Micah was sitting quietly in the living room when Trace arrived back at the house. He was reading. Classical music played softly from the Bluetooth speaker beside him.
“Hey,” Trace said, disturbing the peace.
Micah looked up from his book. Their eyes met. “Hey.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Sleeping.”
Trace glanced toward the kitchen, which had been cleaned up since last night. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
Micah closed the book and set it on the table beside him. “I was waiting for you. I knew you’d come back.” He regarded him for a moment. “Sam wanted to wait up with me, but she conked out about an hour ago, so I took her to bed.”
Trace absently nodded and shuffled his feet.
Awkward silence stretched between them then Trace moved forward and sat down across from him.
How would his mating Cordray affect his relationship with Micah? He still wanted Micah. Still needed him. That hadn’t changed. But the dynamic between them had.
“I’m mated.” He worked his teeth over the inside of his lip.
“I know.” Micah cleared his throat and crossed his ankle over his knee.
More silence.
“She’s my mate.” There was no need to explain who she was after the conversation they’d had in the bathtub less than twelve hours ago.
Micah uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. “I know she is, buddy. I’m the one who told you she was.”
The tension between them wasn’t exactly thick, but it wasn’t nonexistent, either. Trace drummed his fingers on his thighs. “I guess what I want to know is how this affects us.”
Micah leaned back and placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “That’s up to you, Trace. You tell me. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still your Dom. If you still need me in that way, I’m here for you.” He placed his ankle over his knee again, watching Trace closely. After a bloated hesitation, he said, “Do you still want that?”
He would have to work out the details with Cordray, but yes, he did want that. He’d come to enjoy the submissive lifestyle. And even though he was now mated, he couldn’t see his life without Micah as his master, especially now that he’d only just found him.
He bowed his head, nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, man, I do.”
“So do I.” Micah sat forward, elbows on his knees, his expression introspective. “By becoming my sub, Trace, you’ve given something back to me that I hadn’t even realized I’d been missing. I don’t want to lose it again.”
He shook his head. “I’ve waited too long to find you, Micah. I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed his lips together. “But if she wants to be in the dungeon with us, I want her there.”
Micah stiffened. His nostrils flared as he inhaled long and deep. Then he exhaled and nodded once. “As long as she doesn’t interfere, then . . . okay, I’m open to giving it a try. But she has to understand that’s my dungeon down there, not hers. That she’s your mate, but you’re my submissive. Is that going to be a problem?”
Trace shook his head. “I’ll talk to her.”
Micah nodded thoughtfully, and they stared at each other for a long while, the air pregnant with anticipation. “Okay, good,” he finally said, nodding again.
An undercurrent of rising excitement stirred around them. “It’ll all work out,” Trace said quietly, holding Micah’s intense gaze. “I want this too much for it not to.”
Micah’s shrewd eyes regarded him for a long moment. Then he clapped his palms on his thighs as if slapping a period on the conversation, got up, and strolled to the liquor cabinet, where he poured two glasses of Lagavulin.
“What’s this for?” Trace eyed the expensive scotch as Micah handed him a crystal tumbler.
Micah raised his own glass as Trace stood. “We’re celebrating, Trace. It’s not every day that you take a mate, and you’ve waited long enough to find yours, haven’t you?”
Trace grinned. “Yeah, man. Too long.”
“Well then, here’s to you and your mate.” Micah clinked Trace’s glass with his. “Even if you did have to go and mate Medusa.”
“Hey, that’s my mate you’re talking about, Mike.” Trace pretended to be insulted, but he knew the score between Micah and Cordray. He wasn’t expecting them to be best friends or anything.
“Yeah well, don’t go getting any ideas about mate-swapping. I might not have a problem with you getting handsy with Sam, but I am never going to want to reciprocate with Cordray, just so that’s clear.”
“More for me then.”
Micah chuckled and lifted his glass to his lips.
As Trace was about to take a drink, the garage door banged open. Both he and Micah tensed and got ready to throw down against whatever idiot had decided to break into Micah’s house in broad daylight. Then Cordray flew around the corner.
Trace’s heart beat harder just seeing her.
She held something in her hand. Something small.
“I have his button!” She held it up and rushed forward.
Micah relaxed, downed his scotch, and shot Trace a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Speak of the devil.” He set his empty glass down and said to Cordray, “Thanks for returning Trace’s button and all, C, but you could have knocked on the front door like a normal person.”
“No.” She took another step forward and held the button higher. It was the one she’d found on her bedroom floor this morning. “It’s his. Skeletor’s.” She looked from Trace to Micah. “He broke into my house last night. This fell off his clothes. It belongs to him.” She raised her eyebrows, waiting, as if she expected them to do the math.
Micah plucked the small piece of plastic from her hand. “And this is good news why?”
Cordray shook her head. “It’s a good thing I’m around to explain things to you, big guy.” She turned toward Trace. “Your brother,” she said to him. “Brak.” Her gaze brightened. “He can use this to find him.”
The realization hit Trace at the same time it hit Micah, both of them sucking in their breath in unison.
“Fuck me.” Micah’s fist closed around the button. “Of course. Brak. He can track him down, and then we’ll know who he is.”
