Page 26 of An Unexpected Claim

Peyton’s curious gaze drifted to me, but she didn’t say anything at first. I was sure she was pondering whether or not to engage in this conversation. Sometimes questions revealed as much as an answer.

“I wondered if you were from Eastern Europe when you spoke Russian to each other.” She hesitated, then asked, “Why didn’t she feel free to be herself?”

I stroked my beard and studied her carefully. Something in her tone sounded… empathetic. “My father wasdvoryanstvo, Russian nobility.”

“I didn’t know Russia had nobility.”

“A long, long time ago. In the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries, the term for those of high-ranking birth evolved todvoryane—the highest-ranking gentry. Even that eventually turned into wealthy, powerful families, rather than royalty or nobility.”

“So, you’re a trust fund kid, huh?” she teased. I listened hard, but there wasn’t a single hint of distaste or sarcasm in her tone.Interesting.

I shook my head and shrugged, my lips forming a crooked grin. “I suppose you could look at it that way. Although my mother likes to think of me as more of the Robin Hood type.”

“You’re a thief?” Again, I analyzed her words and tone, but heard only curiosity. No judgment for a thief or a rich kid. That was a bit of a contradiction. Peyton was quite the puzzle and her caginess only made me more determined to assemble the pieces.

“Not a thief, exactly. Although, truth be told, I’ve done plenty of that in my life. But no, it’s because she thinks I’ve spent my life standing up against corruption. I think my father’s choice of description is probably more accurate.”

“What does he call you?” She was listening intently now, and I kept talking in hopes of learning more.

“A crusader.”

“Like Batman?” For the first time since I started talking, Peyton showed distaste. The look on her face was almost comical though. I wasn’t sure what that was about and filed it away to dig into another time.

I made a low sound of amusement. “No, he’s being literal. As in someone who fought in the Crusades.”

Peyton’s eyes grew wide. “You”—she pointed at my chest as if she was staring at a cross emblazoned there—“you fought in the Crusades?”

I nodded.

“But—but that would make you—holy shit.” Her eyes lifted to my face. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-five,” I replied with a smirk. Our breed of shifter stopped aging in our late twenties to early thirties.

Peyton rolled her eyes. “Okay, smartass. How long have you been thirty-five?”

I ran a hand through my hair and thought about how to answer. “How many times have I turned thirty-five or how many years since I turned thirty-five the first time?”

“I’ll take either, stop stalling.”

“Let’s see, I’ve celebrated my thirty-fifth birthday almost fifty-nine times.”

Peyton’s jaw went slack, and she stared at me, completely still. Except something in her eyes told me she was thinking. “You were born…Damn, Nathan.” She shook her head, her expression one of utter disappointment. “I never would’ve taken you for a cradle robber.”

I barked a rare laugh and shrugged helplessly. “It’s so hard to find girls my age.”

Peyton burst out laughing and like every other time I’d heard it, I enjoyed the musical quality. Not that we’d done much laughing the last time we’d spent time together.

Her guard was down a little, so I contemplated seeing what I could draw out of her. Before I could, she said, “So you’re older than dirt”—ticking her list off each finger—“you fought in the Crusades, you are Russian, and your mother thinks you’re Robin Hood.”

“I suppose that’s one way to sum it up.”

“You didn’t finish telling me about your mother.”

“So I didn’t,” I acknowledged with a nod. “My father likes to refer to me as a crusader, not because of those specific wars, but because I fight for what’s right. It’s what he taught me. Which is why he and my mother have never blamed me for being forced to flee our home.”

“Why would they? Was it actually your fault or did they just need someone to place the blame on?” There was a speck of bitterness in her question. She almost succeeded at hiding it and if I hadn’t spent thousands of years learning how to read people, I might have missed it. I filed that away with the other things I’d picked up.

“The blame could be placed on me, as it was my actions that sent us into hiding to avoid execution. However, the blame also lies with the government who was suppressing their people. Or you could blame the man who betrayed me. All three are justifiable.”

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