Page 109 of The Dark Lord Awakens
The clock chimed the hour. Lucien would be awake by now, perhaps wondering where his butler had gone.
Azrael straightened his clothing, schooled his features into their usual mask of calm efficiency, and prepared to face his master. The perfect servant on the outside. The perfect predator within.
And as he moved toward Lucien's chambers, a single thought echoed through his mind, drowning out all others.
Mine. Forever mine.
25
Wes & Cole
“For the last time, I am not driving your ridiculous midlife crisis on wheels to the cemetery.” Wes Sinclair crossed his arms, golden hair falling across his forehead as he stared down his best friend since childhood.
Cole Holloway merely raised an eyebrow, dangling the keys to his recently acquired vintage motorcycle. “You’re just jealous because your sedan screams ‘I’ve given up on life and excitement.’”
“My sedan screams ‘I don’t want to die before tenure,’” Wes countered, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Cole’s spontaneous purchase of the motorcycle last month had been the most impulsive thing his methodical friend had done in years—and secretly, Wes was glad for it. The five years since Beau’s death had left Cole increasingly withdrawn, his natural reserve deepening into something more isolated.
“Fine.” Cole pocketed the keys with exaggerated disappointment. “Your automotive funeral pyre it is.”
They walked across the faculty parking lot as the late afternoon sun cast shadows between the buildings. Around them, students hurried to evening classes or headed off-campus, the university buzzing with the energy of young minds—minds like Beau’s had been, bright and challenging and full of possibilities.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Cole said, his voice softening as he opened the passenger door of Wes’ sedan. It wasn’t a question.
“Five years today,” Wes said, sliding behind the wheel. “Hard not to.”
Cole nodded, his tall frame folding elegantly into the passenger seat. “Did you see anyone wearing his shirt today?”
Wes smiled at the memory. After Beau’s death, a group of students had created memorial t-shirts with one of his more infamous quotes from a heated classroom debate: “Just because it’s always been done that way doesn’t mean it’s not stupid.” The shirts had become something of a tradition among business and computer science students, appearing most frequently during finals week.
“Two in my morning lecture,” Wes confirmed. “One of them raised his hand and challenged my entire approach to competitive strategy. Reminded me so much of him I almost couldn’t continue the class.”
“That quiet intensity,” Cole agreed. “The way he’d sit there formulating his argument while everyone else was still processing the question.”
They fell into comfortable silence as Wes navigated through the campus streets toward the highway. At thirty-five, both men remained fit and active—Wes with his fencing, Cole with his rock climbing—their academic careers flourishing despite the private grief they still carried.
“You didn’t book Giovanni’s this year,” Cole noted as they passed the exit that would have taken them to the upscale Italian restaurant they’d visited on this date for the past four years.
Wes’ hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “I thought we might try something different.”
Cole studied his friend’s profile, reading the tension in his jaw. “This is about what his roommate told you, isn’t it?”
“Tyler mentioned that Beau had talked about wanting to try that new ramen place before he—” Wes swallowed. “Before the accident. Said he’d never had proper ramen, just the instant packets he survived on during finals.”
Without a word, Cole reached across the console and placed his hand over Wes’ where it gripped the wheel. The touch was brief but grounding—a reminder of the understanding that had deepened between them over the years.
“Ramen sounds perfect,” Cole said simply.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated at a small table in Kintsugi, one of the city’s authentic ramen restaurants. The space was intimate, with low lighting and private booths separated by delicate wooden screens. Steam rose from their bowls, carrying the rich scent of bone broth and fresh ingredients.
“He would have loved this place,” Wes said, watching Cole arrange his chopsticks. “Probably would have charmed the chef into teaching him the recipe.”
“Then written a paper comparing the structural integrity of various noodle compositions,” Cole added with a slight smile. “Remember his final project connecting food science to business sustainability?”
Wes laughed, the sound drawing glances from nearby diners. “The professor called it ‘disturbingly innovative.’ I still have no idea how Beau convinced the cafeteria to let him experiment with their food supply chain.”
“He had that effect on people,” Cole said, his expression softening. “You’d find yourself agreeing to his ideas before you even realized what you were signing up for.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Wes was the first to speak again.
