Page 21 of Heir

My mate rested her small hand on his. “I feel like we need to hear him out.” She glanced up at him. “Much like I did with you. Hmm?”

Zandren growled again, but dropped his hand and stomped back into the apartment. “Fucking hate vampires,” he muttered. “Can’t be trusted. Not one of them.”

I sighed. It was known throughout the Realm that vampires and shifters had a very tedious relationship. We were civil with each other, but neither liked the other. Their disdain for us ran deeper than ours for them though, and it dated back to a very bloody war some hundred and twenty years ago.

“You stand over with Zandren,” my mate said as I stepped into the apartment, the smell of Thai food wafting up my nostrils. “I don’t know what kind of game this is, but we have mace and a taser, and Gemma’s ready to call 911. She also knows Krav Maga.”

“I’ve got the nine already punched in,” Gemma said. “And don’t think I won’t throat punch you.”

I joined Zandren on the far side of the room, near the sliding glass door to the patio. He stepped to the side, putting more space between us, while also shooting me a look that said he’d rather be gnawing on my dead corpse right now.

Ignoring the bear, I focused on my mate. “Might I know your name, please?” I asked, my body rebelling against any real distance between us now that we were finally together.

“Omaera Playfair,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Lord Drak Ferrin.” I bowed. “I do not know of the Playfair family. May I inquire about your parents, please?”

“I never met them,” she replied with a shrug. “My mother died shortly after I was born and nobody told me who my father was. But let’s figure out why you both think you’re my mate.” She dug her fingers into her hair and pinched her eyes closed tight for a moment. “I mean, I’m still freaking the fuck out about all of this. Vampires and shifters? What next? A witch? A werewolf? A freaking mermaid?”

“Werewolves and mermaids do not exist,” I said simply. “And we call witches ‘mages’ in our realm.”

Her eyes flashed open. “You’re not helping.”

“My apologies.”

Exhaling, she began to pace. “This . . . this doesn’t make sense.” Her gaze landed on Zandren and I. “And yet, deep down, it feels like it does.”

My heart fluttered.

“I feel this weird, fucked up, unexplainable pull to both of you.” She glanced at her friend. “Maybe I should have had that psych consult.”

Gemma merely lifted a coppery brow. “This is super fucked up, but . . . you’ve always been . . .”

Omaera stopped in her tracks, rounding on her friend, hands on her hips. “Been what?”

“Special,” Gemma said softly, her gaze full of love. “Like crazy empathetic. Like you don’t only put yourself in other people’s shoes, but you actually viscerally feel what they’re feeling.” Her smile was small, but encouraging. “It’s one of the things I love most about you. You have this hard shell, but deep down, you’re gooier than a perfectly golden marshmallow for a s’more.”

“I love s’mores,” Zandren murmured.

I rolled my eyes.

Omaera’s focus returned to us. “I saw you watching me at the hospital and I did feel this strange pull. Like I was supposed to go and talk to you. But I also wanted to get the hell out of there. They thought I was crazy because I was hearing voices.”

Voices? What kind of voices? Vampires didn’t hear voices.

“I’m still seriously weirded out by all of this,” she went on. “But my aunt taught me to always trust my gut, and right now, my gut is telling me you’re not here to kill us. And that you’re telling the truth and that I’m supposed to . . . I don’t know . . . trust you?”

Zandren nodded, as did I.

“I’d never hurt you,” he said.

“Nor would I,” I echoed.

Zandren growled beside me. I pulled in a deep breath.

There was a knock at the door. “’Ello, ‘ello! It’s your Fated Mate, my lovely. Here to claim you and burn up the sheets.”

My fangs dropped.

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