Prologue
Lane
Twelve Years Ago
The ringing phone roused Lane from sleep. He rubbed at his bleary eyes, blinking twice before realizing it was the middle of the night by how dark the room was. His hand moved automatically to nudge his husband, who could sleep through a hurricane, only to find cool cotton. His stomach dipped as he recalled that Derick was away on business. All sleepiness fled, and Lane uttered a curse word his husband would have called him on as he rolled to the edge of the bed to reach for the lamp. His hand was not quite as steady as he’d have liked, the persistent ringing clearly signalled nothing good as far as he was concerned.
He blinked in the sudden brightness, reaching for the phone sitting on the bedside cabinet.
“Hello?” The breathy quality of his voice revealed his nerves.
“Lane, I’m so sorry to be ringing you at such an ungodly hour, but I’m desperate,” a familiar voice said causing Lane’s heart rate to further accelerate. Though now, hearing uncontrolled sobbing in the background, it was for a different reason.
“What is it, Ewan?” he questioned in a hushed tone, figuring whoever was crying needed someone calm to help him.
This wasn’t Lane’s first rodeo with Ewan and children who had been rejected by their families. Lane’s gaze landed on the family photo sitting next to his bed. Laken, one of their adopted sons, came into their family via Craigend House. The smile on his face spread warmth through Lane’s chest. It had taken eight months to see that smile, but it was worth all the patience and nurturing Laken had needed to trust Lane, Derick and their other sons.
“Can you come to the house? It’s better if I explain in person,” Ewan said over the increasing sounds of distress.
Oh gods!
Lane’s blood ran cold, and an image of a broken boy flitted through his mind. A shiver ran down his spine, and Lane would have sold his kidney to feel his husband’s strong arms around him. He struggled to hold on to the sob trying to choke him, so much that he needed to swallow twice before he had enough control to reply.
“Give me an hour.” It would take that long for him to dress and drive the forty miles to where Ewan lived.
“Thank you.”
The call ended, and Lane was up in the closet, pulling out random clothes and throwing them on. He barely shoved his feet into the sneakers sitting by the door of the walk-in closet. His mind racing, he messaged Bessy, their housekeeper, who had a small cottage on the grounds of their home, to let her know he had to go out. He knew she was a light sleeper and would come up to the house to be here for the boys. She was a part of their family, and Lane didn’t know what he would ever have donewithout her or how he’d have managed seven sons. Although the boys were of ages that didn’t need to be watched, Lane wasn’t comfortable leaving in the middle of the night without a word.
He left the lamp on for Silas, their eldest son, which illuminated the passageway as he sent a second message to Derick letting him know something was up.
He shoved the phone into his jeans and raced down the stairs to find his car keys. On his way barely a minute later, Lane conjured up reasons as to why the child in Ewan’s care was sobbing so hard.
Ewan was married to Lester, the owner of Craigend House. The man had come into their lives when they approached Derick looking for sponsorship for an outreach programme some four years earlier. Lester had turned his home into a safe place for divergent children cast out by their families. Lester, himself a divergent, was fortunate enough to be able to support himself due to some talents he had with computer software. It was just that he wanted to help more children, and though he used his earnings to help others, he didn’t have the resources to do everything he wanted. That’s why he had contacted Derick. Lester and Ewan’s personal story endeared them immediately to Lane.
Derick was a lot more reserved, and he’d only relaxed after he’d had their head of security do a background check on both men. Satisfied they were genuine, Derick had invested heavily in their divergent outreach programme, which had become so much more to them when it had allowed Laken to come into their lives.
Lane’s mind wandered to the lost boy with trust issues after living on the streets for two years. Lester had come across him begging for food, half starved and heavily bruised, and had offered him a bed at Craigend House. They may have created asupportive environment for divergent children, but Laken, ever wary, had not accepted it initially.
Lane had gone out with Lester, having started doing a volunteer shift once a month, and one look at Laken’s grubby, gaunt face and huge wary eyes hurt Lane’s soft heart. He wanted to help, and what followed was months of gaining Laken’s trust. Derick had sighed resignedly at what was coming, Lane recalled, his lips tugging into a smile. His husband had no willpower against Lane. They both knew it, but never talked about it.
The streets were mostly deserted, and Lane had nearly reached his destination when his cell phone rang. He pulled over to the curbside and tugged it out, pressing to answer Derick.
“Hang on, love.” Lane placed his phone in the cup holder before continuing.
“What happened?” a sleep-roughened voice questioned at the sound of the car moving.
“Not sure.” Lane saw the turning up ahead, slowing. “Ewan called. There was someone crying in the background. He didn’t say much other than he needed my help.”
“You made me a promise,” Derick groaned, in such a way that a smile appeared. “No more, Lane. You hear me?”
Lane said nothing.
“I mean it. It’s hard enough to control seven boys and run the business as it is.”
“Derick, my love—”
“No, it won’t work.”
