Page 49 of Silas's Sweetheart

Dad:Now don’t be rash, son.

Rue:Oh this is going to be fun, trapped on a plane with Booker and he has no escape… revenge is calling!

Dad:Remember karma never misses, son.

Chapter Twenty

Derick

Derick stared at his husband as he slipped a robe over honey skin that was still as taut and tantalizing as it had been forty years earlier. He slipped in a hand under the covers to rearrange himself. Finding retirement had given him a boost to his libido had been an unexpected bonus. Lane had always been irresistible to Derick, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on him. After forty years, he’d expected that between Lane’s more irregular heats, his need for his husband would subside somewhat. It hadn’t and being home with Lane most of the time left them both enjoying the perks of their joint retirement.

Lane paused as he tied the belt at his waist, lifting his gorgeous eyes to Derick, one brow arching. “I can scent your need, my darling, but as much as I’d like to crawl back in that bed with you, I want to talk to Silas while there is less chance of his brothers interrupting us.”

Booker, Rue, Kodi and Taylin were all in Drinkwater, once more dealing with the fallout from the factory. He couldn’t bring himself to think about that now, his anger would only upset Lane, who needed no more worry adding to the loaded plate he was carrying for their oldest son.

“Do you think it’s wise, my love, to poke at Silas?” Derick understood Lane’s need to get to the root of Silas’s problem, because there was one, otherwise he wouldn’t be shutting himself off from everyone, including Booker. It was how he’d always been, even as a boy. He’d close down, shut out the world and hide away to lick at his wounds.

His ex, Jason, had a lot to answer for and Derick remained pissed that he never got the chance to make him pay. He really hoped karma struck the fucker down. In fact, Derick despised everyone who had hurt their son, who had made him feel he was unworthy because he wasn’t a shifter. All the love in the world hadn’t stopped Silas from getting hurt. It had taken years to accept there was nothing Derick could do to change that for Silas, who simply held the pain of betrayal to himself. Derick understood it, despite despising the reasons behind it.

“He’s hurting and I can’t bear to watch when I might have…”

This situation with Silas right now wasn’t the same situation, but something was hurting his son and it was obvious to both of them. Lane had always been a meddler, and Derick knew that Lane felt his matchmaking schemes might be to blame for Silas’s troubles.

“Have what?” Derick was now the one arching a brow, knowing fine well his husband's plans for their sons. Lane’s obvious interference in their love lives left Derick conflicted because he wanted them to find the happiness they had but, as an alpha, he was uncomfortable with his son’s lack of awareness.

Booker’s observations about the bust up they had suggested Silas was involved—or wanted to be—with Ziggy, the PA they’ddiscussed weeks earlier. The switch around Hollis had done with the PAs brought out a side to Silas Derick had not witnessed before in his son. The uncontained anger unleashed without provocation was not usually for his firstborn.

“I only want their happiness,” Lane said defensively, tugging on the belt, dropping his gaze.

Derick rolled out of bed before going to Lane. “I know you do,” he slipped his arms around Lane, dragging him flush against him, inhaling the rich musk, “it’s just that he’s hurting right now, and I feel so useless.”

Lane rested his head on Derick’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. “I do too.”

They stood wrapped in each other's arms for long seconds before Derick kissed the top of Lane’s head, having heard movement in the hallway. “It sounds like he’s headed downstairs.” He stepped back. “Be gentle with him.”

“We’ve tried gentle. It’s time for the big guns…”

His husband's expression drew a groan from Derick. “You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?” he asked with resignation.

Lane fluttered his eyelashes at him. “Whatever works.”

Derick didn’t know if he should laugh, feel pity for Silas, or lock the bedroom door to stop Lane from leaving. As if he sensed Derick’s intentions, Lane moved swiftly and slipped out the door before Derick could decide.

He gave an accepting sigh at the click of the bedroom door. “I’m sorry, Silas,” he muttered aloud, “but you asked for this.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Silas

Sweat trickled down Silas’s spine from the nightmare that had violently woken him. The call from Booker about an omega from the factory down in Drinkwater, who’d died while giving birth, had gotten stuck in his head. What he’d suffered in the past was in no way similar, yet somehow his past had merged in the dream and it was him who was dying.

Booker had gone into detail about how he’d put his fist inside the omega to stem the bleeding. The horror coated the back of his throat and sent him down to the kitchen to find something, anything, other than water, which had done nothing to get rid of the awful taste left in his mouth. The coppery taste of his own blood from where he’d bitten his tongue made the nightmare even more vivid. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his mind latching on to how it would feel to have a fist shoved inside him.

His breaths came in quick gasps as he pushed into the kitchen and ran to the cupboard where Dad kept a range of whiskeys to make Irish coffees with. Grabbing the first bottle to hand, he didn’t check the label before pouring a liberal amount into a mug and downing it. The burn lit a fiery path through him as he swallowed, trying to hold back the urge to cough it straight back up as the strong liquor hit his empty stomach.

The sound of the kitchen door swishing open got him turning and sighing at the sight of Popi. He didn’t question why his son was standing with a bottle of whiskey, just went to him and wrapped his arms around his waist, pressing his cheek to Silas’s shuddery chest.

Silas trembled at the unwavering love. Love that he could rely on. Love those omegas hadn’t had, pushing them to work for those monsters. He buried his face in Popi’s hair and released a sob. His hands, still holding the bottle and mug, dangled at his sides.

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