by Jan Delima
“Life.” Joshua’s voice dropped to a low growl not entirely human. “Power.”
Dylan hissed, sensing the whispers of energy dance along his skin, called not by him but by his son.
Sweet Mother. Was it possible?
Did he dare allow himself to hope for such a thing?
“What is that?” Sophie asked, her voice anxious.
“A gift,” Dylan whispered. “An unbelievable gift. Do you know what that power can do, Joshua?”
He blinked slowly. “I think so.”
I think so. Not tested then, not fully.
“You’ll learn.” Dylan reached over, unable to contain his joy, grabbing his son by the shoulder to give a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll teach you.”
“When?” he asked, eager.
“Soon.”
“Is Joshua going to be okay?” Sophie demanded, leaning forward, inches from his face.
He turned to her, a brush of movement before she jumped back. He ground his teeth against her fleeting scent. “As long as he stays with me, everything will be fine.”
“And how long will that take?” Suspicion and fear laced her voice.
Dylan evaded her question with one of his own. “Did anything change in Joshua’s life three weeks ago?”
She frowned then. “No. Nothing changed.” Her eyes turned toward their son, shrewd and assessing. “Unless I’m not aware of it.”
“No, nothing,” Joshua confirmed. “At least, I don’t think so. I like where we live now. It’s been nice not moving around so much.”
“Ah,” Dylan said.
“What?” Sophie’s voice turned frantic.
“Joshua’s wolf might have remained dormant because his environment was constantly changing . . . unsteady.”
Her brown eyes snapped with gold fire. “He’s always been protected . . . and loved, no matter where we were.”
“But he probably sensed your anxiety,” Dylan explained. “He wasn’t given enough time to settle, to feel secure in his surroundings . . . until recently. Am I right?”
She remained silent.
He pressed his point, “How long have you lived in your current location?” It took a great deal of self-control not to ask where that location was specifically.
“Four years,” she admitted, although with obvious reluctance. “So this . . . change in Joshua has nothing to do with hormones? I thought maybe . . . I don’t know . . . puberty might have brought this on.”
“Oh, God, Mom.” Joshua rolled his eyes, disgusted. “You’re like a few years too late for that question.”
Dylan had a hard time keeping his grin contained. “No, age is irrelevant.”
“Okay.” Sophie exhaled softly. “But is he going to be okay now that”—she swallowed—“now that his wolf’s no longer dormant?”
“I promise you,” Dylan said calmly, trying to ease her concern, “if he stays with me, no harm will come to him. There are things for him to learn that you can’t teach him. You must understand that.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” She pressed back into the seat, crossing her arms. “If Joshua wants to stay, we will. If not—”
“I wanna stay, Mom.” Obviously sensing the undercurrents of his parents, he hedged, “Mom can stay too, right?”
Dylan swallowed a pleased snarl.
He had her.
“Only if she wants to.”
“If I’m here,” Joshua said with confidence, “Mom’ll want to stay.”
The unguarded statement revealed a great deal about their relationship.
His son had only known love from his mother.
Dylan felt his beast sigh with satisfaction. “Your mother is aware of my conditions. They haven’t changed. There must be no contact with anyone outside our territory.”
A look passed between mother and son, a questioning glance from Joshua answered by a sharp frown from Sophie.
Their distrust left a vile taste on Dylan’s tongue. “There are five hundred and twelve people living in Rhuddin Village under my protection. I refuse to have their welfare compromised. Their lives are no less valuable than ours.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Joshua blurted out. “We have no one of importance to contact. Right, Mom? Grandma’s already here. And I’m here. There’s no one else. Well, besides Mr. Ayres. But he’s not family.”
Dylan frowned with the mention of another man’s name, a man who he’d never heard of—a man who wasn’t family.
“He’s my boss,” Sophie explained, her voice dry. “Nothing more. He does deserve a call, however. And will be getting one.”
Seven
A CIRCLE OF TALL PINE TREES SHROUDED THE SMALL clinic from outside eyes. The building was all on one level, half built into the ground, a fairly modern design of cement walls and metal roofing painted brown and green to blend with its surroundings.
Sophie followed Joshua and Dylan along a dark path that led to the only visible entrance. Her son hovered close to his father, eager to please, and not acting the least bit unhealthy.
She glared at Dylan’s back, fuming at her own stupidity, beginning to realize Joshua had never been in any real danger, and that Dylan had taken advantage of her ignorance. He’d been too damn happy in the truck at the first indication of—whatever the hell it was. Power, they’d called it.
Dylan opened the door to the clinic, a smile—an actual smile—on his face as he laughed at something Joshua had said.
Her breath clogged in her throat as she watched the budding relationship grow stronger with each passing minute. Her son looked happy, more than happy—accepted.
Wanted.
Her shoulders slumped. Dylan deserved to know his son, and Joshua needed his father. She no longer had the right to deny them that relationship.
If she ever had.
“Mom, come on.” Joshua held the solid metal door, waiting for her.
And suddenly a small weight of sadness lifted and she quickened her step. Dylan would never be able to take away the time she’d had with their son. No matter what the future held, Joshua would always know how much she’d loved him.
