Chapter 36
Saint
Iwait until Amy disappears inside the dorm building. I wanted to stay but didn’t want to push her so soon. She was quiet after I showed her what goes on behind Kenyan’s walls.
She was stunned. And aroused. It took everything inside me not to take her to my bedroom. Just like it’s taking everything inside me to leave her here.
The old brick building swallows her whole. I walk down the path until her window comes into view. A light comes on. Then I see her silhouette pass briefly across the window before disappearing deeper into her room. Only then do I turn away.
The campus is quiet. It’s nearly two in the morning. The stone walkways glisten from an earlier rain, reflecting the amber glow of iron lampposts that have stood here longer than anyone alive remembers. Wind moves through the oaks lining the quad, carrying the distant sound of the breeze.
The party is over for me. I let Azriel and the others handle getting everyone out. I have enough staff to make sure everything gets cleaned up.
I pull my hood over my head and begin walking toward the south lot where my car waits. Three steps. That’s all I manage. Headlights sweep across the stone. Not one pair. Three. The engines are almost silent.
Three identical black Rolls-Royce Phantoms glide through the empty campus as though the university belongs to them. The convoy doesn’t slow until it reaches me. All three cars stop in perfect formation. One in front. One beside me. One behind.
Every door remains closed.
For several seconds, nothing happens. The engines idle. The headlights illuminate the old stone buildings. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rings twice. Finally, the rear passenger door of the center Phantom opens but only halfway.
I have no idea who the fuck is inside. The windows are tinted so dark that all you see is the reflection of the campus building’s lights.
A man steps out. Black suit, black gloves, and silver hair cut impossibly short. I can’t place him.
My hands ball into fists as he closes the door behind him with measured precision before walking toward me.
He stops six feet away. “Saint.” His voice is calm.
I look behind surveying all three cars boxing me in. Whoever the fuck this is, doesn’t have any intention of leaving until they get what they want. “I don’t know you. What the fuck do you want?”
A slight nod. “No. But we’ve been looking for you.”
My jaw tightens. “I’ve heard that before.”
“So have we.”
Silence stretches between us. The man reaches inside his jacket. My muscles tense.
Instead of a weapon, he removes a black envelope. Heavy. Matte. It’s sealed with dark crimson wax.
He holds it out, but I don’t take it. “Who sent you?”
“The man who has waited eighteen years to meet his son.”
The words don’t land; they explode. My son?
Impossible. I don’t know who my father is, but there have been enough times when my stepfather made sure to let me know that whoever the bastard was, he wasn’t coming to save me. My mother hid me for a reason, and that reason was for protection. My mother never…My thoughts stop.
The wax seal catches the light in the shape of a wolf. Its body wrapped around an ancient crown.
My pulse stutters. I knew that crest as a kid. I would catch my mother drawing that crest.
Over.
And over.
And over.
On scraps of paper. Napkins. Margins of books.
When I was little, she’d hand me a pencil and tell me to copy it until I could draw it from memory. I asked her what it meant once. She smiled, folded the paper, and then burned it in the kitchen sink.
I was confused about why she made me draw only to have it burned, as if it never existed. Then she told me never to draw it again. I haven’t thought about that symbol in years. Yet somehow...
I could recreate every line. Every curve. Every tooth. Every point in the crown.
The man notices my expression. “You recognize it.”
I don’t answer. He doesn’t need one.
“He hoped you would.”
My fingers finally close around the envelope. The paper is heavier than it should be. Inside is a single card with only six words.
Your mother kept her promise.
Now let me keep mine.
Below the sentence—The same wolf.
The same crown. Embossed in black.
I look back up. “If this is some kind of joke—”
“It isn’t.”
My breath gets rougher. “Who are you?”
The man’s expression softens for the first time. “My name is Matteo. I’ve served your family for thirty-seven years.”
My family.
The only family I have are the sons of Kenyan and my late mother.
“The family you serve is not the same as mine.”
“I’m afraid your assumption that you don’t have a family outside of these walls is inaccurate.”
He glances toward the dorm behind me, then back at me. “You simply haven’t met them yet.”
The rear door of the Phantom remains open. Warm light spills onto the pavement.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I suggest you hop back into your car and get the fuck out of here,” I say.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Saint. I bet your inheritance you’ve spent your entire life wondering why your mother died.” The world stops, and sweat pools above my brow as he continues, “Why the Order wanted you hidden.”
