Chapter 1

V enerable Knight Roman Calixtus pulled open the door to his favorite bar, Redmilla's, and waved to the bear shifter who owned the place. Without prompting, Redmilla pulled a beer for him. Roman took the tall pilsner glass and thanked her. He didn't need to taste it to know she'd filled it with his favored Centaurian Brew.

Drink in hand, Roman headed for the corner table where he sat several nights a week with his closest friends. Somehow, the six men—a mixture of fallen knights and sentinels—had beaten him to Redmilla's. A pang of envy squeezed his heart as he approached them. His bosses, Reverent Knights Drystan and Conley Gylde-Kempe, had their chairs close enough that they could touch each other, and Roman would've bet his last paycheck they were holding hands beneath the table.

Next to them was the only man who had ever been permanently resurrected twice. Venerable Knight Arvandus Ruarc-Daray had been a sentinel, but he was murdered in front of his other half, Skeleton Lord Albrecht Ruarc-Daray. For centuries, Arvandus had had no memory of his previous life, and his past wasn't restored until he'd bound his blood with Albrecht's.

Arvandus and Roman were both in the Order of the Fallen Knights, and before their reunion, Arvandus had requested the name Vann from Arch Lich Chander Daray—the imp-necromancer hybrid who'd resurrected every soldier in the Order. It was a nickname Albrecht had used for him during his first resurrected life, and Arvandus remembered it after his second resurrection despite the resurrection spell written to cleanse their minds of everything.

As usual, Arvandus was smiling, and although it was impossible to see Albrecht's face thanks to his preference of wearing a cloak that covered him from head to toe, Roman imagined his apple-green eyes were filled with the love he had for his mate. They usually were on the rare occasions when Albrecht left his cloak off.

Next to Albrecht was another sentinel and fellow Skeleton Lord, Brynnius Darayvipera. Like his other half, Brynnius was one of the few shifting undead. The wyvern shifter was grinning at Venerable Knight Samson Osdraconis-Daray. Roman and Arvandus had aided their rulers as Venerable Knights since the dawn of the fallen knights in 1369. The pair had rejoiced when Samson had graduated from the Ascension Center as a Venerable Knight over a decade ago.

Their workload had soon been redistributed to give Samson an equal share of duties. Despite the addition of Samson, they remained overworked. Roman hoped the future included additional Venerable Knights, but he loved his job, so he couldn't complain much.

"Hey, we saved you a seat," Arvandus called out as Roman approached the table.

Roman held in his sigh at the single chair waiting for him. Although for the first few centuries of his life he'd enjoyed sex with countless partners, he'd long ago embraced solitude. What Roman wanted was his mate. He wasn't sure what Fate was waiting for unless the other half of his soul wasn't ready. That was disappointing, and Roman hoped to hell they would get their act together; he was tired of being lonely.

"Thanks," Roman said, dropping his butt onto the wooden chair and setting his full glass on the table.

"How did it go?" Conley asked.

Roman grinned. "Perfect. The condo is officially mine."

"Took you long enough to buy something permanent," Arvandus replied, humor twinkling in his blue eyes.

"Hey, you live somewhere nice because of Albie. You chose nothing but plain-ass places that were already decorated before you two were together," Roman argued.

"It was the Daemon Lords who insisted on having the condo decorated for us. Larissa designed everything at their behest," Albrecht refuted in his unique, smoky voice.

Sentinels were incapable of telling untruths, and Roman appreciated their strict adherence to fact. Many years ago, Daemon Lords Baxter and Benton Daray had happily coordinated the refurbishing of the current home of the Darays. They had enlisted the help of dragon shifter Larissa D'Vairedraconis, who constantly wowed everyone with her impressive talent in interior design. The Daray condo was completed during a dark time when Chander and his other half—the ruler of the Sentinel Brotherhood, Lich Sentinel Alaric Daray—were separated.

Thankfully, everything had eventually worked out. Roman wanted happiness for Chander. Not only was he the man who'd granted Roman life, but he was also a wonderful friend. Occasionally, Chander and Alaric joined them at Redmilla's, but both men had plenty of other obligations, hobbies, and loved ones to visit.

"Do we need to call Bax and Ben to have your new place decorated?" Samson asked.

On his first visit to the condo, a beautiful vision of it gorgeously adorned in shades of green, blue, and silver had instantly appeared in his head. It was what had sold Roman on the purchase, and he couldn't wait to add his favorite colors to his new home. He'd kissed nearly his entire savings goodbye that afternoon, but he now had an address in the same exclusive building as the Reverent Knights.

Roman didn't give a shit about impressing people with that fact. What he liked was the convenience of being close to work and the full-service amenities like a kitchen where he could order his meals. Roman enjoyed tasty things, and although he didn't mind cooking the occasional dinner, he'd put little effort into learning recipes. Plus, he was busy and didn't always want to bother with dirty dishes or the mess of cooking for one.

"Thanks for the offer, but I've got it," Roman told the fallen knight with the unique dragon made entirely of bones.

"For a second there, I thought Samson was going to volunteer his own services," Drystan said.

"Please," Arvandus scoffed. "Ask him how many things he changed after he met Brynn."

"I didn't change one damn thing," Samson replied, pushing some of the caramel-colored tresses out of Brynn's eyes. "B has perfect taste."

