My head feels ready to split apart. The pressure is so immense I can almost feel Darius's mental fingers wrapped around my brain, squeezing tighter with every passing second. I sit as motionless as a statue, exactly as he'd taught me, breathing so slowly that even my heartbeat softens into a quiet, measured rhythm. When the pressure finally becomes unbearable, I force the words out one painstaking syllable at a time.
"What... would you do, Darius... if I accused you... of being a sycophantic rantallion?"
After long seconds of silence, I'm convinced he either didn't hear the insult or has decided I'm not worth answering. Then the crushing pressure eases when replies in his calm, deep voice, “I should call you a windy-wallets, one who speaks overmuch and boasts of nothing worth telling.”
I grin because the stolen seconds are enough. I drag in a deep breath and shove back against his weakened grip. My mind pushes outward, stretching farther and farther until, with a sudden snap, it breaks free of his hold.
My eyes fly open.
"Yes!" I whoop, throwing both fists into the air. The shout startles a flock of Therian birds from the sentinel trees surrounding the clearing, their wings exploding into the night as they scatter overhead. Darius merely watches me, his pale, almost colorless eyes as detached as ever.
“How long?” I demand excitedly, jumping from one leg to the other. He turns and walks away without answering. I follow, laughing. “Come on, Darius! How long was it this time?” He stops so abruptly that I nearly collide with him. I hop back, still grinning, then deliberately arch my eyebrow in imitation of his while he waits for me to settle.
"One hundred fifty-three minutes and twenty-eight-point-six seconds," he says at last. I squeal. It's my shortest time under his mental hold. Three and a half hours still sounds insane, but it's nearly two hours less than the last time we'd practiced this exercise.
"How's that for a windy-wallets?" I declare. The left side of his lip twitches, but doesn’t quite stretch into a full smile. Hell, I’ll take the twitch.
"Wherever did you come by such nineteenth-century vulgarities?" he asks. I laugh because he already knows the answer. "Let me hazard a guess," he says dryly. "Reagan."
I laugh even harder, pull my phone from my sweatpants, and snap a selfie. Naturally, Darius's beautiful, almost ethereal figure doesn't appear in the photo. Vampires and cameras don't mix.
Guess which rantallion just got beat by a windy-wallets! I text.
“She is attending her lessons,” Darius announces.
I snort. "And how would you know? She's in another country with a five-hour time difference. Just because it's almost eleven at night here doesn't mean she's in class at six in the evening. Who even has class at six in the evening?"
"She does. Run along now and play with your mongrel.”
Jaeger stalks toward him, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest. As he passes, I rake my fingers through his fur from head to tail. He slows, then stops beside me, every muscle rigid.
"Don't let that old fart get under your skin," I stage-whisper. "He's just jealous because you get to play with me while he has to do all the mental work." I wink at Darius. He raises one eyebrow, and I raise mine right back.
I smile widely when the ping on my cell breaks the silence, then read Reagan’s text aloud: As if Gollum were any match to you.
Darius's pale eyes flash crimson for the briefest instant, and I wonder whether I’d imagined or if it a trick of the blood-red moon hanging overhead. I'm about to bust his balls for letting that icy composure slip when Papa appears in the doorway between the kitchen and the backyard.
“How did she fare, Lord Darius?” I suppress an eye roll. Papa insists on addressing the vampire like nobility, even though Darius is far more my tutor than my lord. I'd argued the point often enough over the years to know it was a losing battle.
While Darius delivers his progress report, I study Papa. The change steals the smile from my face. He’s aged poorly and far too quickly. I remember a broad-shouldered man with laugh lines permanently etched around his eyes and a thick head of blond hair that stood in sharp contrast to Mama's dark curls. Now he's painfully thin, his cheeks hollow, his once-golden hair faded to wispy gray. Deep lines crease his face, mapping every sleepless night and every year he'd spent trying to protect me.
“Are you ready for another bout with Darius?” Papa asks. My eyes widen before I catch the teasing glint in his expression. Laughing, I step into his embrace.
