Chapter 8
An entire week had passed since Gramlithyn had returned to Vegas, and Pyxlevir had yet to hear from him.
Not that Pyxlevir was surprised. According to Semira, he’d attended a single dinner with his parents and would respond to texts, but that was it.
The little boy who’d confided in his folks about everything had been replaced by an aloof stranger.
Neither Semira nor Laconifel was pleased, but they were counting on patience to bring him back into the family fold.
To the rest of the D’Vaire clan, Gramlithyn had remained mute.
It was as if the child and teenage Gramlithyn who’d run through the halls of D’Vaire and shared secrets in the privacy of Pyxlevir’s room had never existed.
Which hurt Pyxlevir immensely, despite his understanding of the situation.
Gramlithyn didn’t want a mate and would rather cut off his entire family than entertain a romantic relationship with Pyxlevir.
How the fuck am I not supposed to take that personally? Pyxlevir wondered furiously.
It was Saturday morning. He should be enjoying his weekend instead of thinking about Gramlithyn because the hybrid was for damn sure not wasting his time worrying about Pyxlevir. From his pocket, his phone beeped, and he welcomed the intrusion.
Pyxlevir pulled the device out and promptly dropped it on the floor as he caught who’d messaged him.
The very elf-zebra he’d been fuming about had texted Pyxlevir after six fucking years.
As if stuck in a mire, Pyxlevir bent slowly to grab his phone.
He stared at the dark screen for countless seconds as his heart thundered in his chest.
What did Gramlithyn want? There was only one way to find out. So, with a trembling hand, Pyxlevir unlocked his device and swiped his finger until he saw the text.
Gramlithyn: Can we talk? Let me know when you’re free, I’d like a few minutes of your time.
That was it. No greeting. No explanation. Just a request for a chat. Pyxlevir’s lips pursed. He had two choices—play coy or rush over to question the man about his stupid decision to disappear for six years. Without giving himself a moment to second-guess what he wanted, Pyxlevir responded.
Pyxlevir: I’m available now. Where would you prefer to meet?
There was an immediate reply from Gramlithyn with his hotel name and room number. Pyxlevir bolted from his suite and nearly rammed into the ruler of the centaurs, Archon Timotheus Centaurus, who was preparing to leave the house to play golf with a couple of dragons and centaurs.
“Are you okay, Pyxlevir?” his uncle asked, his brown gaze concerned as Pyxlevir skirted around him at a dead run.
“Never better, see you later,” Pyxlevir shouted without stopping.
He yanked open the door and cringed as it slammed shut behind him.
Once he was outside, Pyxlevir debated whether he should drive to the hotel or arrange for a teleport.
Deciding time was of the essence, he sent a group text to every sorcerer he knew with the ability to teleport.
Grand Warlock Dra’Kaedan D’Vaire was the first to reply, assuring Pyxlevir he was on his way. True to his word, Dra’Kaedan and his mate, Grand Duke Brogan D’Vairedraconis, shimmered into view on the front porch inches from where Pyxlevir stood.
“Fuck,” Dra’Kaedan shouted as Brogan let out a tiny shriek. “You scared me, Pyx.”
“Why aren’t you inside?” Brogan demanded, towering above Pyxlevir with his navy gaze narrowed. “Should you be out here by yourself?”
Dra’Kaedan rolled his eyes dramatically. “He’s not a child. Where do you need to go?”
“Hotel Draconis,” Pyxlevir replied as he accepted a hug from the warlock and stretched his short limbs to embrace the tall dragon shifter.
“Why are you going there, and who are you meeting?” Brogan asked. The Grand Duke oversaw security at the High Court of D’Vaire and took his job extremely seriously.
“Gramlithyn texted me.”
Dra’Kaedan’s mouth dropped open. “Let’s get you there, then.”
Letting his lashes slip closed, Pyxlevir stood still as the ground disappeared beneath his silk slip-ons and wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him until now to think about what he had on.
He was seeing his mate for the first time in six years, so he should at least look his best. But Pyxlevir reminded himself that Gramlithyn’s opinion of his clothes didn’t matter, and it wasn’t like he had ugly things.
Once there was firm ground beneath him, Pyxlevir opened his eyes.
“We’re going with you,” Brogan insisted.
“No, we aren’t,” Dra’Kaedan retorted. “Text or call when you need to get back home. Run so I can teleport this dragon home.”
“Love you both,” Pyxlevir called with a cheerful wave as he hustled out of the Dérive station in Hotel Draconis.