"Here's what I'm thinking," Conley said. "You're getting settled now. Surely Fate is going to fucking notice. If you don't meet your mate soon, I'm hunting this goddess down to have some words with her."

Roman took a giant swallow of his beer. "I sure as fuck hope Fate is listening to you."

Not one to allow the conversation to dwell on his issues, Roman quickly shifted the topic away from his personal woes. It was easy to distract the men dedicated to protecting and defending the Council of Sorcery and Shifters with politics and crime. Roman didn't want the three happy couples to feel sorry for him.

That was nearly as embarrassing as being forgotten by the goddess responsible for matching up shifters, magickind, those created by sorcery like Roman, and every other unique race in their Council.

∞∞∞

After a quick knock, Grant Calisto walked into an apartment last decorated in the 1980s. It smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and the rose-scented perfume of the woman who lived there.

"Aunt Florrie?" Grant called out as he shut the door behind him while juggling the box in his arms. The fussy drapes Aunt Florrie preferred allowed in little light, so the lamps on the end tables were on despite it being barely four in the afternoon.

"Get in here, Grant," Aunt Florrie said.

Before she came into view, he heard the creak of the fancy metal walker he'd bought for her. Setting the box onto the floor since he'd catch hell if he put it on her pristine couch, Grant bussed her cheek and moved out of the way so she could get in her favorite recliner.

"How was your day?" Aunt Florrie asked once she was settled on the peachy pink cushions.

Unwilling to discuss anything to do with his semi-legal private investigation business, Grant plastered a smile on his face. "Great. I brought another box over; do you mind if I put it in the spare bedroom?"

"Why do you insist on calling it that? That room has been yours since you were thirteen. How many years has it been since then?"

"Nearly twenty," Grant said, wincing internally at how much of his life he'd been stuck in the same rut. It wasn't anything he could discuss with Aunt Florrie. She'd be appalled at the choices Grant had made. He ensured she knew little of his past and kept her far from his current mistakes too. Unfortunately, it wasn't until recently that Grant had gained any horror of his own at his decisions.

"Still can't believe that mother of yours ran off. You ever hear from her again?"

"No," Grant said flatly. His mother had barely bothered to raise him when she'd been around, and it had been up to people like Aunt Florrie—who wasn't even biologically related to Grant—to pick up the slack. Grant had no father, and he was eternally grateful that caring people like Aunt Florrie existed. But as wonderful as she could be when he wasn't driving her crazy, she had firm opinions about what she considered right or wrong.

Which was one of the many reasons Grant kept her in the dark about most of his life.

"She did the best she could," Aunt Florrie insisted. "She was barely more than a girl herself when you came along. I remember the fear in her eyes the day she admitted the trouble she'd gotten herself into. I expected your birth to calm her down, but nothing did. She was into all sorts of nasty business."

Grant's mother liked to party hard with drugs and alcohol and refused to allow a child to get in the way. By the time he was in school, he was spending half his nights at Aunt Florrie's. One day, when he was thirteen, his mother hadn't bothered returning to the apartment Grant had grown up in.

The landlord had already slapped an eviction notice on the door, and he'd been terrified of being homeless. But Aunt Florrie had bustled in and helped him move his meager belongings into her place. Now, two decades later, Grant was trying to extricate himself from the complicated web of his life, and he planned to call Aunt Florrie's apartment home again. Hopefully, it'd be a brief stay, but Grant didn't know what the future held.

Every aspect of his existence revolved around Reginald Bradley—his best friend, lover, and the lone client of his private investigation business. Grant's car, his apartment, and even his underwear had been purchased by Reginald. Unlike Grant, Reginald had grown up with wealth and prestige. He was used to getting his way and hated to be told no.

When Grant mustered the courage to tell him things were over between them, Reginald would not take it well. Grant needed to have his affairs settled and the things he wished to keep moved out of his place because he had a feeling he wouldn't be allowed to step foot in there once Reginald learned they were finished.

"I take it from your silence you don't want to discuss her, but you need to forgive her, Grant. Not for her, but for you. Hatred festers in you. I can see it," Aunt Florrie said, her blue eyes pinning him to the spot through her thick glasses.

It was true. Grant was cynical. But everything was a fucking mess and had been since he was born. Some of it was his own doing in trusting Reginald and somehow convincing himself that the man loved him, but Grant had also been slapped with reality far too often. Long ago, he'd had ambitions and had graduated from the police academy. He could recall that day so vividly. Grant had been so proud of himself, and he'd thought things were finally getting better.

But he'd been fired in disgrace. It was Grant's fault. He'd been trying to help Reginald, and his police department didn't take kindly to lying or falsifying reports. Grant had known it was wrong, but Reginald needed to make a splash in his father's law office. Reginald had thanked him by insisting he get his license as a private investigator.

As if thinking about him had summoned Reginald, Grant's phone rang. While his instincts were screaming at him to ignore it, he wasn't ready to make his stand yet. A small, insidious voice inside him wondered if he ever would be—his escape plan had already dragged on for many months.

"I have to take this call, Aunt Florrie," Grant said as he scooped up his box and headed to the bedroom Aunt Florrie had kept for him for twenty years. She didn't approve of Reginald. Nor did she like that Grant was involved with a man, but he'd accepted that despite her love for him, she was also inflexible. However, she'd proven to be an expert judge of character throughout the past thirty years, and why it'd taken Grant so long to trust her instincts was a mystery he'd probably never solve.