“You might think what you know isn’t useful,” Sandar said softly, his tone understanding, “but even a single word, a small fragment of information could protect both of us.”
Ehlian felt more and more lost. For a brief moment, he even began to doubt himself. “And what would that be?”
The softness of Sandar’s expression hardened. “Hayce refused to see any visitors since he was locked up—except one.He managed to keep that a secret from me until recently.” Sandar finally lifted his hand off the box and moved around the counter, stopping just in front of Ehlian. “You were still sharing a cell with him at the time.”
Ehlian immediately saw where this was going. “I don’t know who it was.”
Sandar ignored him. “As I said, my brother still has those questionable ties, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use them against me. Or you. After what he did to our father, I know he’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to deal with me too.”
Ehlian understood the words, but he could barely focus. The telepathic waves Sandar was projecting had turned dark, almost rotten.
Elian glanced towards the shop door, hoping to see Willian. Nothing. Just passers-by on the street.
“If you tell me who it was,” Sandar continued, clearly sensing the shift in Ehlian’s composure. “I can stay ahead of it and prevent an attempt on my life. All I need is a name.”
Even if Ehlian had one, he wouldn’t give it. “Why don’t you ask the prison guards? They should know more than I do.”
“They keep giving me a fake name.” A dark, nearly furious shadow crossed Sandar’s face, but he regained control quickly. “The inconvenience of my father dying before he had the chance to disown Hayce. He has limitless resources, just as I do, but I can’t seem to outpay him.”
“You’ll have to try harder, then,” Ehlian said. “I don’t know anything.”
Sandar stepped closer. “You don’t?”
Ehlian mirrored the step backwards, absurdly wishing Hayce were here to protect him.
He was out of his mind to even think that.
The way Sandar’s dark, almost soulless eyes looked at him—as though he was trying to tame, possess him. Every hair on Ehlian’s arm stood on end, his omega senses screaming caution.
Then came the pressure against Ehlian’s mental shield, growing steadily stronger.
And then he understood why Sandar had given that little lecture about his family. Why he had offered protection over and over again. It was a diversion— getting him comfortable, making him trust enough to lower his defences so Sandar could slip into his mind unnoticed. The oldest trick in the book, but painfully outdated. No one was that naive anymore. Not like centuries ago.
Ehlian fought back against the intrusion, trying to keep his mind from being split open, every secret laid bare for Sandar to see. The first crack almost hurt. Sandar was far stronger, and Ehlian knew he was fighting a losing battle—
“What’s taking so long?” a sharp female voice cut through the shop. “I’m starving.”
The pressure vanished as Sandar exhaled, visibly annoyed. “I’m coming, Calia. Just a moment.”
The woman eyed Ehlian coldly. Her black hair reached her hips, emphasising the pale, angular lines she shared with her brother.
A familiar face from a torn photo.
“You’re not seriously flirting with one of Hayce’s hand-me-downs, are you?” Calia sent a scornful grimace Ehlian’s way. “He’s not even that pretty.”
Wow. All the Cartivairs were assholes.
“I apologise for my sister’s behaviour,” Sandar said, flashing a forced smile. “She can be a bit blunt.”
As if nearly cracking his mental shield didn’t warrant an apology. Fuck that. Ehlian just wanted him gone. “I need to get back to work.”
Reluctantly, Sandar stepped back, annoyance rolling off him so sharply that black dots danced before Ehlian’s eyes. The pressure eased only when Sandar was at a safe distance and joined his sister.
“Information? What information?” Calia’s voice floated back from the street before the door closed behind them. “I can’t believe you thought Hayce would share anything with that omega. You really underestimate our brother sometimes.”
The rotten waves of Sandar’s power still lingered in the air—nothing like Hayce’s, warm and electric.
He reached for the glass of water on the counter with shaking hands, but he already knew it wouldn’t help. The headache would linger for hours, until the wound in his mental shield healed and he could build it back up.