My breathing slows. Every instinct I possess tells me to walk away. Every answer I’ve ever searched for sits inside that car.
Matteo steps aside, leaving the path open. “The man waiting for you can answer every question you’ve carried since you were a child.”
I look once toward Amy’s dorm. The light in her room has gone dark. She’s asleep.
Safe.
Then I look at the open door of the car, wondering at the life I never knew existed.
I step forward and slide inside. The door closes behind me with the quiet certainty of a vault sealing shut. Outside, the three Phantoms pull away from Kenyan University without a single car following them. I should call my brothers, but for the first time in my life...
I’m leaving a world that thought it owned me.
The cabin falls silent, only the faint scent of cedar, leather, and expensive cologne lingering in the air.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
I count turns. Vehicles. Shadows moving beyond the tinted glass. The city thins, then disappears completely, replaced by dark forest and a private road smooth enough to feel unreal.
When the gates finally appear, they rise out of the mountain itself. Black steel. Wolves twisted through crowns. No guards. No intercom. Just cameras turning silently toward us as the convoy passes through without slowing.
Beyond them, the world changes.
A lake stretches beneath the moonlight. Vineyards climb the surrounding hills. Farther out, a private runway glows under rows of white lights, and three jets wait beneath illuminated hangars, each marked with the same wolf-and-crown crest embossed on the envelope in my lap.
Then the estate appears.
Black stone. Glass. Firelight. Ancient towers connected by modern steel. The whole structure was built into the mountain like it was never meant to be found by anyone who wasn’t already owned by it.
Matteo watches my reaction.
“The House of Devereaux,” he says quietly. “It has stood for four hundred and twelve years.”
The convoy rolls beneath a covered portico supported by enormous stone columns.
Only then does Matteo look at me. “For eighteen years,” he says, his expression unreadable, “this house has waited for its heir.”
Outside, more than fifty people stand in perfect silence beneath the lights, waiting for the heir who never knew he belonged here.
Matteo opens his own door first.
Cool air rushes into the cabin, carrying the scent of pine, rain-soaked earth, and cedar smoke from somewhere deeper within the estate. He steps out. Only then does another man open my door.
Broad shoulders beneath an immaculate black suit. An earpiece curls behind one ear. A scar disappears beneath his collar.
He bows his head. “Welcome home, signore.”
I don’t respond.
I’m busy taking it all in as I step onto polished black stone. The estate is quiet. No conversation. Only the distant rush of water from fountains hidden throughout the grounds.
The line of men and women waiting beneath the portico remains perfectly still. There are at least fifty of them. Maybe house staff and security.
Every pair of eyes follows me. The kind of respect that doesn’t need permission.
An older woman standing near the entrance suddenly raises a trembling hand to her mouth. I watch as tears fill her eyes. “Oh...” Her voice breaks. “He has her eyes.”
Matteo notices me watching. I wish I could say something, but I don’t know these people.
“They knew your mother.” Something twists inside my chest.
The front doors open before anyone touches them. They are solid imported wood nearly twenty feet high. Each is carved with wolves running through a forest beneath seven crowns.
The craftsmanship appears centuries old. The hinges never make a sound.
Warm light spills across the stone as I step inside.
The foyer steals whatever impression I had left.
Black-and-white marble stretches in every direction, polished so perfectly it reflects the vaulted ceiling above.
Massive arches disappear into adjoining wings.
A grand staircase rises from the center of the hall before dividing into two sweeping curves beneath an oversized chandelier of hand-blown crystal.
Every wall tells a story. Oil paintings. Armor. Ancient maps. Portraits of men and women who look less like politicians and more like rulers. Some wear crowns. Others wear military uniforms or tailored suits, standing beside presidents whose faces I recognize from history books.
The same wolf crest appears somewhere in every portrait. I notice a signature ring.
“This way.” Matteo doesn’t raise his voice.
We walk through room after room lined with dark walnut and museum-quality art. A faded photograph of men in military uniforms shaking hands with someone whose face has been intentionally obscured.
“You expected drugs,” Matteo says from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder. “What?”
“When people hear words like ours...” He smiles faintly. “They imagine street corners.”