As much as he adored the pair, he wanted to face Gramlithyn alone.
He wasn’t sure yet what he’d say or how much he was willing to reveal, but he wanted answers.
No, he deserved them. But whether they came today or at some point in the future wasn’t at the forefront of Pyxlevir’s mind.
As he arrived at the elevator bay and pressed the up button, he focused on ensuring he was calm because he didn’t know how he’d react to seeing Gramlithyn again.
Excitement bubbled through him, but so did resentment.
Betrayal, fury, and sadness were also present.
Pyxlevir imagined a dark cauldron of mixed emotions gurgling from the depths of his soul.
The elevator opened, and Pyxlevir was relieved it was empty. He stepped in, hit the correct floor number, and schooled himself to remain calm. In the past six years, he’d earned two degrees and a few promotions. At Elven D’Vaire, he was a junior executive with a respectable reputation.
At the office, Pyxlevir was collected and even stoic if the situation warranted it.
Meeting his mate after six years fit the bill for cool, emotionless tact.
Determined to deal with his feelings in private once he knew what Gramlithyn wanted, Pyxlevir stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall.
Pyxlevir stopped at the correct door and took a deep steadying breath. Fate only knew what the next several minutes would mean for Pyxlevir and his life, but he wasn’t a coward. Nor would he be a pushover. He lifted his arm to knock and squeaked as the door whipped open.
A blond man, nearly as short as Pyxlevir’s five-foot-two frame, grinned at him.
“Hi, are you Pyxlevir?” asked the person, who Pyxlevir identified as a shifter of some kind. “I’d shake your hand, but Gram says you can’t do that with elves, which you obviously are. But I’m glad I got to meet you before Gram shooed me out the fucking door. Hey, I’m Gram’s best friend, Dasan.”
The words were like an arrow to the heart. One of the things Pyxlevir had prided himself on since he was six was being Gramlithyn’s best friend, but he’d been replaced.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dasan,” Pyxlevir managed.
“Dasan, go get some breakfast,” said a voice Pyxlevir would recognize anywhere. The soft, earthy scent of carrots wafted toward Pyxlevir, but the man who walked up behind Dasan was a stranger.
This wasn’t a hybrid who adhered to elven traditions; Gramlithyn had hacked off his long hair.
The longest portion of his fringe didn’t even hit his eyebrows.
Tiny silver hoops glittered in his earlobes.
A black button-down shirt suited his pale green complexion, and the sleeves were rolled up to expose tattoos on both forearms.
His right arm sported a serpentine dragon, and on the left was a winding vine with leaves and dainty flowers.
Whoever had inked him was incredibly skilled, and the black-and-gray images were gorgeous, but tattoos were taboo to every elf.
Faded jeans covered his legs, and a pair of worn combat-style boots in the same raven as his top completed the look.
For some inexplicable reason, a sensuous wave of arousal nearly as intense as—or was it perhaps better than—the moment Pyxlevir had discovered Gramlithyn was his mate flowed through him, and he shivered. He dearly hoped the length of his tunic covered his dick’s interest in his other half.
As Pyxlevir stood mute, drinking in the luscious sight of a twenty-four-year-old Gramlithyn and quickly updating his mental image of the teenager who’d abandoned him, the hybrid shooed Dasan out of the doorway.
“Do you want to come in so we can talk?” Gramlithyn asked. Again, he didn’t greet Pyxlevir, nor did he allow any emotion to cross his face. Too much time had passed for Pyxlevir to guess any of the feelings in his dark brown gaze.
Thankfully, the flatness of his question helped Pyxlevir quell his visceral reaction to Gramlithyn. Determined to be aloof, Pyxlevir lifted his chin.
“Of course,” Pyxlevir responded. Gramlithyn turned, and Pyxlevir curled his fingers into fists. The way the light denim clung to Gramlithyn’s ass was a sight now seared into Pyxlevir’s mind. But he dug his nails into his flesh to ensure that he wasn’t distracted by hormones.
It was weird to have sexuality again. As the years passed, Pyxlevir thought less often about the few seconds of arousal he’d experienced on his eighteenth birthday. It turned out that as an elf with an absent mate, the desire to stroke himself to completion had quickly faded.
“Would you like to have a seat?” Gramlithyn asked.
Without a word, Pyxlevir chose the only chair in the room so his reckless body would focus on something besides getting off. He didn’t want to be mired in his emotions, but he also refused to lose himself in some sexual fantasy either.