His Order team commander, Lazaro Archer, hadn’t been enthused to hear about the obligation either, especially when things were heating up against Opus Nostrum and a hundred other pressing concerns. Jehan had assured Lazaro that the unplanned leave was merely a formality and that he’d be back on patrol as quickly as possible—without the burden of an unwanted Breedmate in tow.
Marcel maneuvered around a small convoy of humanitarian supply trucks, no doubt on their way to one of the many remote villages or refugee camps that had existed in this part of the world for centuries. Once the road opened up, he buried the gas pedal again.
If only they were heading away from the family compound at breakneck speed, rather than toward it.
“Mother’s had the entire Darkhaven buzzing with plans and arrangements ever since you called last night.” Marcel spoke over the deep snarl of the engine. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her so excited.”
Jehan groaned. “I’m here, but that doesn’t mean I intend to go through with any of this.”
“What?” Jehan looked over and found his only sibling’s face slack with incredulity. His light blue eyes, so like Jehan’s own—a color inherited from their French beauty of a mother—were wide under Marcel’s tousled crown of brown waves. “You have to go through with it. There’s no blood bond between the Mafakhirs and the Sanhajas anymore. Not since our cousin and his Breedmate died a year ago.”
When Jehan didn’t immediately acknowledge the severity of the problem, his brother frowned. “If a year and a day should pass without a natural mating occurring between the families, the terms of the pact specifically state—”
“I know what they state. I also know those terms were written up during a very different time. We don’t live in the Middle Ages anymore.” And thank fuck for that, he mentally amended. “The pact is a relic that needs to be retired. Hopefully it won’t take too much convincing to make our father understand that.”
Marcel went quiet as they veered off the highway and set a course for the rambling stretch of desert acreage that comprised their family’s Darkhaven property. In a few short minutes, they turned onto the private road.
The family lands were lush and expansive. Thick clusters of palm trees spiked black against the night sky, small oases amid the vast spread of dark, silken sand. Up ahead was the iron gate and tall brick perimeter wall that secured the massive compound where Jehan had grown up.
Even before they approached the luxurious Darkhaven, his feet twitched inside his boots with the urge to run.
While they paused outside the gate and waited to be admitted inside, Marcel pivoted in his seat toward Jehan. His youthful, twenty-four-year-old face was solemn. “The pact has never been broken. You know that, right? Not once in all of the six-and-a-half centuries it’s been in place. It’s not a relic. It’s tradition. That kind of thing may not be sacred to you, but it is to our parents. It’s sacred to the Sanhajas too.”
His brother was so earnest, maybe there was another way to dodge this bullet. “If you feel that strongly about it, why don’t you pick up the torch instead? Take my place and I can turn around right now and go back to my work with the Order.”
“Ohh, no.” He vigorously shook his head. “Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—without another mated couple occurring naturally between our families, the pact calls for the eldest son of the eldest male of our line. That means you. Besides, there are worse fates. Seraphina Sanhaja is a gorgeous woman.”
Seraphina. It was the first time he’d heard the name of his intended. A silken, exotic name. Just the sound of it made Jehan’s blood course a bit hotter in his veins. He dismissed the sensation with a sharp sigh as he stared at his brother. He couldn’t deny that a part of him was intrigued to know more. “You’ve seen her?”
Marcel nodded. “She and her sister, Leila, are both stunning.”
Not surprising, considering they were Breedmates. Although they didn’t have the vampiric traits of Jehan’s kind, the half-human, half-Atlantean females called Breedmates were flawless beauties without exception. His Paris-born mother was testament to that. As was Lazaro Archer’s flame-haired Breedmate back in Rome, Melena.
“So, what’s wrong with her, then?” Jehan murmured. “Let me guess. She’s a miserable, bickering shrew? Or is it worse, a meek little mouse who’s afraid of her own shadow?”
“She’s neither.” Marcel grinned as he eased the Lamborghini through the opened gates. “She’s lovely, Jehan. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”