“Hold on,” she said. “I’m coming.”
Elen stood in a large open space reserved for incoming emergencies. She looked just as fair and lovely as Sophie remembered, with her hands crossed in front of her chest, watching Joshua approach with tear-filled eyes.
“Hello, Joshua. My goodness, you’re tall. And handsome. I’m your aunt Elen. It seems I’ve waited forever to meet you.”
Joshua held up his hand in a quick wave, uncomfortable with the personal greeting. “Hi.”
Elen stayed back, obviously sensing his unease. She turned to Sophie and her expression turned colder than Fiddlehead Lake in February. “Thank you for bringing him home. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions. Then I’ll examine him in private.”
Icy. Professional. And yet Joshua’s alarmed expression gentled her voice. “Just a quick check of your vitals,” she told him. “It won’t take long. Your mom can come too, if you’d be more comfortable.”
He straightened under the insinuation of still needing his mother. “Nah, I’m good.”
“Joshua’s never been to a hospital before,” Sophie found it necessary to explain. “He’s never been sick, until recently.”
“I’m not sick, Mom.”
Sophie waved away the interruption. “You know what I mean.”
Elen frowned, tilting her head to one side, assessing. “Where did you give birth?”
“At home. With midwives.” Sophie tried to ignore Dylan’s silent glare. “I was afraid he’d be different. I didn’t want him to be taken if he was.”
Elen nodded, not denying the possibility. “Was the birthing normal?”
“I believe so. But it was long.”
“How long?” Dylan asked.
“Twenty-five hours. He was ten pounds six ounces,” Sophie said proudly. “And perfect.”
Elen’s posture softened at the
last comment, although her voice remained reserved. “What did you feed him as an infant?”
“I nursed. My mother tried to give him a bottle once just to supplement feedings but he wouldn’t take it. He was hungry all the time. He fed more than he slept. You should’ve seen me. I was huge.”
Sophie dropped her hands, realizing with some embarrassment she’d been demonstrating how big her chest had gotten.
Joshua groaned. “Way more info than I needed to hear.”
Dylan had gone rigid, the small muscle on the side of his cheek flexed and relaxed, then flexed again.
Elen tactfully changed the subject. “And after? What’s his diet been like?”
Sophie let out a soft laugh. “Pretty much everything I give him, and then some. He never seems to gain weight. I even supplement his meals with protein shakes.”
Elen gave Joshua a brief smile. “He looks good,” she admitted. “So whatever you’ve done has worked well for him. Has he had any immunizations?”
“No.” Sophie shook her head. “Should he have? I was just afraid to expose him.”
Elen shrugged. “They’re unnecessary but wouldn’t have harmed him. I asked only because a few cause lethargic symptoms until both immune systems adjust. It might have explained certain behaviors. You must have homeschooled him then,” she said absently, “if he wasn’t immunized?”
“Not always. I worked in the public school system when he was younger. I forged his heath records. If you look for them,” she warned to discourage an investigation, “they are inaccurate.”
“You’ve become quite resourceful, haven’t you?” Dylan commented dryly.
Sophie sent him a too sweet smile. “I’ve always been resourceful. Now I’m just paranoid.”
“Any unexplained broken bones?” Elen continued her questioning without pause. “High fevers? Problems sleeping?”
Again, Sophie shook her head. “He’s always been healthy up until three weeks ago,” she hesitated, still finding it odd to speak openly, “when the changes began.”
Elen’s eyes darted to Dylan. “Thank you, that’s all I need for now. Joshua can answer the rest of my questions.” She waved him over. “Are you ready, my handsome nephew?”
“I guess so.” Joshua didn’t look exactly thrilled to be led down the strange corridor by an unfamiliar aunt.
As he turned away, Sophie forced a reassuring smile. Letting him walk down that hallway without her was beyond difficult. It was, in a sense, the first step toward letting him go. She reminded herself to be reasonable. Elen’s frosty reception was in defense of her brother and she would never harm her nephew. Joshua was almost sixteen.
Unfortunately, the heart wasn’t guided by reason.
Adding to her unease was Dylan’s looming presence—and the simple fact that they were now alone.
She was fairly certain her punishment was about to begin.
Eight
DYLAN FOUND HIMSELF AT THE RECEIVING END OF AN angry woman’s displeasure, one who should be groveling for forgiveness and not leveling him with a very astute glare.
“Joshua’s not the least bit in danger of dying, is he?”
He saw no reason to carry the untruth any further. “No, not unless vital organs are removed from his body.”
She pursed her lips at his blunt response. “But he’s different?” She exhaled softly, amending her words. “Well, different even for your kind?”
Again, very perceptive. “Not exactly.”
“Can you just give me a straight answer for once?”
“You speak to me with venom in your voice and yet I’m not the one whose actions require atonement. So choose your words wisely from now on, because your audacity has reached its limit.”
She sighed then, an anguished sound that called to his soul, if he even had a soul. With her, it seemed that he must, because he always felt tortured in her presence.
“You’re angry, and you have every right to hate me for what I’ve done.” She lifted her hand in a helpless gesture before letting it fall back to her side. “But if our situations were reversed, you would’ve done the same thing.”
