Chapter 8
EIGHT
Branson struggled to wake the next morning, barely tempted by the bitter aroma of coffee, because he felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
His head ached, his eyes were sandy, and his insides were ripped to shreds.
He blinked at the other side of his bed, confused by the messy covers, until the previous night rushed back.
The papers. Chip Uty. Tarius taking care of him like the perfect, supportive boyfriend.
Thank goddess Branson didn’t have to work today, or he’d have called out.
And he didn’t want to start the new year by taking time off.
He’d need those hours whenever he was supposed to answer the court summons in Sonora Province.
Tarius walked in dressed in a pair of Branson’s sleep pants, a mug of coffee in each hand. “Black, two sugars,” he said. “How’s your head?”
He adored Tarius for not asking how he was. How could he be anything except still confused and upset? “Hurts. What time is it?”
“A little after eight. I couldn’t really sleep, so I made coffee. When you made a noise, I figured you’d woken up.”
Branson carefully accepted one mug. “Thanks. For everything.”
“Anything you need.” Tarius eased onto Branson’s side of the bed, his own mug carefully balanced. “Your omegin texted a little while ago, asking how you were. I told him you were asleep.”
“Okay.” Wait. “He didn’t ask me to call him?”
“No. I think he’s giving you space to reach out first, which we both know is not easy for him.”
“Like any of this is easy for me?”
“Of course, it isn’t. I mean Kell not reaching out when he knows one of his kids is hurting.”
Branson grunted and sipped the coffee. “He knows I won’t talk to him right now.
” A memory of his omegin’s face last night, so scared and upset, twisted Branson’s gut into knots.
Dad was hurting, too, but that pain was not his to soothe.
Not this time. Dad had Papa. Just like Branson had Tarius.
A man he adored, who’d stuck by him through so many challenges this past year and a half.
They’d stuck by each other.
“Do you feel like breakfast?” Tarius asked. “I have no idea what you’ve got in the kitchen, but I can run out for food.”
“I’ll probably nibble on some dry cereal. But there’s eggs and bread for toast. I think some sausages in the freezer. Make what you like for yourself.”
After a quick stop in the bathroom so Branson could whizz and wash his face, he and Tarius settled at the small kitchen table with bowls of cereal, Tarius’s with milk and a sliced-up banana. They didn’t talk; they didn’t need to.
At eight-forty, Branson’s landline rang. He eyeballed it with annoyance before answering. “Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?” Emory asked in a soft, breathy voice.
“Huh?” He stared at the corkboard over his phone, where he pinned important messages, business cards, and other reminders.
“Don’t ‘huh?’ me, brother. Dad and Papa are upset, and they won’t tell me why, and Caden said he’s fine, so it has to be you.”
“Could be Uncle Braun.”
“No, it’s you. Something upset you at the Gala last night. I saw it. Can you talk to me, please?”
“I can’t, Em, I’m sorry.” He glanced at Tarius, whose expression went from inquisitive to understanding. “I need to find out a few things first, before I know anything for sure. But I am physically unharmed, and I’m safe at home. I’m not in any immediate danger.”
Emory released a frustrated huff. “Okay. I believe you. Please, call when you can talk to me? I hate knowing you’re upset. You’re almost never upset.”
That was very true. Branson had often wondered where he’d gotten his exceptionally even temper.
Krause was known to be unstable and violent.
Dad was slow to anger, but quick to many other emotions, including panic and worry.
Branson couldn’t have possibly inherited an even temper from someone who’d abuse other people. Maybe it came from Dad’s omegin.
“I will talk to you when I can, Emory, I promise.”
“Okay. But Dad and Papa know, right? They’ve been in Dad’s office since I woke up.”
“Yes, they know. No one is in trouble, okay? Trust us?”
“I do. I love you.”
“Love you, Em.” Branson hung up then contemplated calling Papa’s mobile.
But it was too early in Sonora for anyone to get back to them about the custody papers.
He still couldn’t wrap his mind around having at least one more younger sibling.
A sibling who wanted to come live with him.
Seventeen was more manageable than a seven-year-old, but it was still a big responsibility.
“Why don’t you take a shower?” Tarius asked. “I’ll clean up.”
“Okay. Are you going home?”
“I need to for a little while. All I have to wear is my dress clothes, and they aren’t the most comfortable, especially since today is likely to be a long day. We’ve got time before Ronin has anything to tell you.”
