11. Lane
ELEVEN
LANE
An aching sob filled Lane’s ears. He blinked awake, greeted by Rowan’s dark bedroom. The mattress shook, and the sound of sodden tears grew louder. Lane rolled over.
Rowan thrashed in his sleep, whimpering, his brow shining with sweat, tears covering his cheeks.
“Rowan?” Lane sat up, but he didn’t respond. Lane called out louder, and Rowan gave an agonized cry.
“Fuck.” Lane pushed a hand through his hair. He clasped Rowan’s bare shoulder, his skin hot. “Rowan, wake up.”
He struggled, and Lane tightened his grip, speaking louder. “Rowan, you’re all right. Wake up.”
His eyes flew open, their orange glow illuminating the haunted look on his face.
Lane firmed his grip. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”
Rowan glanced wildly around, pushing Lane off, and jolting into a sitting position. Lane expected him to snap, tell him to fuck off, to go away.
Silence filled the room.
Rowan wiped his face, attention catching on his tear-streaked hand as if he didn’t understand.
Lane’s chest ached. Perhaps he should give Rowan privacy, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that ducking into the bathroom was akin to abandoning him.
Eventually, Rowan’s breathing evened out, and Lane said softly, “Would you like to talk about it?”
“What do you think?” His voice came out thick, lacking its usual bite.
“I think it would help.”
Rowan faced him. The glow in his eyes snuffed out, making it difficult to read his expression. Lane gave him the chance to speak without pushing. He suspected Rowan hadn’t found their trip to the club relaxing, and another nightmare proved the point. Rowan wasn’t okay.
So Lane waited, holding eye contact, trying to show he was open to being supportive. If Rowan were to ask.
Rowan returned his attention to his hands and twisted the covers on his lap. “It was a dream about my past.”
“Has something brought it up?” When Rowan didn’t answer, Lane hedged, “Hunger might not be the curse’s only effect.”
Rowan ran a hand through his hair, letting it fall to hide his face. “I’ll have another drink and see if it helps.”
They’d exchanged blood again that afternoon. Hunter had been around, so there’d been no need for biting. A disappointment, especially after the club, but it was for the best. Rowan had seemed relieved to go the clinical route.
He left the bed and poured himself a glass of blood from the supply he’d added to his drink cart. He didn’t linger over it, and soon returned beneath the sheets. “Sorry for waking you.”
“I don’t mind. Did the drink help?”
“With my hunger, yes.” In other words, not with whatever had him crying in his sleep.
Part of Lane wanted to shout let me help you. Instead, he lay down, taking his time getting comfortable, and focused on the ceiling.
Rowan hadn’t taken the easy out, blaming the curse, and hadn’t claimed nightmares never plagued him before. He wasn’t pushing Lane away. What if Lane opened up first? Rowan might share more if Lane showed he was comfortable doing the same.
“I moved away from my coven after we settled in Oregon.”
He felt Rowan shift, the mattress dipping. “Really?”
“Why would I want to be around people who didn’t trust me? Who didn’t value my input? I didn’t want to leave the coven officially, just do my own thing. Be my own person.”
“What did you do?”
Lane smiled to himself. “Opened a shop with a friend. She lived a few hours away, closer to a more populated area with a larger magic community than where my coven settled, so I moved. We made and sold portable spells. It was fun.” He couldn’t keep the tinge of remorse from his tone.
“Why aren’t you still there, running the shop with her?”
“Gale moved. Her whole coven went farther north. To go with them, I had to officially leave the Blackburns.”
It had been Lane’s coven’s rule, not Gale’s. Even for all their flaws, Lane hadn’t wanted to turn his back on his family. Which was exactly how they’d have seen leaving the coven. It had felt too final, like closing a door when he wasn’t ready.
“I can’t see why you stayed if you were already doing your own thing,” Rowan said carefully.
Gale had been of the same opinion. “For some reason, I was holding on to the idea of proving myself. Fixing things. But when I moved home, my father made it clear he saw the shop, nearly ten years of my life, as a rebellion. Not an accomplishment. Maybe I should have realized my mistake then.”
A pause. “What do you mean?”
Lane glanced sideways, but Rowan wasn’t looking at him.
I shouldn’t have gone back. It was so fucking clear now.
Why value his father’s opinion when he didn’t value Lane’s?
“I should have realized I didn’t have to take on my father’s disappointment or treat it like something I needed to remedy.
Instead, I tried to prove myself all over again and look where it got me. ”
Rowan shifted onto his side, propping his head on a hand, hair falling over his arm like a silken waterfall. “Striving for a father’s approval is natural. Especially if you’ve been conditioned to crave it.”
