Page 20 of Mystique of the Fallen
“No, I’m afraid that’s a permanent affliction. How’s the boyfriend taking it?”
“Reg is pissed,” Grant confided. “I needed some space to think, so I told him I had a stomach bug. He hates being sick, so he’s been avoiding me. I’ve got some plans, but yeah, I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Okay, that’s fair. Let’s go back to the human stuff. Did you read anything about my bosses? The Reverent Knights?”
Grant’s brow creased as he tried to recall anything about Roman’s bosses, but his mind was blank. “If I did, I forgot.”
“I don’t expect you to memorize stuff,” Roman replied with a chuckle. “Here’s the deal. Unlike me, they remember their lives before they were resurrected. They were dragon shifters. Fate had granted them the highest title among dragons, and they ruled as Emperors for fifty years. Then the man in charge of ensuring they were protected allowed hundreds of humans into their castle. Those humans murdered the now Reverent Knights. My race only exists because humans killed the dragon shifters the Council wanted to create an alliance with to defend them.”
If Grant had read that, he would’ve recalled the gruesome tale. “Wow.”
“Yeah, that happened in 1369, and humans are unlikely to care about the trajectory of the Council or the story of the fallen knights, so I’m not surprised you didn’t know about my bosses.”
“Is it verifiable though? To anyone human?”
“I don’t know,” Roman said. “Our sources of information are vastly different. All I can suggest is that you Google it.”
“You have Google?”
“Yep.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
Another one of those sexy chuckles rumbled through Grant’s ear. “Of course.”
“Why do you have a car if you can teleport?”
“Because our laws state we must teleport to designated Dérive stations or to private residences of friends and family. It prevents us from popping into someone on the street and scaring the shit out of them. So, we typically drive from the closest Dérive station to our destination.”
“Yeah, I could see how frightening it would be if people were constantly teleporting everywhere.”
“Exactly, our Council does their best to improve the lives of our people in every way they can.”
“I’d disappear if I could,” Grant whispered.
The confession came out of nowhere, but Grant couldn’t take back the words. They were the truth, but the last thing he should be doing was alerting anyone to the fact that he was leaving his life behind. But he’d previously mentioned it to Roman, so it wasn’t as if the fallen knight was hearing anything new.
Grant hated the fear building inside him, but staying was perhaps more terrifying. Reginald wouldn’t take the news well that Grant was the mate of a fallen knight.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Roman asked kindly.
“No. No, I can’t. I should go.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Bye,” Grant said and quickly disconnected.
What the hell had he been thinking to call Roman again? Grant’s world was literally crumbling around his ears, and he needed to be packing instead of giving in to his curiosity about Roman. He probably only had a couple of days left before Reginald would be pounding on his door again. Laying his head on the cushion behind him and staring at the ceiling, Grant knew he should go to bed so he could get an early start on packing the next day.
Instead, he popped open the second can of beer and dug the Council book he was reading out from under his couch to read about Roman’s bosses.
Chapter 8
Grant’s bags were packed. Nearly everything was already in the car he’d purchased and hidden from Reginald. Since money would be an issue, Grant had tucked away anything tiny and expensive from his condo. A decorator hired by Reginald had designed everything, and Grant hadn’t liked it from the start. The place was almost entirely white, and nothing was comfortable. The furniture was stark and modern.
Even the artwork on the walls was predominately white in gold frames. Cabinets, walls, area rugs, and the bedding all had the same lack of color. There wasn’t any wood or other texture to break up the monotony. Grant promised himself that he’d have color in his new space. At least whoever moved into the condo after Grant would have a blank slate to create their vision.
Not that thinking about what came next did anything to lessen Grant’s guilt or fear. He’d never been on his own. Reginald had made his decisions. It had chafed in his youth, but Grant had listened when Reginald assured him that, because of their four-year age gap, he knew what was best for them both.
