Page 11 of Exile

I stood on the porch for a moment, staring at the door. My nerves threatened to talk me out of this, but I shook them off and knocked. Three sharp knocks, louder than I intended.

It was quiet at first, and I wondered if he’d even heard me. He must’ve. I basically hammered my knuckles against the door.

Heavy footsteps grew closer, followed by the creak of the door.

Caspian appeared in front of me, his frame filling the doorway. He was broad-shouldered and tall, his gray hair pushed back and tucked behind his ears. His brown eyes landed on me with suspicion, narrowing slightly as he crossed his strong arms over his chest.

How old was he again?

60?

For that age, he was still in incredible shape.

Muscular.

Handsome.

“Who are you?” he asked roughly, his tone making it clear that whatever I said next had better be good.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze.

Jesus Christ…Caspian King—Grandpa—is fucking handsome.

“My name is Darwynn,” I said slowly, almost as if I wasn’t sure.

“Darwynn,” he repeated, his voice flat. “That’s supposed to mean something to me?”

I hesitated. “Not yet. But I hoped you’d give me a few minutes to explain.”

His eyes moved over me, taking in my jeans and jacket and the faint nervousness I was trying to hide. “Let me guess,” he said, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You’re one of Theresa’s nieces wanting an autograph. I told her not to tell anyone about me being here.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and linked my fingers behind my back. “Uh, no, I’m not related to Theresa.” But to you, actually.

“Then why are you here?” His voice was demanding, his gaze intense.

“I…” My lips were pressed into a thin line as I weighed my options. Telling the truth or lying. I had played that game about five times in the past two days. “I’m Darwynn King. Your granddaughter.”

His facial expression changed instantly. Almost as if he had a realization.

His eyes wandered all over my face, then he shook his head. “I thought Julie had a son,” he muttered.

“Why would you think that?”

His eyes narrowed. “Your name.”

“What about it?”

“It’s not exactly a girl’s name.” He kept studying me, and I started to feel uncomfortable. “I heard about Julie having a kid, but I presumed she had a baby boy named Darw—” His eyes narrowed again. “How is your name spelled?”

Does it matter?

To him, I guess.

“D-A-R-W-Y-N-N.”

“That’s a fucking obnoxious spelling,” he muttered.

Tell me about it.

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