Chapter 22 Connall
Connall
The little house in Goodlettsville had fallen into his lap when he and Beau had flown into Nashville after leaving the Clearwater fortress in Katya’s capable hands.
He’d wanted to walk away—leave Carnell’s medieval castle monstrosity on the beach to molder and rot under the hot Florida sun. Let the clear water of the Gulf surge up and beat against the walls, or open the doors and let the alligators live and die as they pleased.
But Katya had convinced him that the place could be put to good use. She’d insisted that there were so many people who could use a place like that to turn their lives around—to find shelter within the walls that had only ever been a prison.
So he’d dumped money in a trust, helped her find a suitable accountant, and pointed her in the direction of LGBTQIA+ shelters where teens needed support.
Before being Carnell’s cook, Katya had been a youth psychologist in Greece, and Connall knew from experience that she could help you get to the root of your psyche, even when you’d rather hide from yourself.
Next to Beau, she had been one of the few reasons he’d stayed relatively sane all that time—prisoners of Carnell’s evil machinations, all of them.
But once they were back in Tennessee, he crawled on his hands and knees into his grandfather’s apartment. The weight of grief and memory obliterated even the smallest relief he’d felt at finally making his own decisions, crushing it into dust.
He’d not allowed himself too long to grieve the loss of his freedom in much the same way it had been when his parents were murdered. This time, he hadn’t wept. Instead, he’d buried himself under the mountains of Carnell’s paperwork that he’d found in his safe full of “acquisitions.”
The little Goodlettsville house hadn’t been one of them.
Carnell had taken another house on the far side of town—stolen from a widow and her children five years ago.
It hadn’t taken long to track them down and to return it to them anonymously, mortgage-free.
But on the way out of town, he’d been thinking this was the kind of place Connall had imagined living when he’d been at school.
When he’d dreamed of finding his mate and setting up an office, working with the local government, and building a community—a family.
And that’s when he’d seen it, on a detour through a quiet cul-de-sac. He hadn’t even told Beau. Too embarrassed, maybe. Or maybe it was the chance to have something for himself. Only his. A place he could dream about, secure in its anonymity.
Right out of his dream, the house had a long driveway, perfect for kids to ride tricycles and play basketball.
Maybe a dog or two. A deck where he could grill something on Memorial Day.
A garage where he could get one of those big red toolboxes filled with tools he didn’t know how to use.
A home that is still there, no matter how long it’s been sitting without him.
Now, as the Mustang rumbles down the quiet street, sunrise is just over the horizon, and the neighborhood will soon be starting its day. The car is as loud as it is pretty, and he wishes he’d been able to choose something less conspicuous from Carnell’s horde.
Pulling into the driveway without first doing some reconnaissance is out of the question, as the place has been empty for almost a year.
Who knows if there were squatters, or if any of his security was still operational?
He’s not taking his mates inside without it, but he can’t leave them parked by the side of the road without protection, either.
“Dammit,” Connall growls under his breath. He turns the car down another street, kicking himself for not spending the last forty minutes thinking about the safe house rather than his sweet-scented mates.
Elias leans forward between the two front seats. “Everything okay?”
“Did you forget where we were going, Alpha?” Isaac pats his hand, as if Connall were an elderly patient in a nursing home.
“Of course not. I just need to check it out before we go inside. I haven’t been there in a while.”
“Why not just pull up front? We can just wait in the car.” Isaac shrugs.
“Izzy, we can’t sit idling in the driveway. These neighborhoods remember cars like this.”
“Exactly,” Connall says. Elias has a mind for security, which is no surprise, given that Isaac has no self-preservation instincts whatsoever.
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Eli can drive. Why don’t we let you off and drive back toward the main street? Then we can come back in twenty minutes? Will that be enough time?”
Isaac scowls when he catches Connall’s expression.
“Don’t look surprised. I’m smarter than I look.”
“What! No. Well. Yes, I mean, I was surprised,” Connall sputters. “But not because you aren’t brilliant, Isaac. But—”
Elias chuckles and pats Connall’s shoulder in commiseration. “Don’t feel bad. He outsmarts me all the time.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Connall admits. “Okay. I’ll get out here. The house is the only one on the corner. Brown bungalow, 1795 Heslop.”
