Sheryl Nantus - Family Pride

“My parents want to meet you.”

I dropped the thick ceramic mug in the sink. It bounced once before landing in the inch-deep soapy water. The clanging sound bounced around my skull, settling behind my left eye and throbbing.

“Your parents are dead.” I turned and leaned against the counter. “Are we attending a séance?”

Bran bit his lower lip. He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on, choosing to pad around my house barefoot in a pair of jeans that fit perfectly in all the right places. We’d finally dragged ourselves out of bed for lunch, ordering in pizza because we had run out of groceries.

His dark eyes met mine, apologetic and pleading.

“They’re not, ah, dead. They’re sort of alive.”

I picked up the mug and contemplated how much strength it would take to smash it. “Your parents are zombies?”

“My parents are alive and well and very much human.”

I weighed the mug in my palm, letting him watch my fingers curl around the cool clay. “You lied to me. Four months ago you lied to my face.”

“Maybe.” Bran put out his hand, pointing at the mug. “Please put that down.”

I glared at him.

“Okay, I lied. A bit.” His hand didn’t move, still outstretched toward the mug. “I told you my parents were dead but that was right after we’d met and we were on opposite sides of the case.” Bran smiled. “And I didn’t know how good we could be together.”

I didn’t blink.

“Cut me a break, Reb. You’ve got your own family secrets.” He shifted to one side with a grin, showing off his newest scratches on one shoulder. “And I can make you purr.”

Damned redhead had a point. We’d both kept things from each other back then. I hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the fact that I wasn’t human, but when Bran had come face-to-face with my Felis heritage I hadn’t lied and denied.

I still didn’t have to like it. “Who are they and why did you lie?”

He didn’t move. My gaze traveled over his bare chest, resting on the fresh scars across his midsection courtesy of our latest work trip to Penscotta, Pennsylvania. He’d fought another Felis for his life and, in his own way, for me.

The least I could do was hear him out before throwing the mother of all temper tantrums.

“My father is Michael Hanover.” Bran paused. “Of Hanover Investments.”

I nearly dropped the mug.

“Hanover Investments. As in, they make more money in ten minutes than I’ll ever see in my lifetime?” I croaked. I’d flipped through a few business articles over the past few years when I was supposed to be reading a paper and instead using it for surveillance. The business section guarantees you won’t be distracted by the articles.

“Yeah. Them.” He sounded almost apologetic. “It’s a family business. Three generations.”

“You’re related to those Hanovers?”

“Michael and Bernadette Hanover are my parents.” He reached out and took the mug from my numb fingers. “The reason I lied was because it’d become an instinctive reaction to explain away my wealth. Easier to say trust fund than explain my dysfunctional relationship with my parents.” He shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “You’d be surprised how many gold diggers are out there looking to snag a rich man. Or his son.”

I tried to get my breathing under control. “Those Hanovers.”

“We’d just met,” Bran repeated. He placed the mug out of my reach and returned to stand in front of me, both hands up. “And I used the same line I use with everyone to explain my wealth. It was automatic.”

I closed my eyes and drew what I hoped was a deep calming breath. “And when were you planning to divulge this little bit of information?”

It came out as a hiss between clenched teeth.

“I was waiting for the right time. I know it sounds silly but it’s not exactly a topic to drop into casual conversation,” Bran answered. He shuffled forward and put his hands on my shoulders, his heated skin scorching through the thin T-shirt I wore. “I’m sorry.”

“This—” I shook my head, “—this is a major thing. I could understand lying about your university marks or former lovers or something like that—but lying about your parents being alive?” I wasn’t going to let him off so easily despite the heat surging down my spine at his touch. “What else have you forgotten to tell me?”

“Nothing else, Reb. I swear, nothing else.” His right hand moved to rub over the still-healing scars on his stomach. “I’d never want to hurt you on purpose.”

The cold grip on my heart shifted and melted. “Damn it, Bran...”

“I’m sorry.” He moved in and laid down a line of kisses from the edge of my mouth to my earlobe. “So sorry. So damned sorry.”

“Okay, they’re alive. And they want to meet me. They’re not going to like me,” I murmured, fighting to stay afloat on the emotional waves battering my defenses. “I’m not a purebred.” I couldn’t help grinning. “Sort of a nasty bitch when I think about it.”

Bran replied with a light tug on my earlobe with his teeth, enough to urge a gasp out of me. “They’re going to be fine. I’m a grown man, and I can make my own decisions about who to date.” Another soft kiss. “Mate.”

This time I couldn’t hold off the shivers running over my skin. In the month since we’d gotten back from Pennsylvania we’d taken another step forward in our relationship and it had been interesting, to say the least.

The definition of interesting included scratches, bruises, one sprained wrist (his) and one wrenched shoulder (mine).

We’d started off a few months ago, drawn together to find a killer, and moved into a relationship with little problem. The breaking point came three months later when I’d been forced to face my inner Felis and deal with my feelings about dating a human. We were a ferociously devoted species when it came to our mates and I didn’t know if Bran could handle the emotional and physical commitment. Felis didn’t do casual long-term relationships, and even though I had been cast out of the family as a teenager, neither did I. We mated for life, something I knew from working as a private investigator that a lot of humans couldn’t handle.

Judging from the past few weeks we were doing fine.

“They’re flying in today from London on the private jet. I told them we’d meet them for dinner.” The heated whisper in my ear didn’t do anything to dampen my flash of anger.

“London, England? Flew? Private what?” I tried to break away from his grip and failed miserably. “When? Where? Do I need to dress for this? I don’t want to wear makeup. I don’t have anything to wear. Why are you doing this to me?”

Bran chuckled. “Seven tonight. A small restaurant in Yorkville. If you have a dress it’d be nice—anything but jeans will meet the dress code. And I love you.” He dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Chill, Rebecca. Chill.”

I glanced around the kitchen. It was small, like the rest of the house. I’d bought it a decade ago and managed to finance thanks to one enthusiastic client demanding proof on a dozen possible suitors for his daughter. It served as home and office, saving me the expense of running a different place for my investigation business. The ground floor had my office/living room and kitchen with the upper floor holding my bedroom and a washroom. It wasn’t fancy but it was mine.