it made just about anything possible. Within five minutes of Grimbold’s phone call, Bertram chartered a private jet from Los Angeles to Aurora. Seven minutes after that, he buckled himself into the back of a town car and told the driver to go. Air traffic control was none too pleased to have to alter their schedules on such short notice to allow his jet to fly, but Bertram was able to grease enough palms that it didn’t matter what anyone thought.
He was getting on that plane.
The flight took just shy of four hours. Bertram spent it glued to his phone, waiting for updates that never came. The only time he wasn’t obsessively checking his phone was when the flight attendant came to check on him. First, it was to bring him a stiff drink—he’d requested it upon entering the aircraft. Next, it was to see if he was interested in a complimentary charcuterie spread.
He was not.
The third time the flight attendant approached, they were on their descent into Aurora.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in his best customer service voice. “We’ll be landing in fifteen minutes. Please make sure to keep your seat belt on and your seat in an upright position. At this time, I’d like to invite you to put all electronic devices away. If you need to book transportation between the airport and your intended destination, I’d be happy to do so for you. Please provide me with an address, and I’ll make sure a car is waiting for you upon your arrival.”
Bertram was not rude by nature, but he’d been understandably distracted each time the flight attendant had been by to see him. This time, though, he gave him a thorough look.
The flight attendant was a young man. An omega, by the smell of him. Nineteen, maybe twenty, if that. He was on the short side—around five foot six, if Bertram was any judge—and slender, with stylishly cut auburn hair and shocking sapphire eyes, which right now were sweet as could be, but that were edged with just enough sharpness for Bertram to take note. He was professionally dressed in a pair of black slacks and a crisp white shirt, its top button undone, but strangely, he was not wearing an ascot or any company-branded pins.
Interesting.
“Thank you,” Bertram said politely, “but I’ve already arranged for a car.”
The omega bowed his head. “Of course. Please let me know if there’s any other way I can be of service. Enjoy the rest of the flight.”
The attendant turned and left, buckling himself into the seat near the cabin door, and Bertram went back to checking his phone in five-minute intervals, both hoping and not hoping for news of Reynard and his mate.
The plane landed without incident, and Bertram and the crew disembarked. Bertram casually fell in line with the flight attendant on his way off the tarmac and, before they could split ways inside the airport proper, discreetly grabbed onto the back of his shirt and steered him away from the pilot and copilot, both of whom continued on as if they didn’t care.
“You,” Bertram said in a quiet voice as they walked toward the exit, “are coming with me, little bird. You may not be my Raven, but I know one of my own when I see them.”
“Let go of me,” the omega hissed, dropping the customer service act. “Or I’ll scream.”
“And if you do, you can rest assured that I will give you a reason to want to.”
The omega’s shoulders tensed, and he glared at Bertram, but said nothing.
