7. Kaden

Chapter 7

Kaden

I t's been two days since Sasha, my fated mate, appeared on my property, and it's been hell trying to stay away from her. I'm doing my best to be less of a psycho, as she called it, and give her the space she needs. She looked pretty shaken by the notion of being paired with me—though I prefer to think her shock was more about the surprise of finding a fated mate, not that it's me specifically. That's why I'm keeping my distance… but it's been fucking killing me. I can still feel her touch on my skin, hear that singsong voice, and smell her honeyed scent that lingers in my memory.

That's how I know this is the real thing—I even woke up with a smile on my face this morning. That rarely happens.

Right now, I'm heading into the city after having just hired a business for major restorations on the mansion's exterior. Those hired to maintain the place had kept the interior fit for a king, but they let the outside decay. Evidently, the appearance did its job in keeping others away, but now that I'm back, I want a home. All while working on digging up as much information as I can about my grandfather.

Speaking of which, I've found a fae from my grandfather's era who is still alive. All the family members are long gone, but this… this is a step forward. He said he'd meet me at a local bar, so let's hope this isn't a complete waste of my damn time.

I tug down the hood over my head to hide my face as I march up a street with grand homes on one side and a brilliant view of the ocean in the distance beyond the cliff.

The vast blue waters hold my attention. Back in Tartarus, the oceans where I lived were dark, an endless abyss. But here, the sea is a vibrant, inviting blue, sparkling with sunlight. I sense it calling to me as my skin ripples to slip into its embrace, to unleash the beast within, and explore this new world that promises freedom.

The sight of the ocean fills me with a heavy longing, but I push past the sensation and keep walking up the sloping road. The cool sea breeze mixes with the salty air, invigorating me.

I think about the last few interactions I had with my grandfather when I was a child, when he told me stories of his adventures. Most of the places he mentioned no longer exist, but I do recall that he spoke fondly of others. So, maybe this visit will give me the lead I need.

Up ahead at the corner of the road stands an old wooden building with a pointy roof and a dangling sign out front, swinging in the breeze.

The Drunken Kraken.

It has a painting of a tipsy kraken, eyes slightly crossed and smirking like a fool. Its tentacles are sprawled out lazily, with one casually clutching a pint of beer.

I chuckle to myself, remembering all the times my grandfather would be piss-drunk, reminding me very much of that image. At the building, I reach for the door handle, and a sudden surge of images floods my senses. In a heartbeat, I'm no longer standing on the threshold of a bar, but instead, I find myself on a deck at the rear of a house overlooking the ocean.

A younger version of my grandfather is there, no longer the weary old man I remember. His hair is dark and neatly cropped, muscles defined under the fabric of his sky-blue short-sleeved shirt. He's seated at a rustic wooden table, a large glass jar of beer before him. Opposite him sits a woman radiating beauty and warmth. Blonde hair tumbles in soft curls down her back, a small beauty spot just above her lip adding to her pretty smile. Her eyes, bright and affectionate, are locked on my grandfather.

Despite her saying something, his attention often drifts back to his drink.

The woman leans forward. "Everything ready?" she asks.

He nods slowly, taking a gulp of his drink. "The new shipment's coming in tomorrow. I've got it all lined up, and we're going to finally grow our team." His face beams as he talks about his work.

For a moment, he studies her, then he takes her hand. The gesture might look tender to anyone else, but his touch lacks sincerity—I know him well enough to see the tightness around his mouth, the tension in his muscles, the way he doesn't lean forward.

"You think anyone will notice the shipment coming in?"

"It'll be fine. Things are going to change for us. You'll see," he asserts, though his voice lacks conviction. "We'll grow the business faster this way, to the point where no one can touch us."

Her grip squeezes slightly as she smiles, leaning toward him more. "Then maybe we can finally make our fortune and let someone else run the business for us," she murmurs, staring at him as if waiting for his affirmation. "I've had no sleep for days as we wait for the shipment, worried to hell we'll get caught."

"Lilia, you worry too much. It's going to work out well. You'll see." He grins, but it's a hollow gesture.

Lilia accepts it, though, her smile widening.

A s fast as it came, the scene blurs around the edges, the focus intensely sharp, then instantly it fades into insignificance, leaving me standing in the cool breeze outside The Drunken Kraken bar, hand still on the door.

I shake off the dizziness, taking a deep breath.

Who's Lilia? I haven't seen her before in my visions.

I steady myself as the residue of the past clings to my thoughts.

