“She’s very much alive,” he said gently. “She’s been searching for you and your sisters, just as I have.”
“So she’s near?”
“The last I heard she was in Kansas City.”
Harley abruptly shook her head, obviously disturbed by the realization.
“God.”
Salvatore kept his gaze trained on the tunnel that was slowly heading upward, sensing his companion would be horrified if she knew the vulnerability etched on her beautiful face.
“Harley.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you imagining Sophia as some kind of June Cleaver,” he cautioned, not wanting her to think a reunion with Sophia was going to be some fantasy lovefest.
The tough female Were didn’t have a motherly bone in her body.
“Who?”
He sighed at her confusion. He forgot she was only thirty years old.
“Let’s just say she isn’t the maternal type.”
“What about my father?”
“One of several donors.”
“Donors?”
“Sperm donors.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Of course. I was brewed in your lab,” she muttered. Then without warning, she yanked her hand from his grip. “Holy shit.”
Salvatore turned his head to meet her horrified gaze. “What?”
“You weren’t one of the donors, were you?”
His sudden laughter echoed through the darkness. “No, cara, I don’t have a God complex.”
“Yeah, right.”
His gaze skimmed deliberately down her slender form, allowing his searing awareness to heat the air around them.
“I didn’t create you to be my daughter, Harley. I created you to be my queen.”
Chapter Seven
Harley was thankful that Salvatore’s outrageous claim managed to distract her from the knee-weakening relief that there was no possibility he might be her father.
Talk about ick factor.
“Queen?” she asked. Okay, it was more a squeak, much to her embarrassment.
Salvatore flashed a smile. “It’s your fate.”
“Don’t say that.”