“Never, Sophie. I never would’ve kept you from our son.”
Her features pinched. Whether from guilt or anger he wasn’t sure, nor did he care.
“You’re so certain,” she said. “So quick to judge. But then you never considered my position in your life. You just expected me to conform.”
“I expected you to trust me,” he ground out.
Her eyes widened. “Trust you? How do you trust someone who’s suffocating you? I couldn’t breathe without you or someone hovering over me, watching me—following me. I was constantly guarded by people who despised me, not permitted to contact my family—”
“I was protecting you!”
“You were protecting your secret,” she snapped. “And when my father died you wouldn’t even let me go to the funeral.”
“The man had already passed on. Your presence over his dead body would not change that fact.”
She went completely still. “And how does that justify your response to my grief? You locked me in a room like . . .” Her voice shook with raw anger. “Like a dog. You made me a prisoner—”
“You were threatening to leave me!”
“—and then you dragged me through the woods and changed into a . . . a wolf. And, if that wasn’t enough, just before your little demonstration, you gave me an option to leave, but without my child.”
When he didn’t respond she glared at him as if he were the king of idiots. “And you wonder why I left you?”
With great effort he managed to keep his voice restrained. “I would never have made that offer if I’d known how much you wanted our child.”
She scoffed, “Every mother wants their child.”
No, he thought, not every mother. “There are more lives at stake here than just yours or mine, or even our son’s.”
“I didn’t betray your secret.” She misunderstood his point. “Joshua’s the only person I told.”
“I believe you.” Unfortunately, that wasn’t the betrayal that had caused him over a decade of sleepless nights.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her delicate nose. “Fighting will not solve our differences. Can I make a suggestion?”
“I’m listening.” He crossed his arms, leery of her sudden tone of cooperation.
“I will answer any question you have for me, truthfully—if you do the same.”
It wasn’t, Dylan decided, an unreasonable request. “What do you want to know?”
“What’s different about Joshua that you’re not telling me?”
He regarded her for a long moment before answering. It was time, he agreed, to end her ignorance. “A shifter hasn’t been born in over three hundred years. So, if our son is powerful enough to change into the wolf, it will be an incredible blessing for me and my people.”
She frowned, absorbing that information, and not, it seemed, particularly pleased with the idea of her son becoming a wolf.
Tough shit.
“You’re a shifter.”
“Yes.” He knew where this was going.
“How old are you?”
He hesitated only a moment, but then answered with blunt honesty. Whether she believed him or not was irrelevant. The time for lies had ended the moment Sophie had reentered his territory.
She was never leaving again.
“I was born 329 years after the modern calendar lists the birth of Christ. In a place called Penllyn. You would know my country as Wales.”
She remained quiet for several moments. “I would call you a liar, or a lunatic, if I had not watched you change from a man into a wolf with my very own eyes.” She gave a soft laugh, a calming means of self-preservation when the mind was forced to accept knowledge it didn’t want or understand. “The only thing I’m sure of is how much I don’t know about this world.”
“That night in the woods was my attempt to open your eyes, to teach you,
although I must admit now that I may have been overenthusiastic in my approach.”
His attempt at humor was rewarded with a slight smile.
“Wales, early fourth century,” she mused. “Celtic then? Pagan?”
He nodded, his eyes drawn to her full mouth as she worried her bottom lip, taunting him with desire that he didn’t want.
Soft brown eyes lifted to his, unguarded and without malice. “That explains a lot.”
This conversation had taken a dangerous turn. In the face of anger he could resist her, but not this—not her looking up at him with newfound understanding. It was her gentle nature that had drawn him to her in the beginning.
He could do nothing but respond. “Like what?”
“Your beliefs. The way you live. Your fortress of a home.” She lifted one delicate shoulder and let it fall, causing light to dance around her long curls. “Your dominant temperament.”
“The last is from my wolf.” The treacherous beast that wanted to reach out and snag one of those curls to explore its texture.
“Joshua has your eyes,” she whispered. “Those are not the eyes of a Celt. Or a wolf.”
“Roman,” he supplied, taking a step back before he gave in to baser instincts. “My father was a legionary commander during the Roman occupation of Britain, his mother an Egyptian slave.”
She blinked twice and began to rub her temples. “Are your parents still alive?”
“Not my father. He wasn’t of our kind.”
“Neither am I,” she said softly, wrongly assuming that Dylan and Joshua would exceed her in life. And yet it was not with resentment but awe that she asked, “How long could Joshua live?”
“Thousands of years.”
Still, denial lingered. “But he’s aged normally.”
“Our children age at the normal human rate until adolescence. But then the aging process slows.” He waited for her to assimilate that information before moving on to something he knew would truly unsettle her. “The same way your aging has slowed since carrying my son.”
Her expression again turned wary. “You said your father’s no longer alive because he wasn’t of your kind.”
“It’s different for mothers,” he explained. “You carried my child, shared your blood with his for over nine months. Because of that biological bond, an incubation of our blood with yours, you’ll live much longer than you’ve assumed.”
