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avoid the offending wood. Or whatever material they were using these days in his homeland for stakings.
    Intentionally avoiding his father all these years, he was looking forward to this visit about as much as he was reliving his Moira’s death so many years ago. Which was to say, not very fucking much. But to get to her , he had to go through him .
    He stood on the doorstep of the ridiculously clichéd and ostentatious castle, set high in the Alps of Romania and he waited for one of his father’s servants to open the heavy, thick oak French doors before him. He rolled his eyes at the hideous copper doorknockers of screaming humans in the throes of agony. He half expected Dracula to come riding around the corner in a horse-drawn carriage being chased by the horde of townspeople carrying torches and pitchforks.
    The whole thing was utterly unoriginal, but his father was exceedingly melodramatic.
    There was no need to knock, as they were expecting him and within a minute, he was ushered inside by one of many who unwillingly served his father.
    “Right this way, sire.” He was led through several small rooms of the large structure, which had been refurbished inside since he’d been here last. Of course, that was over half a millennia earlier, so without maintenance the home would be in fairly poor shape by now.
    They ended in the throne room. This time he had kept his eye rolling internal. Christ, his father hadn’t changed one bit in over six hundred years. Still so fucking formal. But if there were any other way to get the answers he sought, he’d have done it. This was truly a last resort, which was his biggest fear. His father would know this and intentionally withhold information.
    As the servant scurried away, he walked toward his father, pretentiously sitting on his high throne, a naked whore upon his lap. His father’s hands freely roamed her body. Rom’s jaw clenched. His father’s blatant and callous disgrace of his mate and their bond was one of the many reasons he’d left and never returned.
    He inclined his head in the required respect, but that was the very last emotion he held for the vampire before him.
    “Makare,” he stated simply. He’d not once referred to him as father. He’d not earned it.
    “Well, the famous and powerful son returns.” As expected, Makare mocked the meaning of Romaric’s name. It mattered not. Raina was the end goal here and he’d do well to remember that.
    “To what do we all owe the honor of your return?”
    “I want to see Raina.” Straight and to the point. The least amount of time he had to spend in the presence of his fucking sperm donor, the better. For both of them.
    Makare belted out what he assumed was a laugh, but sounded more like a squeal as the horrid sound bounced off the stone walls and reverberated in his ears.
    “Do you hear that, whore?” Makare said as he tweaked the nude female’s nipple so hard it brought tears to her eyes, but she moaned her fake pleasure anyway. “He doesn’t bother to show his face for centuries but when he does, he makes demands, not apologies.”
    Romaric remained still, regarding Makare with feigned interest. He was the master of hiding emotion and to let any show in the presence of Makare would be a fatal mistake. As strong as Romaric was, his father was still stronger. After several moments, he turned and began to leave. This had been a mistake. He would never be allowed to talk to Raina, so he’d have to just go with his gut.
    He was nearly in the hallway when Makare called after him.
    “For a price.”
    Of fucking course . Everything his father ‘gave’ had strings attached. He turned, but said nothing.
    “Actually it’s a gift, really. This should be no hardship to you.”
    His gut clenched. His father never gave of anything freely.
    “She’s yours.” Makare shoved the human woman from his lap and she tumbled down the concrete stairs, landing with a hard thud at the bottom. The scent of her spilled blood