Genetic memory my father had once called the ability—a gift that runs in his family line—where random snippets of my ancestors' experiences are passed down to each new generation. Strangely enough, these memories only ever come from my grandfather, never my parents. I spent a lot of time with him as a child, often seeking refuge from my parents, and that closeness must have chosen me to imprint on. It's said memories can only come from someone you've known in your life.

Not that anyone in my family had ever wanted to talk about the ability.

Why the fuck would they do that when they can pretend it doesn't exist? A source of family secrets that were better off left undiscovered, unspoken about. I recall how my parents cut off all communications with my grandfather, though they never explained why. And even after he passed away, he was never to be spoken about in the family.

Yet I always found myself drawn back to him. He was never cruel to me. Instead, he became the person I escaped to.

With the vision settled and making no sense to me, I push open the door, stepping into the bar. The inside strikes me as though I've walked into the belly of an ancient ship.

Wooden beams run overhead, like ribs of a hull, the walls covered in nets and old fishing gear that haven't seen the sea in decades. Salt, beer, and the musky odor of damp wood linger in the air in a place that only has half a dozen men at tables, drinking.

Navigating deeper into the long bar, I spot Joe at a secluded table in the rear corner. He's exactly as he'd described himself—wild white hair that fuzzes out around his head like sea foam. He's built like a bear, which is unusual for a fae, hinting at some mixed heritage.

Joe has two empty glasses on the table, so I make a quick detour to the bar and order two of what's on tap, the frothy heads spilling slightly as I carry them over to his table.

"You have to be Kaden?" he asks with a crackly voice as I set down the glasses.

"That's me. Thanks for agreeing to see me," I answer, sitting in the chair across from him.

He studies me with a sharp gaze, a smirk breaking his stoic expression. "You look similar to your grandpa, son. It's bringing back memories from so long ago." His eyes, bright green, seemingly carry the weight of his memories.

Lines etch his face, wrinkles deeply set around his eyes and along his neck. Despite the clear signs of his age, the man is undeniably tough, reminding me of my grandfather. Joe has to be over five thousand years old to have been around before my grandfather got tossed into Tartarus. They truly don't build them like they used to—just like my grandfather.

"I've heard people say that we looked alike." I take a long drink of my chilled beer, the perspiration running down my fingers from where I'm holding the glass.

"So, tell me, son, what brings you to Bergen? I heard rumors you were in town."

The bar around us hums with a low buzz of conversations, but I lean forward, lowering my voice. "I'm not going to waste your time, so I'll be upfront. I'm trying to find out how my grandfather ended up in Tartarus, as I've heard it might not have been for reasons everyone thinks. I'm told he was framed."

Joe sets his glass down. "That's a heavy piece of history you're digging into," he says, his tone darkening.

"Yeah, I know," I acknowledge. "But it's something I need to understand." Not to mention, I spent one thousand goddamn years in that prison for simply being his family line and being born in there, just like my parents had been. They met in prison, married, and had me.

Thing about Tartarus was that once you're in, you couldn't leave, and neither could any children you gave birth to in the place.

It's lineage sentencing, and it's fucking unfair.

So, someone not only fucked up my grandfather's life, but mine, too.

I refocus on Joe. His weathered face is marked by the lines that seem to deepen with his frown.

"Look, it's not a good path you're thinking of going down," he utters.

I take a long sip from my glass, the cold beer doing little to ease the tension knotting my muscles. Across from me, Joe studies me carefully. He groans, his mouth twisting in disapproval that I'm not backing down.

"I see the same damn stubborn streak in you as I'd witnessed in your grandfather. And I heard and saw enough about him to stay away from the likes of him."

"What did you hear?" I ask, curious. Neither my grandfather nor my parents told me the full details of how he ended up in Tartarus, just that he was set up. When I prodded them about who it was, I was told I was too fucking young. Then they damn died on me, and I was left with too many questions and not enough answers.

Joe shifts uncomfortably as I study him carefully, waiting for him to tell me what he knows.

"Your grandfather wasn't seen by many as a decent man." His fingers trace the rim of his now-empty glass. "He was involved in all sorts of illegal activities—theft, fighting, hurting anyone who stood in his way, whatever it took. He was as shady as they come, and he was involved with someone just as damn shady."

"Who?" I ask eagerly, my thoughts flashing back to him sitting at the table with that blonde woman.

Joe shrugs. "I don't know who. Like I said, I kept my distance. But most knew he ran some kind of racket in town, and every time something terrible happened, he was somehow involved. But it was a long time ago." He pauses, his gaze meeting mine squarely. "Son, he got tossed into Tartarus… maybe he got what he deserved."

