He lets out a long sigh. “I had twin daughters—Enka and Silja. They were sixteen when I left.”

I shake my head. Flanagan, a father. I have to reorder his image in my mind. Change the dominant asshole and badass supersoldier into something softer and more rounded.

He’s watching my response with a somber expression.

“What was your wife’s name?”

“Anna,” he says softly.

“Anna.” Our eyes catch for a moment. My chest twinges. I can’t help wondering what the wife of Flanagan would be like. Beautiful and strong.

“Did you have to leave them when you were bitten?”

He nods, looking down and away. “I’d been lost to the curse for thirty years before I returned to the village.”

“Thirty years. That’s a long time.”

The edge of his lip twitches in a smile. “It was for the best. A Lycan’s early years are a blur of blood and death. I would have slaughtered my family and most of the village if I’d gone back.”

Tragic. I want to know more, but he’s avoiding my eyes again.

“And that was three hundred years ago?”

“I’m three hundred and fifty-nine. I was born when Finland was part of the Swedish Empire.”

I explore his profile as he takes a sip from his cup. He doesn’t appear to have aged a day.

“That is seriously old. You’re a fossil.”

Flanagan turns a twinkle-eyed smile on me. “I’m far from the oldest. Prince Alexei is nearly eight hundred, his father over two thousand. And his grandmother, the Fae Queen, is so old even she doesn’t remember how long she’s been alive.”

The usual twinge of longing clutches my heart on mention of the prince. It’s the blood. I ignore it. “So Alexei is part Fae?” I ask, glad to change the subject for Flanagan’s sake.

Flanagan settles back in his chair, cup cradled in his lap. My hands prickle with a need to touch him, to stroke his thigh or twist his golden highlights between my fingers. The feeling has a familiarity. Is it because of the intimate day I just spent with him? What the hell happened between us? I fold my arms across my chest.

“Yes. His mother is Fae royalty. After the Thousand Year War in which the Anlu’kyr and the Fae nearly wiped each other out, peace was forged through marriage.”

“Is that why he has wings? Or do all vampires fly?”

“He’s the only Anlu’kyr with wings. Another product of his mixed blood.”

I go quiet, watching the leaves rustle. Vampires. Werewolves. Fairies. Fucking vampire fairy princes. I’m living in a fairy tale. When I turn back to Flanagan, I catch him roaming my features. He looks away, but not before I see an unexpected softness in his gaze. Does he feel this too? This pull between us. A need to close the gap. To touch.