Max dropped his eyes to his plate of rubbery roast and gripped his silverware tightly.
“No, actually, he hadn’t…” Dyana admitted beside him, and he could feel her eyes burning into the side of his lowered head.
“Well, I hope you’re on birth control, dearie,” his mother answered, her tone tight and practical. “Otherwise he’ll be out the door soon as you give him a boy to send on to Abernathy. It’s a sickness with these Krefts, I swear it is.”
“Mum!” both Max’s sisters said, together this time.
Then came many apologies from Oli before he told Fiona, “Time to kip off now,” and physically removed her from the table.
The ride home in the driverless was very, very quiet. Until Dyana asked, “The billionaire your father worked for…was that Damianos Drákon’s father?”
“No.” Max couldn’t tell her the truth, but he could still lie. Easily. And that answer was both a truth and a lie. No, the billionaire his father worked for hadn’t been the father of Damianos Drákon. They’d been one and the same.
Max wanted to tell her the truth during that car ride home—the one he could afford now because of all the new money in his account. But when he opened his mouth to explain, the words fell right back down his throat and landed in his stomach like feet slamming into the pavement after an attempt to fly.
“You and your sisters should have a little chat about Fiona, I think,” Dyana said after another long, quiet while. “Your mother really should be seeing someone.”
So that truth lie was enough. She wouldn’t be dumping him on the spot. Max took her hand but somehow couldn’t feel relieved.
Perhaps because his mother had introduced a new possibility. That the dragon hadn’t let him go but was toying with Max as he did his father.
After all, Damianos Drákon had never taken off the invisible handcuffs.
Would he be called back?
Even more disturbing, would it perhaps not upset him to return to Damianos Drákon’s side? He’d had such a strange feeling since returning to London. As if there was something he should be doing but wasn’t.
“Incoming call from North Dakota, USA. Incoming call from North Dakota, USA.”
Max nearly jumped in his seat when his biosystem announced the call. He didn’t know anyone who still used a phone as opposed to finger comm rings or bio-hails these days. Well, he used to not know anyone like that. There was one man who Max had only ever seen use a phone, even though he could speak directly into his head.
“Accept the call,” Max said clearly out loud, purposefully drawing Dyana’s attention.
He didn’t want to keep on half-truthing her. He’d long prided himself on being different from the other boys in her #richkidsoflondon (formerly #richkidsofoxford) gang. No lying. No hustling. No hair and makeup. From the start of their relationship, he’d strived to be just Maxwell Kreft, exactly as presented.
Maybe talking to Damianos would finally allow Max to tell her the truth. No wings required to lift him off the ground.
“Hello?” he said after accepting the call.
“Hi…is this Colby?” a voice with an American accent asked.
Could it be the last American woman he’d talked to before leaving that house in North Dakota? The one hiding a wolf underneath.
“No, this is Maxwell Kreft. Colby was my father,” he answered. “Who is this? How did you get my number?”
“The person you were talking to has disconnected the call,” his biosystem informed him in the next moment.
“Who was that?” Dyana asked.
He looked at her. “I’m not sure. Someone looking for Colby Kreft.” Another sort of truth.
Over the next few months both the call and his mother’s words continued to echo in his thoughts. And he was certain that night stayed in Dyana’s thoughts too. She accepted his rent payment at the beginning of every month, but as for wedding plans…
Well, neither of them brought up that topic again.
Chapter One
DAMIANOS
“Damianos! Damianos! Where are you!”
I slowly awaken to the sound of Ola calling out that name.
Where am I? Oh yes…shackled to a wall in the basement of the North Dakota gatehouse. Still.
This is the same place I’ve woken up every single morn since being ambushed by a most unexpected assailant. Eighty-four days ago by my count. But that count could be wrong.
Neither my mind nor my body are what they used to be after months of withstanding my own torture protocol.
My three-pronged approach to torturing other drakkon has remained the same for thousands of years. Starvation paired with consistent mental and physical abuse. It’s designed to break a drakkon in a relatively short time. My cousin only lasted for a few weeks before his mind was completely overtaken by mental disease, rendering him incapable of unshelling to escape his chains.
I have been down here almost three moons. There is no reason to believe that my mind has remained intact. So now, I can only guess but not completely trust that this is the eighty-fourth morning I’ve awoken shackled, muffled, and powerless.