His words rang true, all the way down to Lane’s bones. “Was your father like that?” The question slipped out before he could think.
“I have no idea.” Rowan abruptly turned away, settling on his back.
The loss was more staggering than it should’ve been. Lane lay frozen, praying Rowan would go on. Open up. If his father hadn’t been like Lane’s, had his sire? Was that why it sounded like he knew exactly how Lane felt?
Lane took a risk. “You have no idea because the memory of your father was taken?”
“Not only the memory of my father. Memory of my human life.” The words hung heavy. Rowan’s matter-of-fact tone added weight, as if something so devastating could ever be normal.
“I’m sorry.” Lane burned to grab Rowan’s hand and not let go. Pain cut through him even though he’d suspected this. Rowan admitting it—sharing with him—meant far more than Lane could express.
Rowan was almost too soft to hear as he said, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, but I appreciate it all the same.”
Lane’s heart ached. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“About what was taken from me? What’s there to say?
Taking memories of life before to create a blank slate is entirely in the sire’s hands.
Some supposedly request their memories wiped when they’re transformed, to be freed of past trauma, but there’s no way to know if those requests were real or a lie told upon waking.
Memories taken at transformation can’t be recovered the way ones removed through hypnosis can. ”
Fucking hell. “That’s so manipulative. It’s horrible.”
Rowan laughed bitterly. “To say the least.”
Lane imagined waking with no memory, not knowing his own name, and having a sire swoop in and fill in the blanks with whatever they chose.
Add in the misinformation Rowan had spoken of previously…
The power they’d have, especially with a new vampire who didn’t understand their urges or the ways of the magic world.
Without prompting, Rowan continued, “These days, any decent sire records proof of a memory loss request. Videos from before the transformation, usually of meetings between their potential progeny and vampires from outside their coven, assessing the request before memories are taken. I suppose decent vampires might have done such things throughout history. Without the video, of course. Many, like me, refuse to wipe away life altogether.”
Lane wasn’t surprised by Rowan’s stance in the least. “And vampires who don’t take precautions?”
“Are vile and most likely liars,” Rowan said with a growl. “They’re enemies I’d keep an eye on. If they take advantage of their progeny, they undoubtedly do worse to others. Abuse is never limited to transformation either.”
His tone was chilling, yet it inspired no fear in Lane. Rowan was fierce in his kindness, decent to his core, and his sire had taken advantage. It was heartbreaking.
Something warm wrapped around Lane. Warm and hard. A fresh floral scent tinged with copper.
Lane opened his eyes to the morning light. He was in bed, with Rowan clinging to him, cradling him back-to-chest, Rowan’s face tucked against his neck. Long hair tickled Lane’s shoulders, and their legs tangled together. Rowan’s breathing came deep and even, still very much asleep.
A slow smile tugged Lane’s lips. Rowan obviously found comfort in him, and his subconscious couldn’t fight it. Talking last night had helped, and maybe it was a testament to Lane’s shortcomings in life, but it felt like his biggest accomplishment.
No, that was unfair. He hadn’t fallen short in life. He wasn’t a failure seeking approval anymore, and he could absolutely take pride in himself for being someone Rowan could lean on.
Would he change his mind when he woke?
Lane should slip out of his embrace. Rowan’s chest wasn’t the only firm flesh pressing against him. His cock was at least half hard, poking Lane’s rear with nothing but their underwear separating them.
Rowan shifted, pressing closer, and Lane stifled a gasp. Stubble scratched his neck as Rowan nuzzled him, the motion so sweet, Lane’s chest pinched.
Rowan’s deep breathing caught on an inhale. His grip locked tight, and his whole body went rigid. “You’re awake,” he rasped.
There was no feigning sleep around a vampire. Rowan could likely tell from Lane’s heartbeat.
He made sure his voice was light but not teasing. “And so are you. Good morning.”
Rowan cleared his throat. “I apologize. I’m being needy.” His grip slackened and he pulled away, sounding ashamed.
That wasn’t right. Needy was an odd word choice, pinging Lane’s senses. He gently grabbed Rowan’s wrist before he could withdraw completely. “There’s nothing wrong with being needy.”
Rowan went completely still. “Don’t humor me.”
“I’m not.” Lane’s voice dropped low. “I like being needed.”
Silence stretched between them, and Lane was sure he’d said the worst possible thing. Rowan didn’t want to know that he liked needy lovers he could dote on, and tangled in bed as they were, the subtext was far too obvious.