mouth and started to reply, the King snapped, “Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up. I’m not in a good mood right now, and if for some reason you didn’t pull a fast one, you are going to want me to rule in your favor rather than order someone to turn you into an organ donor.”
Marquist followed that order so quick, his molars clapped together. Saxton made a slight cough into his hand. “Boone, whether or not you are in the will, you are legally Altamere’s next of kin, given that his second shellan is also deceased. As such, I would like you to come over and verify your father’s signature.”
As the solicitor started flipping through to get to the end of things, Boone spoke up. “When was the codicil signed?”
Saxton finished turning the pages and flattened the last couple against the binding. “It appears . . . the signature here is dated February the seventeenth of last year.”
Boone shook his head. “Marquist didn’t fake it. The signature is legitimate.”
“It’s true,” the butler said in a rush. “I did no such thing. Altamere alluded to the fact that he had made certain changes, and I suspected that some were to my benefit, but I wasn’t sure. And I most certainly did not think it was . . . everything.”
“What’s up with that date?” Wrath asked Boone. “Why is it relevant?”
Boone crossed his arms over his chest, and as he felt the blades that were strapped, handles down, across his sternum, he started to get antsy.
“That’s twenty-four hours after my arrangement was broken,” he said without emotion. “That’s how I know. My father was furious that the female had found me unworthy, so the timing makes sense.”
Okay, so that wasn’t entirely false. But it wasn’t entirely the truth, either. Dollars to donuts—and it looked like Boone had neither at the moment, har, har—the threat about his paternity had been more of a motivator than the arrangement having failed with Rochelle.
But at this point, water under the bridge, right?
As Wrath’s black brows lifted up over his wraparounds, Saxton cleared his throat. “Well . . . be that as it may, perhaps you will come over here and look at the ink nonetheless?”
Boone stalked across the carpet and approached the desk. As Saxton spun the will around, he leaned down. His sire’s familiar series of slashes and flourishes was spot-on—and not something that was easy to duplicate.
“That is legitimate.”
Saxton looked like he wanted to offer his condolences. “Will you be willing to sign an affidavit to this effect?”
“Yup. Just get me the papers and I’ll do it—”
Wrath’s voice cut right through. “Just so you’re clear on it, you sign a document like that and you’re letting it all go. You say you know the John Hancock is real and not falsified because of a broken arranged mating, but even if that is your belief, you could still bring a cause of action as the next of kin. You have standing. During fact-finding, something may come out that you’re not aware of at this moment. Undue influence, for example.”
Read: The King didn’t trust Marquist’s intentions much. Boone shook his head. “I’m not going to challenge it.”
Wrath’s voice dropped low. “That’s your bloodline’s heritage, son. If your family’s like any other in the glymera, we’re talking centuries and centuries of art and antiques. And then there’s the money, the stocks. Don’t be foolish just because you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.” He glanced at Tohr and Rhage because they knew him and could read him well. “I don’t feel anything at all. Marquist can have the whole lot of it. Do what he wants with it. Spend it all, save it all, sell the shit, give it away. I really don’t care. After all this time . . . I’d rather be free than financially secure.”
There was a long silence at that announcement, and he was willing to bet at least one of the Brothers, and probably Wrath, too, was thinking he needed a psych eval.
Marquist, on the other hand, was starting to look like he’d won the lottery.
Which, hello, he had.
Wrath stroked his dog’s boxy head. “I’m going to give you two weeks to think about it.”
“I don’t need them—”
“You’re getting them anyway.” The King glared in Marquist’s direction—and what do you know, getting hit by that hard stare, even though it recorded no details from an ocular point of view, slapped the happy right off the butler’s face. “And listen up, you’re going