Page 78 of Dark Rebel's Fortune

Max nodded. They hadn't noticed it before in all the excitement of running away from the Doomers.

"I've never seen anything like that," Rana said. "Not even in movies."

"It's a newer invention." Max decided to hoof it out of there before they dragged him into revealing everything before Kyra had a chance.

"I'll be right back with that coffee," he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the galley.

"I've read the notes from my daughters," he heard Soraya say. "They said that they were rescued by the Kurdish resistance. Obviously, that's not true. You and your people are not Kurds."

"I was," he heard Kyra say softly. "For over two decades."

One of the sisters snorted. "What nonsense is this? You're too young."

"I'm much older than I look," Kyra said. "I'm about to turn fifty."

The long silence that followed was just enough time for Max to grab the coffee carafe that was still nearly full, put it on a tray along with a stack of paper cups, a bunch of sugar packets, and creamer, and head back.

39

KYRA

Coffee sloshed inside the carafe as Max made his way back, balancing it on a tray that also contained cups and various packets.

A smile tugged at her lips.

He moved slowly, not because there was turbulence or because he had difficulty balancing the tray. After all, immortals were very well coordinated, and especially a trained Guardian like Max. He was just being super careful and deliberate so as not to spook her sisters, treating them like a pack of wild animals that might bolt at any sudden movement.

She couldn't blame him. They were a little scary, but she appreciated that. Her sisters were not meek women, despite the way they had been raised and what had been expected from them in their stifling society.

Did they take after their mother?

A pang of sorrow pierced through Kyra's heart as she thought about the mother she couldn't remember and would never get to know. She'd passed away years ago, and Kyra wondered if it had been from sorrow over the daughter who had disappeared in America. She doubted very much that her father had shared with his wife what he had done. Her mother would have never agreed to that and would have found a way to get her out.

"Have I missed anything?" Max asked as he put the tray down on the pullout table between the seats.

"Not much." Kyra smiled at him. "I was just saying that I was with the Kurdish resistance for over two decades."

"That's impossible," Rana said, accepting a cup from Max with a nod of thanks. "You can't be older than twenty-five."

"I'm forty-nine," Kyra replied. "Soon to be fifty."

Parisa frowned, studying Kyra's face with that analytical gaze that seemed to be a family trait. "First, you said that you were Jasmine, Kyra's daughter. Then, when I challenged you about it, you said that we are related differently."

"I did say that." Kyra clasped her hands together. "The truth is too fantastic to reveal casually, and given the circumstances, I couldn't explain it at the time."

Soraya set her untouched coffee aside. "Just say whatever you need to say."

Kyra took a deep breath. This was it—themoment she'd been rehearsing in her mind since they'd boarded the plane. "I am Kyra. Your eldest sister. Jasmine is my daughter, and she is with your daughters in America, taking care of them while I'm here, saving you from the same people who kidnapped them."

The silence that followed was suffocating. The four sisters exchanged glances—confusion, disbelief, and alarm passing between them like a current.

"If what you're saying is true, and you're Kyra, how can you look this young? Plastic surgery?"

It would have been so easy to say that, yes, plastic surgery made her look the same age as her daughter, but she needed to tell them all of it. "I don't age like other people."

"How come?" Rana asked, her eyes never leaving Kyra's face.

Yasmin leaned forward, her features still grief-stricken, but her gaze no less sharp. "Why would you make such an absurd claim? What do you want from us?"

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