The young Kazakh’s dark eyes were grim as he slowly shook his head. “He’s said all he knows about the stranger. His path ended here the same night he arrived. Not long afterward, he closed his eyes and never opened them again. I am . . . sorry.”
A sudden anguish seeped into Tegan’s veins, into his heart. He’d set out on this search determined to find his missing son and the Order team Micah had been leading. He’d told himself he would not rest until he had succeeded.
Worse than that, he had promised Elise nothing bad would happen to their son. He’d sworn it as an oath, not only to her but to himself as he’d stared into her beautiful, fear-stricken lavender eyes and made that vow.
Now, those words settled on his tongue like ashes.
He wasn’t ready to acknowledge what he was hearing. Christ, he’d never be ready for that.
“What did the old man do afterward . . . What did they do with his body?” The question sounded detached from him, wooden words that he could barely choke out.
The translator turned to the nomad elder to ask in their language. The exchange took longer than it should have, a rushed back-and-forth that seemed to stir confusion in the younger man.
Tegan stared, irritated to be left out of the conversation. “What’s wrong? What is he saying?”
Frowning, the Kazakh glanced back at Tegan. “There is no body. The wanderer . . . he didn’t die.”
Tegan growled. “You just told me—”
“Yes, yes, I know what I said. But the dialect of this region is tricky.” He shook his head. “The stranger came here with grievous wounds. He was very weak. He collapsed and has not regained consciousness.”
“You mean, he’s alive?”
The translator nodded. “They are keeping him in one of the yurts here at the camp. The old man says they’ve tried to look after him as best they can, but he grows weaker by the hour. His care exceeds what they’re able to give him.”
A wild hope surged inside Tegan, but he bit it back. Until he saw his son with his own eyes—until he confirmed that the injured warrior truly was Micah—there was no room to let down his guard. “Take me to him. Now.”
The translator communicated the command to the nomad elder. With a sober nod, the sheepherder got up from his seat on the rug. Bent, slow-moving, he motioned for them to follow him out of the yurt.
Tegan’s heart drummed as he walked impatiently behind the pair of humans along the tread-worn path between the rest of the small camp. A few curious heads peeked out of the tents to watch them pass, whispers and murmurs buzzing in Tegan’s wake.
The Breed had been known to their human cohabitants of this planet for more than twenty years, though hardly welcomed by the masses. That this remote clan had taken care of one of his kind at a time of need was a miracle Tegan never would have expected. It did more than surprise him. It humbled him.
Yet none of that prepared him for what awaited inside the dark yurt at the end of the encampment.
As they approached, the sickly stench of looming death assaulted him like a hammer driven into the center of his chest. Once inside, the reality hit him even harder. The rasp of shallow, irregular breathing made the air in his own lungs seize up. The sight of the large, yet obviously diminished, shape of the Breed male lying on the thin cot in the center of the yurt sent cold dread leeching into his veins.
The old man turned on a battery-powered lantern that sat on a low table near the entrance. The glow illuminated the tent, but Tegan’s Breed vision didn’t need the light in order to recognize that he was looking at his son.
“Ah, fuck.” The words gusted out of him on a choked breath.
He moved to the side of the meager bed and stared down at Micah, fear and a father’s indescribable pain filling the space behind his sternum.
“Son.” The word was raw in his throat. “Micah, can you hear me?”
No response, not even a flinch of the dark lashes resting on his ashen cheeks. Tegan took hold of Micah’s big hand, clasping the cool, heavy fingers between his warmer ones, rubbing them to create friction as he prayed for some kind of signal that his son would be all right.
Beneath the sheet and animal pelt that covered Micah’s body, the strong, formidable young warrior slept without stirring.
“How many days has he been in this coma?” Tegan asked the question without glancing away from the only child he had. Now that he had his eyes on him, he couldn’t bear to look away—no matter how wrenching it was to see such a force of nature laid low by what had clearly been catastrophic injuries.
The old man and the younger one spoke briefly behind him in their language. “This was the fourth day,” the translator said. “The fifth night starts tonight.”
Four full days. No wonder there was barely anything left of him. It was likely only Micah’s second-generation Breed genetics that had let him survive the severity of his wounds at all. Those same genetics would be the thing to finish him if he was allowed to waste away any longer without proper care.
Or without the blood his body needed in order to heal.
Tegan unsheathed his son’s dagger, then glanced over his shoulder at the younger of the two humans. “Come here.”
“W-what do you mean to do with that?” Panic edged the stammered question. “I did what you asked. I brought you here. I got you the answers you wanted. Please . . . please, don’t kill me.”
“I said step forward.”
The Kazakh shuffled closer, looking less of the cocky thug from the city and more like the terrified coward he truly was. As soon as he was within reach, Tegan took him by the forearm and hauled him next to Micah on the bed.
He gave him a flash of his fangs. “Relax. I’m not going to kill you.”
He sliced the edge of the titanium blade across the human’s wrist. Blood surged from the wound, dark crimson and thick with life-giving red cells. The young man howled, but Tegan knew it was only out of fear. He held the open wound over Micah’s slack mouth, willing his son to take some of the nourishment that ran over his lips and down his squared chin.
“Hold still,” he told the squirming human. He would mind scrub him of their entire encounter once Micah had taken what he needed.
If he would take it.
“Come on, son. Drink,” Tegan murmured. Resheathing the dagger, he used his free hand to open Micah’s mouth.
It wasn’t going to work.
The fresh blood pooled on his tongue, only a few drops making it down his throat.
If he couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t drink.
And if he couldn’t drink, he was going to die.
Either way, Tegan had to get him out of there.
With a growl, he pulled the man’s wrist to his mouth and sealed the wound with a swipe of his tongue. The bleeding stopped at once, the skin healing over almost instantly.
The young Kazakh scrambled away from him, sputtering something in his native language as he stared at his vanishing injury.
Tegan stood up and walked over to the old man who had given Micah shelter and care these past few crucial days and nights. There was a wariness in the dark eyes that stared back at him, but there seemed to be an understanding, even sympathy, in the old patriarch’s lined face. Understanding that needed no translation.
Tegan extended his hand. “Thank you for looking after my son.”