Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
“Oh, how nice. I’ll tell him. Half an hour.” The receptionist hung up.
He and Soleil walked in silence to the park. It wasn’t hard to find the tree—it dominated the right side of the entrance to the park, a large wooden seat underneath.
While Soleil sat, Ivan paced like a caged tiger.
She wanted to say something, anything, to make things better, but she knew that there was no way to make this better. He had to speak to his father, had to figure out what to do with the knowledge.
All she could do was be there for him.
“Hey, you,” she murmured when he finally stopped pacing. Rising, she put her arms around him. As always, he put his arms around her at once, his cheek brushing her hair.
No more words. Just this touch, this warmth.
Until his head lifted and she knew. Stepping away, she said, “I’ll go for a walk so you two can talk.”
“No.” He gripped her wrist. “Stay.”
She could almost think he was afraid, this man who was the most dangerous predator on this quiet suburban street. Overwhelmed by tenderness, she shifted to stand by his side, his hand still around her wrist, and watched a man in blue scrubs walk toward them.
It was like seeing a too-thin and far older version of Ivan—an Ivan who’d lived a hard life, but who’d laughed, too. Lines marked his face, and the backs of his hands bore a number of scars—such as those created by addicts who picked compulsively at their bodies. Tabor Novak was lucky he’d chosen his hands.
Many went for the face.
The man who was Ivan’s father came to stand opposite Ivan, and just stared at him with eyes of a familiar ice blue. They were softer than Ivan’s, less piercing, but the shape of the eyes, his nose, the way all his features knit together … there was no question they were kin.
“Norah’s son?” Emotion-laden eyes, his voice unexpectedly shallow and reedy.
Voicebox damage, she diagnosed. Likely from an untreated injury.
“Yes. According to DNA testing, you’re my father.”
No shock in Tabor’s expression. It was clear he’d already seen that truth in the younger mirror of his own face that was Ivan. “Is your mother alive?” A whisper of hope.
“No.”
Trembling, Tabor collapsed onto the bench like a puppet with its strings cut, his hands gripping the edge of the wood smoothed by thousands of hands over the years. “God, she was so beautiful.” It came out a rasp. “I was like a puppy dog, would’ve done anything for her. All she wanted from me was ‘fertilization’—that’s how she put it.”
A laugh that could as well have been a sob. “I got all excited, thought I was going to get lucky, but she didn’t want the physical, just … well, you know.” He blew out a ragged breath, looked up. “I became lost in my poison of choice in the months afterward, and she was gone from our hangouts by the time I’d gathered up enough clarity to remember her, look for her.”
Ivan was a stone statue beside Soleil.
“But you do remember her?” she murmured.
“Norah was unforgettable.” Sorrow, such sorrow in his voice. Shoving both hands through black hair heavy with threads of gray, he looked once more at Ivan. “A son. I have a son.” This time, the tremor in his voice was joy, not sorrow. “I thought I had a good life after I finally crawled out of that pit of poison, but I never expected that it could become a million times better.”
Ivan didn’t react to the wet shine in Tabor’s eyes, but he did speak. “How did you two meet?”
It was as if Tabor had been waiting all these years to tell the story, because he opened his mouth and began to speak. Of a beautiful Psy woman with eyes of vivid blue and dreams of a life lived in wild freedom, and a young human man who’d been broken by life before he ever had a chance to grow into adulthood. Of drugs that provided an illusionary peace, and of months, then years lost in the lying mirages they offered.
“How did you get out?” Soleil asked.
“Got really sick, was picked up by a Human Alliance group that was out to help addicts. They nursed me back to health—and it was enough of a long process that they were able to wean me off. I could think for the first time in a long, long while, and I hated it.”
He smiled, sorrow in human form. “I began to do drugs because I didn’t want to see clearly, didn’t want to remember the ugliness of my childhood. I would’ve walked out and gone right back to that life, but the woman in charge of the clinic—so damn clever, she was—said I had to pay them back by helping to care for someone else, and that person was a young boy—sixteen, maybe. I saw him and knew he was where I’d once been.”