"A life in hell for him and his family seems like a grave price to pay for stealing or roughing up some people." From my understanding, he'd been involved in importing illegal materials. Perhaps it was drugs or fuck knows what, but whatever happened, he was betrayed by someone. His partner in the business is my first thought, except I have no fucking clue who it was. He never spoke of a partner.

"Son, it's better not to dig into some pasts." Joe chuckles darkly, then groans as he rises to his feet. "You might not like what you find."

I swallow hard, my jaw clenching.

He steadies himself by leaning a hand on the table, then he walks away and out of the bar. I'm left grappling with the whirlwind of confusion. I sit back, the chair creaking under the shift of my weight, and the room suddenly feels claustrophobic.

I have no doubt there's more to the story of my grandfather, and I know the answer is within reach. I just have to know where to look.

Exiting the bar, my mind churns with the new information—my grandfather had a partner in crime, potentially the very person who betrayed him. It's always those closest who wield the sharpest knives, isn't it? I need to find more people like Joe and dig deeper. He can't be the only relic of those days still kicking around this city.

I wander up the road, where quaint shops begin to line the streets. The place is surprisingly modern, far from the backward world I'd pictured in my youth, listening to tales inside prison walls. Here, in the House of Gold and Garnet, one of the wealthiest districts, magic is as common as dirt, used to provide all the comforts of life, regardless of the cost.

As I navigate through the quiet streets, movement catches my eye in a shadowy alley between two buildings. I pause, peering into the dim light. There's Asher with his foot planted on a man's chest.

"Told you I'd find you again," he jokes, spotting me.

I grin, stepping closer. "Still having fun, I see."

"I've been enjoying myself tremendously, just as I promised myself." His laughter cuts through the chilled air, dark hair fluttering with the movement. "It's been fucking insane. The freedom to hunt is everything." He glances down at the man under his boot, who's groaning in obvious pain, face bloodied, eyes fluttering closed from pain or fear, possibly both. He's in bad shape. "These fuckers have been keeping me busy and entertained."

Asher smirks, practically buzzing with energy. He loves his hunts, just like he did back in Tartarus.

"You're going to make these mercenaries extinct." I chuckle.

His laughter booms again, resonating between the narrow walls. "I'll take that. Better to be a guardian from hell than some fluttering cherub. Anyway, this jerk was on your tail, so I dealt with him."

The man pinned down with Asher's foot tries to mumble something as he spits up blood, but a sharp look from us silences him. He's one of so many mercenaries who think we're free game for entering their territory, and they've been swarming us like ants.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Asher states. "Any progress on your grandfather?"

"Small steps, but I'll get there, even if I have to scour the whole damn country and speak with every single person."

Asher peers down and notices the guy is passed out but still breathing. We leave the mercenary behind. Perhaps he'll think twice before coming for us again.

We weave through the back alleys of the city, of voices farther in the distance. Asher mentions a temporary place he's found for himself, secluded, sounding like the kind of spot a man looking to disappear when necessary would have.

My thoughts keep drifting back to Sasha… her fiery spirit, that spark in her eyes, the way she felt up against me. Finally, I cut in, unable to keep it to myself.

"I found my fated mate."

Asher pauses mid-sentence, his expression shifting from casual interest to shock in an instant. "You fucking lucky asshole."

"Yeah," I say, the word hanging between us.

"Well, fuck, man! That's huge!" He claps me on the shoulder, a solid, affirming smack. "And here I thought we'd just lie low and go to town on the mercenaries."

"I thought so, too," I admit, shrugging slightly. "But she just walked into a trap… literally."

Asher laughs, the sound booming around us. "Only you could find your mate because she stumbled into one of your traps."

"I've never reacted this way to anyone."

"Well, you're not going to let her go, right?" Asher's tone turns serious. "She's moved in with you already?"

I sigh. "Not yet, but that's the plan. She just doesn't know it yet. Something about her makes me want to rush things, like I need her in my life now!"

His grin is fierce, an approving look.

As his laughter fades, a thought pops into my mind—an idea that might help me handle things with my fated mate without scaring her off. Doing her a favor of sorts.

I turn to Asher, querying, "Feel like a scavenger hunt?"

His gaze sparks alight with interest. "What do you have in mind?"

"There's someone in the city we need to find. We only have a name and the fact that he's been skulking around my place recently."

His grin widens, the thrill of the chase already igniting his blood. "I'll track his scent!"

"Perfect." A familiar surge of adrenaline I used to feel in Tartarus floods me. This thrill, this anticipation for the hunt, it's part of who I am. "Let's flush him out."