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“I wouldn’t be much of a doctor if I didn’t see the job through to the end,” Everard scoffed. As he spoke, Sorin’s wounds began to close. “I will heal him, and I will do it properly, but I insist that you remove the gun. I may not fully understand why it is you’re insisting I save this wretched thing’s life, but I am not about to run out on you. I imagine you have your reasons, you and Father both.” Everard reached over Sorin’s body and snapped his broken arm back into place, then infused it with magic that began to repair the injury from the inside out.
Out of respect for him, Bertram lowered his weapon.
“I will say this, though,” Everard continued on to say. “All of this mystery is getting rather old. It was fine before, when you were out and about doing lord knows what on Father’s behalf far away from here, but now that you’ve brought it home, it has become exhausting. First Reynard’s clutch, then the disaster that was Hugh’s not-so-secret ball, and now this? Misha has been by my lair several times, spouting wild hypotheses about things that may or may not be true, and while my delectable powdered donut remains blissfully unaffected by his fearmongering, I am not so sure I can say the same about Steve. He seems about as disconcerted as a lizard can be, and it will only be a matter of time before his father notices and becomes disconcerted himself. So I guess, all that to say,” Everard looked up from Sorin’s arm as it creaked and cracked, its bones stitching themselves back together, “should I be afraid of you, brother? Or are you still on our side?”
Heavy-hearted, Bertram slid his weapon back into its holster. “I have no ill will toward you, Everard. Nor do I toward any of our brothers.”
“That does not answer my question.”
“Then let me state it plainly: you do not have to be afraid of me.”
Everything was silent for a moment, with the exception of Sorin’s healing bones. “But are you on our side, Bertram?” Everard asked at last, his expression more somber than Bertram had seen it before. “Are you still a Drake?”
“I will always be a Drake.”
Sorin stirred, groaning softly in pain, distracting both Bertram and Everard from their conversation. Everard had succeeded in stitching his open wounds back together, but his arm had yet to fully heal—bones were tricky things to get to cooperate, not nearly as easy to put back in one piece as muscle or skin, and typically required more time.
But there was no time left.
As Everard leaned over Sorin, waving a hand in front of his face to see if he’d react, two things happened almost simultaneously: Sorin’s brow furrowed as if in pain or perhaps panic, and Everard’s nose started to bleed.
The horror of the situation clenched in Bertram’s throat.
Not knowing what else to do to keep Everard safe, he butted him out of the way and scooped Sorin into his arms. Everard let out a plaintive cry at the mistreatment and fell onto his ass. “Really, brother?” he grumbled. “Would it have killed you to have used your words?”
Bertram eyed Everard’s bloody nose and was relieved to see it was not getting any worse. “No,” he said, and held Sorin closer to his chest. “But it very well could have killed you.”
Everard’s confusion was palpable, but Bertram did not have time to explain, for Sorin stirred again. He pushed his cheek against Bertram’s chest and clutched loosely at his shirt like he was a scared child seeking comfort.
Protect, Bertram’s dragon demanded.
And Bertram would—Sorin and Everard both.
“I wish I could tell you the truth,” he said as he turned his back on Everard, hoping that if Sorin fully came to, his body would act as a shield between his brother and certain death. “I am sick of harboring secrets. But there is too much you don’t know, and too much that has gone wrong—so much, I fear not even I know the full extent of it. But now that I have him in my custody, all shall be well. I vow it.”
Bertram started walking, knowing the more distance he put between Sorin and his brother, the better. Everard did not try to stop him. He did not so much as move. Bertram didn’t hear the crunch of grass beneath his shoes or the shuffle of fabric as he rose to his feet.
What he did hear was far more impactful.
“I recognize the scent he’s wearing,” Everard said quietly, bringing Bertram to a complete and sudden stop. “It’s honeysuckle, isn’t it? Before the progression of modern medicine, it was used to detract from the smell of an omega’s heat… but heat isn’t the only scent it masks, is it?”
Bertram’s breath caught in his throat.
“I must go,” he said, knowing his silence would speak for him.
He carried Sorin out of the atrium, strapped him into the BMW, and, without a glance back at his brother’s estate, drove away.
* * *
The automatic doors parted as Bertram approached, granting him entrance into the bright and airy lobby of the Oracle Point Hotel. Like Bertram’s suite, the hotel was garishly modern and lacking soul, but there was one important difference between it and where Bertram had been staying—this place was not affiliated with the council.
Bertram’s father would not know he was here.
At least, not right away.
With that small assurance in mind, Bertram crossed the lobby to the front desk, where a pretty young woman was on duty. She looked up from the hotel’s monitor as he approached, a customer service smile plastered on her face, but her cheerfulness decayed the moment she laid eyes on him.
He supposed it was to be expected.
