Greymoor Academy: I Accidentally Bonded With Four Lycan Royals! novel Chapter 99

Chapter 99: 99. Richter Adams

Maisie

A small laugh of disbelief escaped me. "You’re lying. My father was—is the kindest person I know."

But fear knotted in my stomach, as the bond flared in my chest, ringing Soren’s words as true.

I shook my head.

No.

No, that wasn’t possible.

Dad couldn’t have been an assassin.

My father braided Lana’s hair because Mom always pulled too hard. He knew exactly how much cinnamon went into pancakes because he made them every Sunday. He sat us on his lap and told stories where kindness won and cruelty lost. He kissed scraped knees. He cried during sad endings.

He loved us. He loved Mom.

He had warm brown eyes that always looked a little sleepy when he smiled.

How could a man like that sneak into a child’s bedroom with a knife? How could a man like that be a killer?

"Two truths can co-exist," Jericho said, his gaze heavy, and perhaps it was the quality to his tone as he spoke, but I knew, knew it in my gut, that he was speaking about more than just my father.

Those hands that ran along my skin, that had explored every inch of my body, inside and out, had blood on them.

I knew I was too far gone from being saved when it both frightened me and shot a bolt of arousal straight between my legs.

Goddess. I had to be the first woman in history who had sex and terribly needed rehab and therapy after.

Shoving the vile thoughts from my mind, my gaze returned to Soren’s as he said, "You would be surprised how little you know about people, unless they decide to show it to you."

I gave the four of them a dry, pointed look. "You don’t say."

They all cringed at the indirect hit, but Soren continued smoothly, letting out yet another sentence that took me off balance.

"Richter Adams was not always Richter Adams," he said. "When I met him, he was called Silas Thorne. And before that, he was one of the best rogue assassins the Exiles ever used."

Right. My father wasn’t just an assassin. He was a rogue.

It felt like the world had shifted. I sat, because I wasn’t sure I could take anymore surprises today. "Exiles. You mentioned they were like Lycan rogues before."

The air in the room turned hostile and frosty. "Worse," Mercer said. "Because of our dwindling numbers, the death penalty is rarely issued for serious crimes. Like treason. Instead, they are exiled, ostracized from our society, and permanently erased from our books."

"And my father worked for these people," I said quietly.

Quinlan nodded. "Along with many others. It is a commonly known fact that werewolf rogues cannot live outside the pack for very long. So they form rogue packs, or the more attractive option: they become a part of the Exiled. They spy. They steal. They kill when the job requires it. Slip into courts, into houses, into beds, and they brought back information. Or blood. Whatever is asked of them."

My fingers trembled as I tried to connect the image being fed to me with what I knew of my father. It didn’t fit. At all.

Soren said, "One of those jobs was me."

I went still. Soren looked at me, but he wasn’t really looking at me. His eyes were distant. Hard. And I felt sick, so sick in my stomach.

"He was dressed as one of my personal guard. He came into my room while I slept with an ashen knife. He had already reached me before I woke fully. The blade was at my throat. One movement, and he would have ended me."

Soren’s jaw tightened. "But he did not."

I had forgotten how to breathe.

Soren’s voice turned rougher, lower. "He looked down at me. And his hands shook."

He looked like he was reliving it as he added, "I have never quite seen such horror in a person’s eyes. He said something I have never forgotten," Soren continued. "’I can’t believe she asked this of me.’ And then, ’Goddess have mercy. You’re just a boy.’"

My stomach tightened as he continued, "He could have killed me. It wouldn’t have taken much. But he took the dagger off my neck and went to my bathrooom and retched."

Soren blinked slowly, face stoic. I didn’t know how anyone could recall something so horrifying without showing emotions. Like it was something he was used to.

"I couldn’t call for help. Or move. I was still recuperating after being poisoned two nights before." His nostrils flared. "I was a sitting duck until he returned."

"’They say something changes irrevocably in a man when he holds his child in his arms. A boy makes him feel proud. A daughter makes him softer. I got two daughters, and that has apparently made me develop a conscience.’"

Pieces had started clicking into place, one after another, ugly and horrifying in their implications.

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