Chapter 50

Chapter 50

ALASTAIR

I t was almost dawn by the time Alastair finally returned home.

He should feel something. Relief, maybe. Or anger. Something, at least. Anything.

He should want to cry. He should want to scream, to break something. His father was dead, the worthless bastard was finally gone, and he should feel… something.

He didn’t. He felt nothing at all.

And wasn’t that the biggest fuck you ever? Wasn’t that the biggest middle finger in existence? A small part of him hoped there was an afterlife, hoped Cassiel was down there in hell right now, realizing that his death meant absolutely nothing to his eldest son.

Delilah had once told him that the opposite of love wasn’t hate, it was indifference. Standing over his father’s body, trying to imagine the wound under that stupid fucking scarf, Alastair couldn’t even summon up the strength to hate him.

All he’d felt was indifference.

Grimacing, he pushed the door to his home open and let himself inside. It was late, and he was exhausted. He needed to spend a few hours of the coming day in bed, actually sleeping, instead of? —

The two figures sleeping on the couch roused, awakened by his return.

Of course. Of course, they’d tried to stay up.

Alastair shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it by the door. “I told you to get some sleep, Witchling. You didn’t have to wait up for me. Either of you.”

Jasper rubbed at his eyes, yawning. “That’s what I told her. But she insisted.”

It was actually a surprise to find the Wolf here. He had been on the schedule to work tonight. He must have come over right after his shift ended, to keep Fey company. And to be here when Alastair returned from the funeral.

He was… strangely happy to see him, though. Happy to come home to the two of them.

“How was it?” Fey asked, uncurling herself from the couch and sitting up. Concern quickly overtook the exhaustion on her face.

Alastair shrugged.

“It was fine,” he answered emotionlessly.

“And Callum?” Fey prompted.

Alastair’s lips curved into a grin.

“Callum deSanguine will be an excellent patriarch,” he said, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice. “Just as soon as he stops living in denial and starts believing it. He’s exactly what our Faction needs. Exactly what the realm needs.”

“Do you… do you want to talk about it?” Fey asked. At her side, Jasper tried to stifle another yawn.

And looking at the two of them, Alastair finally felt something. Not about his father’s death, but about… this.

He felt lucky. Happy to have them both.

Mates, Jasper had called it. Vampires didn’t have mates, not like Shifters did. But…

Home . Tonight, looking at Fey and Jasper, Alastair finally felt like he had a home.

“No, Witchling,” Alastair assured her, pulling Fey to her feet and wrapping his arms around her. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to go to bed. With both of you. ”

“Of course,” Fey whispered against his chest. “We should get some sleep?—”

He tightened his hold on her.

“I’m not interested in sleeping, Witchling,” he told her, luxuriating in the way she wriggled against him.

He was a very, very lucky man.