Connall turns back toward Heslop, and at the intersection, he pulls over and lets Elias out.
Leaning in, he puts one hand on the roof of the car, caging Elias in. “Little Mouse, I’m going to turn the front lights on if it’s clear in twenty minutes. If they’re not on, I want you to go back to All’s End. Ask for Beau Johnson, okay?”
Realization crosses Elias’s face. All the reasons Connall might not get those front lights turned on in twenty minutes are surely running through his mind, and his face goes pale.
“What about you?”
“I can take care of myself. You have to do what you’ve always done: make sure you and Isaac stay safe,” Connall puts as much of a command in his voice as he dares. “He’s going to give you trouble. You have his meds, right?”
“Yeah. He’s going to be pissed, like you wouldn’t believe. But I got this. You can rely on me, Alpha.”
Connall slides a hand around Elias’s neck, and it feels so right that he wants to whimper out loud. “I know, Mouse.” He kisses him softly, and he can almost taste Isaac’s slick on his tongue.
“What are you two conspiring about out there? I need to pee! Can we hurry this along?” Isaac calls from the half-open door. “Hey, are you going…like, right now?”
Isaac scrambles over the seat so he can climb out, too. So much for being unobtrusive. Three of them huddled on the street corner in scrubs. He has to laugh at how ludicrous they must look.
“Kiss me goodbye,” Isaac says. “I’m having regrets about my brilliant idea.”
Connall holds him close, pressing him up against his chest so he can look into Isaac’s eyes. “I will see you in twenty minutes. Elias, do not stop the car until you see the porch lights…and lock the doors.”
“Let’s go, Izzy.” Elias climbs back into the car, encouraging Isaac to fasten his seatbelt. They both wave as they drive away, and Connall wants to throw up, howl and run them down.
Instead, he turns up the street toward Heslop.
His sanctuary lies quiet on the corner, like a squat owl in the low light.
The lawn company has done what he’s paid them to do.
Neat hedges and the sidewalk are clear of flyers and other debris that real people have around their homes. It looks unoccupied…lonely.
He won’t enter through the front or the garage, announcing to anyone who might have breached the house that they had visitors.
Instead, he slips around the side, the brick rough under his palm, but still warm from the Tennessee summer heat.
Jumping the fence, he finds what he’s looking for around the back, and the office window’s faulty latch gives way.
He hadn’t repaired it for just this reason, even though it was a calculated risk.
It was one he’d been willing to take to enter or leave the house undetected.
He doesn’t hesitate, sliding the glass to the side and boosting himself up.
His Gucci loafers aren’t up to the task, and he scrabbles against the siding.
Not for the first time, he thinks he’s going to stop dressing up like a caricature of himself.
He drops the loafers in the empty flowerbed.
They wouldn’t be quiet on the hardwood floors, and bare feet are preferable to slippery soles if he has to defend his den.
The room reeks of absence and bleach, scrubbed clean by his own hands and left hollow. The promise of sanctuary. Of someday. But there’s something else, too. A scent that needles the locked-down place he only sees in his dreams.
Is that incense? Flowers and coconut mixed with ivory soap?
The door to the hall is propped open, faint golden light bleeding across the carpet. He hadn’t truly expected anyone to be inside.
A low growl vibrates in his chest, silent but fierce.
He could be walking into an ambush. The thought sends adrenaline spiking, possessive rage rising to the surface.
How dare anyone cross this threshold, invade the one place meant to be safe?
His sanctuary, his den—his dream. Whoever’s here, they’re trespassing on more than Connall’s property.
Especially with his mates circling the block.
He edges down the hall, every instinct on full alert.
A shadow shifts out of the corner of his eye, but by the time he sees it, it’s too late.
A hand grips his shoulder, spinning him around, and a heavy arm slams across his neck, pinning him face-first to the wall. The world narrows to the press of his cheek against the drywall, the unforgiving muscle against his back, and the scent—oh Goddess, the scent.
“Connall.” The voice is tired, rougher than he remembers, but unmistakable, even if he’d only heard it for a few moments seventeen years ago. “Of fucking course.”
The name rips through him. Connall’s knees go weak, his vision swimming with seventeen years of longing and regret. The almost-bond, half-dead, flares to life.
Soren.