The moment he heard the key slip into the lock, Micah raised his Sig and pointed it at the door. He’d been waiting in the shadows inside Ronan’s rental home for nearly an hour. Silent. Deadly. Ready for answers and retribution, not necessarily in that order.
Ronan’s silhouette slipped inside. He shut the door then fell still as he peered into the darkness, as if he knew he wasn’t alone. Micah actually felt the air prickle with Ronan’s sudden awareness.
Perceptive little fucker. Micah couldn’t deny that a part of him was impressed with the little shit. He was resourceful and cunning, with strong instincts and keen senses. He reminded Micah of how he’d been when he was younger, and in any other circumstance, he would have considered recruiting Ronan. AKM needed talented enforcers, and Ronan clearly had talent. But this shit was personal, so yeah, there would be no sales pitch about how Ronan needed AKM as much as AKM needed him.
Without turning on the light, Ronan pulled a gun from the back waist of his pants and swung it around, prepared to fire.
Micah fired first, catching him in the shoulder.
Ronan staggered backward and slammed into the door.
“Welcome home, asshole.” Micah rose from the chair he’d been sitting in and trained the gun’s sight on the center of Ronan’s forehead. This fucker had broken into his apartment, stolen his property, and toyed with him. Now he would pay the piper.
Ronan regrouped and started to bring his gun back around to attempt another shot.
“Don’t even think about it”—Micah kicked the gun out of his hand—“or I’ll blast a hole in your other shoulder so you won’t even be able to hold your dick to take a piss. Because one way or another, asshole, you’re going to answer my questions, return what belongs to me, and then—if you’re lucky—I might let you live.” He took a menacing step forward, gun trained between Ronan’s eyes. “If you’re lucky.”
From the angry sneer that overtook Ronan’s full lips and the way his thick, black eyebrows bunched over his nose, he didn’t seem willing to cooperate. “Fuck you. I don’t owe you shit.”
“Wrong answer.” Micah surged forward, fisted the collar of Ronan’s shirt, hoisted him away from the door, and pressed the Sig’s muzzle against the underside of his chin.
Contempt fumed from Ronan’s gaze. “Go ahead. Kill me. Then you’ll never know the truth.”
“Oh yeah? And what truth is that? That your pecker is the size of a thumb drive?” Micah tried to burrow inside Ronan’s head but saw nothing but black. A vast, empty darkness like what he’d come up against with Digon and that odd fucker, Rule. The black hole felt more like a vacuum of sight and sound than a wall. Ronan wasn’t blocking Micah. Micah simply couldn’t see inside his mind.
Ronan sneered then let out a mocking chuckle. “You still haven’t figured it out, have you?”
Micah’s hold cranked more tightly on Ronan’s shirt. “You’re really starting to piss me off, you little prick. Maybe I should just kill you now and count my losses.” He applied pressure to the trigger.
“Go ahead then. What’s stopping you?” Ronan’s breath hissed through his teeth. “Kill me.”
Micah had never seen such intense resentment and animosity in someone’s eyes, not to mention indifference for one’s own life.
“Do it! Kill me!” Ronan’s jaw clenched as his breath came in tight, urgent bursts. “Your own family! Your own brother!”
Micah’s finger abruptly released the trigger. What the fuck? Was he serious?
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” The skin around Ronan’s eyes pinched. “Then why can’t you see inside my thoughts? You can’t, can you? I know you can’t. You know why? Because I’m your blood.” He barked out a derisive laugh. “Big bad Micah Black.” Sarcasm snapped over every syllable. “Mighty Micah, right? You, who can do no wrong. You can’t see my thoughts because you’re my godforsaken flesh and blood.” He spat in Micah’s face. “Lucky fucking me.”
Micah let go of Ronan’s shirt and wiped the spittle from his cheek then glared back at him. “No.” The single syllable burned his throat like betrayal. “I’m the last. There are no others in my line.”
But Ronan’s declaration was enough to give him pause. Could it be true? The family resemblance was there. The black hair. The angular jaw. The lean, powerful build. Could he be . . .? No. Ronan couldn’t be Micah’s brother. That would mean . . .
Doubt sliced through his confidence. Maybe he had been wrong about his parents’ deaths.
Ronan’s mocking laughter rankled Micah’s last nerve, and, in a rush of aggression, he swept forward and clocked him hard across the chin, tossing Ronan sideways.
“I don’t believe you!”
Ronan recovered quickly and spun back around to face him, clutching his wounded shoulder. “Then kill me. What’s stopping you?” His eyebrows dug a malicious trench over his eyes, casting a shadow over the bitterness burning from his blue-grey irises. “If you don’t believe me, then kill me and end this.”
Micah lifted the Sig, lined up the sight with Ronan’s forehead, applied pressure to the trigger . . .
And froze.
He couldn’t do it.
If there was even a chance Ronan was of his blood, he couldn’t kill him.
He had to know the truth.
“How . . .?” He uttered the question more to himself than to Ronan. “How could this even be possible?” No scenario he came up with provided an answer.
Ronan let out a disgusted exhale. “All these years I’ve had to listen to stories about Micah”—he did his best to straighten his shoulders, given his injury—“the greatest warrior in the king’s guard. The prodigal son! He who could do no wrong!” Ronan spat at his feet again then uttered a brittle laugh. “Why can’t you be more like Micah?” he said mockingly, as if quoting someone. “Do you know how many times I heard that growing up? Do you? I half expected you to be a god when I came face to face with you, given all the buildup. But you’re not a god. You’re nothing special. You’re—”
“That’s enough, Ronan!” A shadow moved to Micah’s right.
He whipped toward the movement, training his gun on the backlit silhouette that entered the room. A cold pit opened inside his stomach. He knew that shape. He knew that voice. He knew the energy coming off that male’s body.
Micah’s voice quivered with forced denial when he spoke. “Who are you?” But he already knew. With the certainty of the setting sun, he knew.
The tall male flicked on the light switch.
Micah blinked against the instant brightness then gasped as he laid eyes on a face he hadn’t seen in over nine hundred years. Hair as black as coal. Eyes the color of midnight. It was like seeing a ghost. He staggered backward until the backs of his legs hit the couch, and he dropped onto it, unable to tear his gaze away.
This couldn’t be happening. That male couldn’t be his . . .
“Father?”