“Exactly.” Cordray’s excitement was like soda pop fizz, bubbly and effervescent. She reached for the button. “Trace and I were going to see him today. We’ll give it to him and see if he can help us.”
Micah habitually checked the time then grumbled when he realized it was still morning. “Shit. I’m stuck here until nightfall.” He huffed in frustrated resignation. “I want looped in on this. If Brak’s able to find our guy, call me and tell me what he’s got, but nobody move on him. No vigilantism. I don’t want anyone blowing our chances by tipping our hand to this guy until we’re ready to move. I don’t care if Brak tracks him down and starts feeding us intel immediately. No one moves on this guy until I say we’re set. I don’t want this prick slipping away again. Got it?” The last he said to Cordray. “I’ll contact the others and alert Stryker.” He pulled his mobile from his pocket and tapped his screen.
Cordray rolled her eyes. “Jesus, you’re bossy.”
Trace took her hand as Micah ignored her and pressed his phone to his ear. “Mike”—he glanced over his shoulder—“we’re out. Stay close to your phone. We’ll call as soon as we know something.”
Micah gave him a thumbs-up then turned his attention to his call. “Stryker, hey, it’s Micah. I need your help.”
Trace ushered Cordray through the garage to the Denali sitting in the driveway.
Cordray stepped toward the driver’s side and held out her hand. “Keys.”
He flipped the keys and caught them in his palm as he nudged her aside. “I’m driving. You ride shotgun.”
She nudged him back. “Just because you’re the big bad male in this relationship doesn’t mean you get to drive. This is my vehicle. I’m driving.”
He shook his head, his blood accelerating to a welcome simmer. Arguing with her was an aphrodisiac. One he hoped she never stopped indulging him with. “No. I’m driving.” He pushed her aside and opened the door, letting his hand brush across her breast. He might even have given her a little grope.
She sucked in her breath and rocked backward.
“Trouble?” he said, smirking.
Her tongue peeked out and wet her lips as she smoothed her palms down her shirt. “No. No trouble.” She narrowed her eyes at him but marched dutifully, if not a little haughtily, around to the passenger side. “Fine. You drive.”
Less than twenty minutes later, they were parked in the driveway of a tan and brick cookie-cutter home in a neighborhood where all the houses looked more or less alike. It was a nice home—nicer than the small box Trace had called home for the last few years—with a two-car garage, a chimney, and a covered porch, but it paled in comparison to Micah’s house.
But all this mental chatter was only procrastination. Brak was inside that house. The brother he hadn’t seen in almost two hundred years was less than a ten-yard walk away.
“You okay?” Cordray touched his arm.
He startled to life and looked at her. “Yeah. I’m just . . .” He turned back toward the house as the door opened, and he was robbed of both words and breath.
Brak stood in the doorway. His long brown hair fell well past his shoulders and lifted on a breeze as he took a cautious step onto the porch, staring at the Denali. He was wearing a white linen pullover and tan drawstring pants. He wasn’t wearing any shoes. Looked like some things never changed. Brak had hated wearing shoes when they were kids.
Trace opened the driver’s side door and slowly got out, never taking his eyes off his brother, whose chest rose and fell heavily as a pained line pushed his heavy brow downward, pinching a tiny crease over the bridge of his nose.
Brak dropped his weight onto the first step of the porch.
Cordray came around the SUV and brushed her hand reassuringly down his arm.
“Trace?” Brak said, lowering himself another step.
A cinnamon-skinned female appeared in the doorway, her eyes pinched with emotion.
Trace’s feet, which had briefly felt cemented to the driveway, began moving. Slowly at first, then more quickly. By the time he reached the walkway to the porch, he was practically running.
He met Brak at the bottom step in a crushing embrace as tears flooded his eyes. All the guilt he’d carried for so long vaporized the instant Brak’s arms pulled him in. Love flooded him, chasing away his shame, filling him with unspoken understanding and forgiveness.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Brak said a moment later, gripping the back of Trace’s head and pressing their cheeks together as he gave voice to the feelings flowing over him like a refreshing rainstorm. “I know you think Mother’s death was your fault, but it wasn’t. Father and I never blamed you.” Brak’s voice broke as his own emotions overcame him. “It was her choice to die. She always knew she would. She knew her fate, Trace, and she refused to stop it.”
Trace’s fingers curled against Brak’s back as he squeezed his eyes shut. Tears soaked his lashes and fell to his cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Even as Brak absolved him of guilt, he still felt the need to apologize.
Brak rocked him, crushing their bodies together. “It’s. Not. Your. Fault. Father and I love you, Trace. We never stopped loving you.” A harsh, raspy sob cut through Brak’s vocal chords. “God, I’ve missed you.”
And just like that, the fissure in Trace’s heart healed. He’d spent almost two centuries carrying a mountain of guilt and remorse, and in less than sixty seconds, Brak had taken it from him. He actually felt the stigmatic weight lift off his shoulders, leaving him lighter than he’d felt in decades.
The final piece of his life fell into place. He’d found where he belonged as an enforcer for AKM. He’d found where he fit as a submissive with Micah. The lifelong search to find his mate was over. And now he’d come full circle with his brother, finding absolution at his hand.
Nodding against Brak’s shoulder, he thumped his fist against his brother’s back.
Yes. God yes. The suffering was finally over.
“I’ve missed you, too.”