Stroke of Midnight - Lara Adrian Page 0,3
had apparently just gotten to the part of the message Jehan had been dreading for the past twelve months. “It says here that in accordance with the terms of that pact, if the blood bond is severed and no other couple elects to carry it forward within the term of a year and a day, then the eldest unmated son of the eldest Breed male of the Mafakhir tribe and the unmated Breedmate nearest the age of thirty from the Sanhaja tribe shall...”
Sav’s long stride began to slow, then it stopped altogether. He swiveled his head in Jehan’s direction. “Holy shit. Are you kidding me? You’re being drafted to go home to Morocco and take a mate?”
A scowl furrowed deep into his brow at the very thought. “According to ritual, I am.”
His comrade let out a bark of a laugh. “Well, shit. Congratulations, Your Highness. This is one lottery I’m happy as hell I won’t be winning.”
Jehan grumbled a curse in reply. Although he didn’t find much humor in the situation, his friend seemed annoyingly amused.
Sav was still chuckling as they resumed their march up the alleyway. “When is this joyous occasion supposed to take place?”
“Tomorrow,” Jehan muttered.
There was a period of handfasting with the female in question, but the details of the whole process were murky. In truth, he’d never paid much attention to the fine print of the pact because he hadn’t imagined there would be a need to know.
He didn’t really expect he needed to understand it now either, as he had no intention of participating in the antiquated exercise. But like it or not, he respected his father too much to disgrace him or the family by refusing to respond to their summons.
So it seemed he had little choice but to return to the family Darkhaven in Morocco and deliver his regrets in person.
He could only hope his father might respect his prodigal eldest son enough to free him from this ridiculous obligation and the unwanted shackle that awaited him at the end of it.
CHAPTER 2
Eighteen hours later and fresh off his flight to Casablanca, Jehan sat in the passenger seat of his younger brother’s glossy black Lamborghini as it sped toward the Mafakhir family Darkhaven about an hour outside the city.
“Father didn’t think you’d come.” Marcel glanced at Jehan briefly, his forearm slung casually over the steering wheel as the sleek Aventador ate up the moonlit stretch of highway, prowling past other vehicles as if they were standing still. “I have to admit, I wasn’t sure you’d actually show up either. Only Mother seemed confident you wouldn’t just tear up the message and send it back home with Naveen as confetti.”
“I didn’t realize that was an option.”
“Very funny,” Marcel replied with another sidelong look.
Jehan turned his attention to the darkened desert landscape outside the window. He’d been questioning his sanity in answering the family summons even before he’d left Rome.
His Order team commander, Lazaro Archer, hadn’t been enthused to hear about the obligation either, especially when things were heating up against Opus Nostrum and a hundred other pressing concerns. Jehan had assured Lazaro that the unplanned leave was merely a formality and that he’d be back on patrol as quickly as possible—without the burden of an unwanted Breedmate in tow.
Marcel maneuvered around a small convoy of humanitarian supply trucks, no doubt on their way to one of the many remote villages or refugee camps that had existed in this part of the world for centuries. Once the road opened up, he buried the gas pedal again.
If only they were heading away from the family compound at breakneck speed, rather than toward it.
“Mother’s had the entire Darkhaven buzzing with plans and arrangements ever since you called last night.” Marcel spoke over the deep snarl of the engine. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her so excited.”
Jehan groaned. “I’m here, but that doesn’t mean I intend to go through with any of this.”
“What?” Jehan looked over and found his only sibling’s face slack with incredulity. His light blue eyes, so like Jehan’s own—a color inherited from their French beauty of a mother—were wide under Marcel’s tousled crown of brown waves. “You have to go through with it. There’s no blood bond between the Mafakhirs and the Sanhajas anymore. Not since our cousin and his Breedmate died a year ago.”
When Jehan didn’t immediately acknowledge the severity of the problem, his brother frowned. “If a year and a day should pass without a natural mating occurring between