Page 76 of Claim of Blood
“Mm-hmm.” Emilia’s mouth curved in that way he recognized—like she was about to drop a revelation and savor every second. “Well, I did a little research of my own. And what I found about young Leo is…fascinating.”
Adam’s instincts went very still. “What did you discover?”
“Leo von Rothenburg is the son of Sabine von Rothenburg, who was the daughter of Sophia von Rothenburg.” Emilia’s fingers stilled, her eyes fixed on him. “And Sophie, née Wagner, wasn’t just a socialite, sugar. She was a witch.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “What?”
“His grandmother was part of a European coven that cooperated with hunter families in the late 1600s,” Emilia went on, her voice deceptively mild. “During the time the hunters called the Shifter Madness. The magical bloodline runs through the maternal line, though it’s been dormant for generations.”
Adam stared, silent, as pieces clicked together with disconcerting clarity. Leo’s emerging ability to sense supernaturals…they’d attributed it to the Claim. But what if it wasn’t just that?
“Interesting,” he said finally, his voice low.
“Isn’t it just?” Emilia’s smile turned almost predatory. “Magic recognizes magic, Adam. And your claim? His magic is going to wake up.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “How much do you know about this bloodline?”
“Enough to be certain you’re not dealing with an ordinary human legacy,” Emilia said, her tone turning serious. “If his gifts emerge fully, you may find the Claim’s effects…unpredictable.”
“He’s already unpredictable.” The confession slipped out before he could temper it. He rubbed his forehead, tension tightening behind his eyes. “Do you have any idea what else might surface?”
Emilia hesitated, then shook her head. “I don’t. That line was nearly erased by a schism within their own coven. Most of the records are gone.” She leaned closer to the camera. “You’d best prepare your Court. If word gets out a hunter with witch blood has been claimed by the First Son, it won’t stay a local curiosity. It’ll become a global incident.”
Adam exhaled slowly, feeling the magnitude of it settle over him like a fresh weight. Leo, who had already upended every expectation, was about to do it again.
“Thank you, Emilia.”
“You’re welcome. And sugar?” She softened, just a fraction. “Don’t keep him in the dark. He deserves to know what he carries.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “He will.”
They ended the call. For a moment, he sat unmoving, the silence of the office pressing in. Leo’s quiet determination, his kindness, his fierce protectiveness—he’d already begun rewriting the shape of Adam’s world. Now he might rewrite it in ways no one could predict.
The evening was fast approaching, painting the windows in bruised purples and golds. Over/Under waited—and with it, aconversation he’d put off for too long. Maja deserved the truth, all of it, no matter how much it cost him to speak it.
His phone buzzed. Leo again.
“Good luck. Try not to let her terrify you too badly.”
A laugh escaped him, startled and helpless. He hadn’t realized how much he needed that little tether to something warm and human.
“Thank you, beauty. I’ll be home soon.”
He pocketed the phone, squared his shoulders, and left the office, feeling every one of his millennia settle in his bones.
Chapter Eighteen
Adam
Over/Understoodasatestament to PDC’s layered nature, its three distinct floors catering to different appetites and desires. The ground-floor restaurant gleamed with chrome and glass, touch-screen menus embedded in sleek tables while efficient servers navigated between them with practiced grace. Above, the lounge stretched out in modern sophistication, floor-to-ceiling windows offering sweeping views of Washington Avenue’s evening bustle. But it was the basement that held Adam’s attention, the true heart of Over/Under, where supernatural energy pulsed beneath human feet like a secret heartbeat.
He found her at their usual corner table, platinum hair gleaming under the subtle lighting that played across exposed brick walls. The space around her held that particular emptiness that spoke of a predator’s presence, other patrons unconsciously giving her a wider berth than strictly necessary.
“Daughter,” he said softly, settling into the chair across from her. A crystal glass of bloodwine already waited for him.
“Father.” Her tone was perfectly neutral, neither warm nor cold. “I trust your day was productive?”
And so it began—the careful dance of words that centuries together had perfected. Adam took a measured sip of his drink, letting the familiar warmth spread across his tongue. “Quite. Though I found myself missing your insight during the Stockholm briefing.”