"I'm afraid he'll fry my brain this time," I say. "I insulted him using Victorian vulgarities."
"Dee-Dee!" Papa scolds.
I giggle.
“Dee-Dee!” he declares, and I giggle. He’s the only one who still calls me that. Then again, the only other person I regularly talk to is Reagan. She calls me Queenie as though it's an insult, while I call her Witch with equal affection disguised as mock offense. Darius doesn't call me anything. He never even says my name. He simply speaks.
When Papa lets me go, the amusement fades from his face. “Don’t sleep too late. You have a meeting with one of my friends tomorrow.”
“What?” I declare in shock. I almost never meet Papa's friends. I rarely even leave the cabin except to visit Reagan, and that's only after sunset so Darius can accompany me. That's how the two of them know each other, and why they despise one another with a passion I neither understand nor care to get involved in.
Papa’s eyes quickly turn to Darius. The air around the vampire seems to grow even colder, a sharp contrast to the increasing heat radiating from Jaeger's body beside me. He brings his attention back to me and smiles stiffly. It unsettles me more than if he hadn't smiled at all.
I blink hard, forcing away the memories of the boy who stole my heart and never gave it back.
Stupidly, I ask “Why?” But I already know. Papa’s eyes only confirm it without saying a word. I've been three years past my prime mating age, and suitors have been demanding an audience ever since. Papa refused every one of them. Until now.
"Why now, Papa?" I press when he remains silent. "Who is this man you're bargaining with for my virginity without even telling me?"
"Deeana!" he exclaims, horrified. I shake my head in disbelief and rising anger. “I’m not bargaining for anything except your safety. You’re in more danger sheltered here alone and I’m…”
“I’m not alone,” I argue. “I am protected by Darius and Jaeger!”
Papa's eyes slide to Jaeger, and his expression hardens. “Yes. The bastard from the northern territories.”
I inhale sharply, his words brushing against a memory that lingering just beyond my reach. I can almost grasp it before it slips back into the shadows of my mind.
"How can you say that about him?" I demand. "Jaeger is my protector. My friend."
"Your pet," Papa corrects, emphasizing the two syllables. The words sting like a slap, my heart pounding with indignation because Papa is only partly right. Jaeger is, by every definition, my pet. But he’s never felt like on. He’s always been something more. Just as Darius has become far more than the glorified babysitter Reagan insists he is. Somewhere over the years, both of them stopped being protectors assigned to me and simply became... mine. My family. My friends.
I’m startled to find my hands curled into fists. I’m not a violent person because I’ve never needed to be. Everyone around me has always been vigilant so I didn't have to be. Reagan loves reminding me that if anyone threatened me, Jaeger would rip out their throat while Darius would quietly drain them dry. Not comforting, but effective.
Now, though, anger burns hot enough that I can't hide it. II glare at Papa until the lines between his brows deepen with concern. Without another word, he turns and walks back into the house. I stare after him, my heart hammering erratically, the rush of blood in my ears drowning out every other sound.
Only when Jaeger nudges my tightly clenched fist with the top of his head do I finally move. I let out a shaky breath and slowly uncurl my fingers, flexing them in surprise at my own reaction. I'm furious enough that sweat dampens my skin, my clothes clinging uncomfortably to my body. Even I know that on a breezy night like this, the wind carries the scent of my sweat and emotions for miles, a silent, unwanted invitation. No Therian alpha can resist the scent of an unmated female.
“Shit,” I mutter too late. Jaeger's head snaps toward the tree line, a deep, thunderous growl rolling from his chest. A chill races down my sweat-slick spine. Then Jaeger's hackles shoot up, and his ears flatten tightly against his skull. My stomach drops, and I turn and sprint to the house. I barely make three strides before a deep, growling voice shatters the night.
“We’ve waited long enough, Malcolm! It has been almost three years past her mating years. I have the right to take my chances to make her mine!”
Malcolm?