Shadow's End (Elder Races, #9)(4)

“Yes, I remember,” he said. “You had talked about taking a leave of absence—what, nearly two hundred years ago?”

“That’s right. Two hundred years, almost to the day.” With a quick flick of his wrist, Graydon tossed back the contents of his brandy glass. The liquor was smooth on his tongue, warm like liquid sunshine, and fiery on the way down. He welcomed the burn.

Dragos’s gaze turned uncomfortably sharp. “I also remember you’d said that if you ever needed to ask for the leave of absence, you might not be able to tell me why. Is that still the case?”

“Yeah. And you promised I could have the time if and when I needed it.” Graydon met the other male’s gaze. “I need to hold you to that promise now.”

Dragos’s frown deepened. He turned to face Graydon fully, and Graydon braced his wide shoulders in response. To get the full focus of the Lord of the Wyr’s attention could sometimes be an unsettling experience.

“I don’t like it,” growled the dragon. “It smells like trouble. Like you’re in trouble. Tell me what’s going on.”

Slowly, he replied, “I can’t. I made a promise, too, and it’s not my secret to tell.”

The moment stretched tight, straining the air between them.

“What if I say no?” Fierce, gold eyes burned as hot as lava.

Unsurprised, Graydon nodded. The dragon disliked constraints of any kind, even those of his own devising. “That would be unfortunate, because I would have to go anyway.”

“To keep that promise you made.”

“Yes.”

The pressure built, from the weight of Dragos’s attention and the vision that pushed at Graydon from within, until he thought his skin might split open.

Breathing evenly, he stiffened his spine. Holding one’s ground was not passivity. It took its own kind of strength. She had said that to him once, all those many years ago, and he had never forgotten it.

He would hold fast.

Muttering a curse, Dragos pivoted to scowl down at the traffic below. “I gave you my word, and I’ll keep it,” he said. “But now you have to promise me something in return.”

Releasing his pent-up breath on a soundless sigh, Graydon pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “What’s that?”

Dragos stabbed him with a sharp look. “You’re my First. The other sentinels rely on you. Hell—Pia, Liam and I rely on you. More than that, you’re family.”

Unexpectedly touched, he ducked his head. “You’re mine too.”

“So,” Dragos said, “you go and take care of whatever you need to take care of, but you have to promise that you’ll tell me what’s going on the moment you can, and that you’ll come to me for help if you need it—and you must promise to come back.”

He understood exactly why Dragos pushed for that last part.

Wyr mated for life. Nobody fully understood the dynamic, which involved a complex combination of timing, circumstance, sex and personality.

A year and a half ago, Dragos had lost two of his sentinels, Rune and Tiago, because they had mated with women elsewhere. It had taken months to choose two new sentinels, and for the Wyr demesne to stabilize again from the change.

Graydon found he had room for a wry smile. If only Dragos knew how unlikely it was that he might run the risk of losing Graydon to mating.

“As soon as I can tell you anything, I promise I will. I’ll ask for help too, if it becomes appropriate.” He met Dragos’s gaze steadily. “As long as I am alive and able to do so, I’ll always come back. This is my home. I’ve made that commitment to you, and to here.”

And besides, she wouldn’t have me, anyway.

His jaw tightened. Like he had with the vision, he shoved the thought out of his head.

Managing to look curious, frustrated and mollified all at once, Dragos angled out his jaw. “Fine,” he said. “Go.”

Giving him a grateful nod, Graydon turned away.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, causing him to stop in his tracks. Dragos’s grip clenched, almost to the point of pain.

Normally, Dragos was not demonstrative with anyone other than Pia and Liam. Moved, Graydon angled his face away. After a moment, he reached up to grip the other man’s hand in return. Only then did Dragos’s hold ease and allow him to continue on his way.

He strode out of the penthouse, pausing only to collect the rifle. He could go to his apartment, grab his pack, and if the goddamn vision would only loosen up so that he could see to fly, he could be in the air inside of fifteen minutes.

In just a few hours, he could see her again. His world ground to a halt as he finally allowed himself to think of it.

He could see for himself how she was healing. Life’s cuts had wounded her deeply, but she had a strong, unique spirit, forged most elegantly and tempered by adversity and time.

After everything they had endured, he had grown a bone deep, unshakable faith in her. She was true, her spirit clean, straight and strong. She knew how to stand her ground and hold steady, no matter what the odds.

That much had become clear as he had watched her covertly over the centuries, knowing he could only ever catch glimpses of her, because anything else, everything else between them, had become far too dangerous.

Even though the evening had grown late, the elevators and hallways in the Tower were crowded with late-night revelers and the personnel that had pulled third-shift security. Several times, people stopped Graydon, either to ask him questions or exchange pleasantries.