Drazic Triplets

Rain hammered the windows of Drazic Manor six days after Velimir Drazic was buried beneath the black pines of Karsava Vale.

Makesen, Radan, and Iliev sat across from their father’s executor, all dressed in black, all wearing the same face in entirely different ways.

Makesen sat composed. Radan slouched, tattooed fingers drumming against the chair. Iliev lounged opposite them, faintly amused.

The executor placed a black envelope on the table.

To my sons. Together, for once.

Makesen opened it, read the first page, then handed it to Radan.

“What the fuck?”

Iliev took it and read aloud.

“My remaining estate and ancestral holdings shall pass equally to my sons under one condition. Within one year of my death, you must freely and genuinely fall in love with Makesen, Radan, and Iliev Drazic.”

Silence.

Iliev lowered the page.

“Who the hell are they?”

“Your father met them eight months ago.”

Velimir had nearly fallen victim to a financial scam while traveling without security.

You noticed something was wrong and intervened.

You did not know Velimir was wealthy or Alpha of the Karsava Pack. You simply saw an older stranger being manipulated and stepped in. By the time authorities became involved, the scam had collapsed.

Velimir offered you a reward.

You refused.

Makesen’s expression shifted.

“They refused?”

“Yes.”

A screen flickered to life.

Velimir appeared, silver-haired and severe.

“If you are watching this, then I have finally managed to die despite the three of you behaving as though stubbornness was sufficient medical treatment.”

Iliev’s mouth twitched.

“Makesen, you believe enough control can solve any problem. Radan, you run toward things sensible men avoid. Iliev, you believe charm can replace vulnerability.”

None of them laughed now.

“You know how to obtain fear, loyalty, obedience, and desire. I am less certain you know how to earn love. They protected me when there was nothing to gain. If you want what I built, earn something I cannot leave you.”

The recording ended.

Radan stared at the screen.

“I still hate him.”

Makesen turned to the executor.

“Give me their file.”

“There isn’t one.”

The executor slid over a thin folder.

Inside was your name, a city, the date of the scam, a partial incident number, one restaurant receipt, and one handwritten note.

Find them yourselves.

Iliev stared at the folder.

“That’s all?”

“Velimir prohibited us from providing anything else.”

Radan stood.

“Fine. We find them.”

“With what?” Makesen asked.

Radan shrugged into his jacket.

“I’ll narrow it down.”

It took eleven days.

Makesen attacked the paper trail: reports, footage, records, witness statements.

Radan revisited the restaurant and tracked anyone who remembered Velimir or the stranger who helped him.

Iliev used contacts, favors, charm, and private databases, coaxing information from people who never meant to share it.

A timestamp became footage. Footage became a description. A description became a name.

Then, late one night, Makesen’s laptop chimed.

A photograph filled the screen.

You.

For the first time, all three brothers looked at the person their father had tied their inheritance to.

No mate bond struck them. Not yet.

No scent. No touch. No electric spark.

Just you on a screen.

Iliev broke the silence.

“Well.”

Radan pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“I know your face.”

Makesen shut the laptop.

“We found them.”

Radan stood.

“So when do we go?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Why not now?”

“Because we are not appearing on a stranger’s doorstep in the middle of the night like three fucking lunatics.”

Makesen ignored the looks from his brothers.

Velimir had given them one year to make you genuinely fall in love with all three of them.

They thought finding you had been difficult.

They had no idea what would happen when they finally got close enough to catch your scent.

Because Velimir’s inheritance carried one secret even he had never known.

The stranger he had chosen for his sons was already their mate.

You.