“Cold tonight. Blythe has something hot for you, Zyah,” Czar greeted. “And a fire going in the other room. Let me take you to her.”
Player started to protest. He didn’t want them separated. Czar flashed him one look that stopped him cold. Zyah turned her face up to his. “A hot drink and a fire sound perfect, Player. And visiting with Blythe would be wonderful. I’ve heard so much about her. I’m sorry we came so late, Czar.”
“No worries, we’re used to the late hours,” Czar assured her as he led the way through the house to a room a few doors down.
Player had been to the house numerous times. This was the designated music room. It had a piano for the children to learn to play, as well as several other instruments. Blythe rose immediately as they entered. Player went to her and bent to brush a kiss on her cheek.
“I’m sorry we disturbed you so late, Blythe. This is Zyah.” He had his arm around her shoulders. “Zyah, Blythe. Blythe’s the heart of our club, baby. None of us knows why she puts up with us, but as you can see, she does, even when we disturb her in the middle of the night.”
Zyah flashed her gorgeous smile, and Player tightened his arm around her, proud of her. It took courage to be so gracious and calm knowing Czar was deliberately separating them.
“Blythe, I’m so happy to meet you.” Zyah’s tone was genuine. Happy. Perfection.
Player realized Zyah meant it. She had wanted to meet Blythe, and even under the tense circumstances, she was happy to do so.
“You are spoken so highly of by everyone who has met you, Zyah,” Blythe answered. “Come get warm while the men talk or do whatever it is they do. I’ll take good care of her, Player.” She brushed his cheek with her soft lips.
He didn’t want to leave Zyah. Anxiety hit him hard. He stood there in the middle of the music room, signs of Czar’s family everywhere, still feeling an underlying threat to his woman.
She tilted her face up to his, her dark chocolate eyes unafraid. “Take your time, honey. I’ll be enjoying myself, getting to know Blythe.” She went up on her toes and skimmed his lips with her own.
His heart nearly stopped beating. She was reassuring him. It should have been the other way around. He managed to give her a faint grin. “You get the easy, fun half. I’m talking to Czar, and he’s usually a grumpy bear.”
“Only because you interrupted my night with my woman,” Czar said. “Move it, Player.” He indicated the door, giving Player no choice other than to leave Zyah.
Player led the way back to the great room with its vaulted ceiling and wide-open space, Czar keeping pace behind him like a silent wraith. It was significant that Czar closed and locked the door. In the Prakenskii household, few doors were closed and fewer were locked. They had an open-door policy, even to the club members. The children came and went, easily rushing in when the adults were visiting. They were always welcome, and Czar had taught them they were welcome.
“What’s wrong, Player?” Czar said, seating himself in his favorite chair and waving Player to the chair across from him.
Player shook his head and began pacing across the room, adrenaline making it impossible to sit. Without Zyah to ground him, he realized the enormity of what he was doing. He glanced at the president of his club. Czar wasn’t just the president of the club. He was the man who had saved them. He was the one they believed in. His word was law. For the first time Player was hesitant about laying everything on the line. He’d always trusted in Czar, but then he’d never had anything to lose before—not like Zyah. He’d come to Czar’s home to tell him everything, but now he wasn’t so certain it was a good idea.
“You going to tell me why you’re here or you just going to wear a hole in my wife’s favorite carpet?” Czar asked.
“I don’t know exactly how to start.” That was the fucking truth. How was he supposed to tell this man he didn’t belong? He might have betrayed them all. Czar had a family. Blythe. The children. Three daughters. Two sons. Steele had a son. It wasn’t just the Torpedo Ink charter members at risk. It was all of them. The families.
He found, pacing back and forth on the very familiar carpet, that he knew those kids and Blythe had found their way into the circle that was his family—Torpedo Ink. He’d learned to feel for them when he thought himself incapable of feeling real emotions for anyone but his brothers and sisters. They were his as well. Now there was Zyah. Her grandmother. He was being overrun with emotion.
“Player.” Czar’s voice slipped into his low demand. “Brother. Talk to me now. You have something big on your mind. Tell me.”
“I’m not like the rest of you,” Player blurted out. “I never have been. All of you had such gifts, and you all made them count for something. Mine has been a fucked-up mess since the beginning. It’s getting worse. Sometimes I think I’m going insane.” He rubbed his pounding temples. He should have insisted Zyah stay with him. At least he could think straight if she was standing beside him. “This is bad, Czar. I’ve put your family in jeopardy. The club. Zyah. Everyone I care about.”
“Take a damn breath, Player. You got shot in the head and shouldn’t be on your feet this long. Steele said the injury was bad and you should be dead. Worse, he said he probably would have lost you. He told me the injury is healed but the migraines are worse than ever. Somehow, this woman has helped you with them, but he isn’t certain what she’s doing. I’m guessing a good part of this is wrapped up in Zyah. You need to give it to me one step at a time. Just sit in a fucking chair before you fall down, and start at the beginning. Start with the fucked-up mess.”
Czar sounded the same. Calm. Reasonable. In command. Player took the required breath and dropped into the chair opposite his president, suddenly grateful to be off his feet. He hadn’t realized how weak he felt.
He pressed a hand to his pounding head. “When we were kids, I recognized that all of you had psychic gifts. You had everyone practicing so they could contribute to our survival. I didn’t think I had one. It felt like I was the lone screwup, the person that everyone else had to carry.” He made the confession in a low voice.
Czar didn’t say anything. He never did. He wasn’t the type of man to interrupt unless it was for a good reason. He waited, giving Player the time to tell things his own way.
“Eventually, I realized I could create illusions. Small ones. It felt like a useless little parlor trick to me, and it was, in comparison to what everyone else could do. I’ve always hated casting illusions. What real good is it?”
Czar’s eyebrow shot up. “Are you asking that question for real? You remember things a little differently than I do, Player,” Czar said at his nod. “I remember you were nine years old and everything had gone to hell. Sorbacov was about to catch us red-handed. You threw a false image of a wall and door up, a perfect replica of the room, making it empty so we all could escape out the real door. You had to do that often. More than once. He never saw us. Never suspected. You were only nine and you held that illusion long enough for all of us to make it out. It wasn’t easy. I remember waiting to be last. Sweat was beaded on your forehead, running down your face. I signaled to you to get through the door and let the illusion collapse.”