“True.” Branson strode back to the table, and when Tarius stood, Branson gave him a firm kiss. A promise. “I’ll see you again soon.”
“Yes, you will.”
Branson walked into the bathroom with the dregs of his coffee.
When he exited later, washed but unrefreshed, the apartment was silent.
After dressing in jeans and a thermal shirt, he checked his mobile for messages or texts.
Nothing, so he sat down at his computer and tried to do a little busy work, anything to distract himself from his silent mobile.
He resisted going online and poking around, falling down a rabbit hole that would probably lead to more questions than answers.
As angry as he was about the lie his parents told, he trusted Papa to learn what they needed to know, and then to share it with Branson expeditiously.
He smiled at his computer monitor. Expeditiously was one of those lawyer-type words he’d picked up from hanging around with Tarius.
He managed to fall into a side project for a while.
Work had always helped him through the most stressful times in his life, because he could scribble ideas into a notebook while in waiting rooms or hospital rooms, and then plug those notes into his computer later.
He was saving up his credit to buy a laptop computer of his own.
They were heavy and clunky, but they were mobile with decent battery life.
A few of the guys at the office had one, and he was jealous.
His mobile rang a little after noon, just as Branson was contemplating a simple sandwich for lunch.
That dry cereal he’d nibbled on earlier was long gone, and he didn’t want to risk an upset stomach by guzzling more coffee.
He already chewed more antacids than was probably healthy for someone his age.
Papa’s number. “Hey,” Branson said.
“Everyone in Sonora Province finally woke up and started returning my messages,” Papa replied in a raspy voice that betrayed his lack of sleep. “I have solid information for you. How would you like it? Come to the house?”
“No.” He also didn’t want to hear this over the phone. “You come to my place. Just you.”
“Ah, all right, I can do that.”
Branson could imagine the face Papa was making over having to leave Dad out of this. And maybe it wasn’t fair to exclude Dad; Dad had not consented to having Chip Uty’s child. But Branson was equally furious with both his parents, and Papa had information Branson desperately needed. “I’ll be here.”
He ended the call, and then he texted Tarius. Tarius beat Papa there by less than two minutes. Branson was hungry, stressed, but also insanely curious what Papa had learned about the mystery summons, sent on behalf of a half-brother he’d never known about.
“I spoke with Jeuel Alder’s lawyer,” Papa said as he opened a folder of faxes and notes on the kitchen table. “An alpha named Owen Paxton. Mr. Paxton was retained by Jeuel’s widowed brother-in-law, an omega named Trei Alder, to act on Jeuel’s behalf as an unprotected omega.”
“Unprotected?” Branson parroted. “I thought he was orphaned?”
“Near enough. Mr. Paxton says that Jeuel and his immediate family were recently victims of a violent home invasion involving a known criminal element and local authorities. Jeuel’s step-omegin Dario and Jeuel’s older alpha brother Paul were both killed.
Jeuel’s sire, Charles Alder, was severely wounded and recently slipped into a coma.
Only Jeuel and Trei survived, both with minor injuries. ”
Branson stared at Papa, brain swimming, gut churning over so many names and shocking revelations. A home invasion involving authorities? An alpha brother named Paul? And what was—wait. “Minor injuries? Is Jeuel okay?”
Papa nodded. “A few cuts from broken glass but no bullet wounds from the shooting.”
“Oh. Good. But what the hell kind of shooting?”
“That is still under criminal investigation, and Mr. Paxton isn’t privy to anything.
” Papa sifted through the papers and produced several sheets.
Handed them to Branson. “He faxed me a few newspaper articles about the incident, but before you read them, son, Jeuel and Paul weren’t your only half-brothers. ”
He swallowed hard, mouth almost too dry for words. “Who else?”
“The alpha named Charles Alder, who we suspect is Chip Uty, had three sons with his first mate Presley. Their oldest was Paul, who was twenty-one when he recently died, then a beta son, Cal, was born a year later. Cal was ten when he died about ten years ago.”
Three. Branson once had three half-brothers in a faraway province. One had died a violent death in a shoot-out, and one had died as a kid. Grief for two boys he’d never met squeezed Branson’s chest in a cold, painful fist. “How did Cal die?”
“In a car accident. Someone cut the brakes on Charles’s car. He was driving Cal to a rec team soccer game, and they crashed into the front of someone’s house. Cal died in the hospital a few hours later.”