Touch (Denazen #1)(92)

Navar tossed Granel a questioning look.

The little toad croaked on cue. “She’s been tested.”

Her father leaned out the door and called to their butler, “Barton, my horse, and bring me—”

Navar cut him off. “There’s no need, Hadrain. We shall attend to this and be back before dinner is announced.”

Navar strode to Kera, grabbed her hand, and lifted it to his mouth. The wetness of his lips repulsed her; it was all she could do not to pull her hand away. His dark eyes, so beautiful yet so hate-filled, peered into hers, completely unaware of her disgust. “Make sure your dinner setting is placed next to mine, Kera.”

Her stomach soured. She hadn’t missed the threat of impending intimacy. Without waiting for a reply, he dropped her hand and left, cutting a grand figure that would have many women swooning at his feet. Not her. Never her.

Kera gripped her father’s arm, her fingers wrinkling his sleeve. “What should we do? Tell me it’s not too late.”

His face had grown haggard, as if the weight of the moment would tear him apart. He cupped her cheek and sighed. “There’s nothing we can do now.”

“How can you say that? They are our friends. They’re counting on us to protect them.”

“I know the extent of this problem better than you. I’ll go to Faldon. If anyone can help, he can.”

Kera followed her father to the door, her fingers crushing the fabric of her skirts. “My tutor? He is a seer who conjures nothing more than tricks to delight a child.”

“There is more to him than he lets you see, Kera.” With his hand on the door, he turned and leveled a serious gaze on her. “Be at peace. There’s nothing you can do.”

He leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and left.

She stood, mouth agape, and watched him go. Be at peace? That was his fine counsel?

There was no time to change out of her restrictive clothes, not even to step out of the cumbersome bustle strapped around her waist. Kera took to the outdoors, not to follow her father on his empty quest, but to find Navar.

She would stop this madness herself.

Though what could be done once he was found, she didn’t know. Kera only knew she couldn’t stand by and let him harm a woman whose only fault was to be born of mixed blood.





Unanswered Questions




“And this can be your room, Dylan.”

Grandma opens an old paneled door and ushers me into a tidy bedroom situated at the back of the house near the kitchen. Mom’s upstairs, collapsed on her old bed, her eyes swollen and red as she relives the pain of being dumped. Again. I’d go anywhere to get away from her right now. A pile of rags scattered in the attic above the garage would’ve worked.

The walls of the room glow a soft green in the strangely filtered northwest sunlight. Green’s not my favorite color—it makes me nervous. In fact, this whole place makes me nervous. We can’t stay here.

I toss my duffel on the bed and watch it spring up and down.

Seriously. We can’t.

Grandma purses her lips. “The bed’s a little old, but still comfortable. And the room has lots of natural light,” she says, pointing to the open window. A slight breeze ruffles the curtains while Grandma gives the room a critical once over. “It’s the only room without a girly theme. I’d put you next to your mother upstairs, but we never bothered changing the girls’ rooms.”

I freeze. “Mom has sisters?”

A frown tightens her face, and her hands slip down the sides of her pants. It’s her nervous habit I’m beginning to notice. “Two. Did she never tell you?”

“Mom’s not the sentimental type. There’s always been a detour around memory lane.”

“I see.”

Grandma doesn’t, and frankly, neither do I. I plop onto the bed and get swallowed two inches deep into a feather mattress. I struggle to sit up, and when I manage to find my balance, I glance back at her. “It’s…um…nice.”

I shake my head, surprised I even bothered to reassure her. It’s got to be the look on her face. The obvious attempt to please me. The woman deserves some kindness. Mom certainly won’t be dispensing any.

“It’s always been for guests, though we don’t get many here. You have your own bathroom right there.” She points to a door on the far wall.

We stay that way for a moment, both staring at the bathroom door, until she turns toward me. “She really never mentioned us? Any of us?”

“Don’t feel bad. She barely remembers me half the time.”

Grandma gasps. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

She says that, but I can tell she doesn’t believe it. I can tell she knows Mom hasn’t changed. Her gaze slides around the room until it lands back on me. I can read the indecision that’s torturing her, so I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know who knocked her up. She never said.”

When I was younger, I made the mistake of asking Mom about him, wanting to tell my friends I had a dad, too. She blew up, slapped me around, and smashed things to bits. When the violence was over, she went into a deep funk. The lesson was painful and potent. Don’t ask. Ever.

Grandma’s cheeks redden. “Oh no. I wasn’t—”