Troy-Three Nights Ago “Troy. So, you came.” As if I had a choice. Romero was the whole reason I was in this place, trying not to get struck by lightning or drown in the unrelenting humidity while Aaron was stranded on a beach in the Isles of Denali, enjoying a cool drink and tanning his nearly translucent skin on the soft, white sand. I eyed Romero coolly as he neared, his cane tapping against the stone floor with each slow step in my direction. “You look like your mother,” he said with a strange, slightly menacing smile. I bit the inside of my lip to stop myself from saying anything, willing myself to have a filter for the first time in my life. “But I understand that you wouldn’t know her, would you?” I swallowed, tucking my hands in my pockets. “Ah, yes. That’s what I thought.” Romero finally reached the bars, sitting down on a stool. The action took most of his strength, and he was quiet for a moment as his heavy breathing returned to normal. “You know I’ve been up here for twenty years, Troy?” I nodded, once, watching the man as he coughed into his fist. “Ah, yes. Twenty years in this tower. Almost longer than that Alpha below us has been alive, did you know that? I’m sure you assumed he wasn’t the man that put me here, no, that was Talon. The half-wit’s father. Ethan’s Beta. Of course, King James was still in power then.” He looked away from me toward the landing of the stairs, snickering. “Ethan. Ha! Tell me, have you seen his girl? The daughter, what was her name… Maeve? Say, does she look like her mother? Do you know who I’ m talking about-” “She looks like Ethan, Romero,” I said bluntly, color rising in my cheeks at the mention of Maeve’s name. In truth, I only knew what Ethan looked like from the handful of portraits I had seen scattered around the castle, but the resemblance was uncanny. Maeve was her father’s daughter, the fair version of her father’s dark and brooding characteristics. “Ah, so he speaks more than one word at a time,” he laughed, a dry choking sound that made the hair on my arms stand on end. “I was told you didn’t start talking until you were five years n “I didn’t have much to say,” I growled, struggling to maintain my composure. I hadn’t needed to say much as a child, anyway, having grown up bouncing from island to island in the Isles, working on the ships for the pack of Poldesse that crept through the waters like ghosts in the mist. I was one of many orphaned or abandoned boys absorbed by the pack and used like workhorses. But I was different. I had Alpha blood. I was a descendant of Romero. My mother was his daughter, Madalynn. He chuckled.copy right hot novel pub