by J. R. Ward
The feel of a hand on Blay’s waist brought his head around. As he looked into Qhuinn’s eyes, he mumbled, “I can’t even.”
“I know. Come here.”
It seemed unmanly to turn to his mate and drop his face into that strong neck and close his eyes. But like he gave a fuck? All he could see against the backs of his lids was a pile of bodies, all broken bones and blood spilled on the tiles.
Before he could think of what to do, what to say, he felt his hand get taken in that warm, solid grip he knew so well—and the next thing he was aware of was being drawn into the billiards room by Qhuinn. As the pair of them hit the layout of pool tables, he had no clue where they were going, but then—presto!—they were at the bar.
“Sit.”
Qhuinn pulled out a stool and arranged Blay like you would a potted plant: He saw a flat place and put something on it.
Blay wasn’t inclined to argue. At least not with the ass support. “I thought we weren’t drinking tonight, though.”
“We’re not drinking. This is medicinal.”
Two shot glasses were outed, and then came the I. W. Harper’s. Qhuinn’s hand wasn’t completely steady as he poured a splash in each, and that was not what you wanted to see in your mate—but when you were quaking in your own boots, it was nice to know you weren’t alone with your shimmies.
“Drink up.”
As all kinds of talk bloomed out in the foyer, they did the shot together, and Qhuinn doled out another. After the two, they stopped and put the glasses in the sink—
That was when Blay heard the whistle. Or at least… he thought he did.
It was hard to tell because there were so many voices in the echo chamber around that grand staircase, people burning off their adrenaline with are-you-sure-you’re-okay conversations.
Looking to the open pocket door that led into the library, Blay closed his eyes and ordered his ears to sift through the other bird-like sounds the wind was making as it winnowed through the nooks and crannies on the front of the house—as well as the big-ass hole some tree had made in the back.
“What is it?” Qhuinn asked.
Blay got off his stool and proceeded over to the pocket door—oh, shit. A pointy evergreen the size of the one the Big Apple put up for the holidays at Rockefeller Center had barged in through a set of French doors, bringing with it snow and cold and all kinds of outdoor.
Not exactly a redecorating job that went with all the priceless books and the wonderful old rug.
“Well,” Qhuinn hedged, “at least we won’t have to cut down something to drape the garland and lights on.”
“So that’s what was chasing Rhage and Butch—”
The shout outside was muffled, but distinct enough.
Blay rushed forward, but not to the tree, to the other banks of French doors, which were still shut and locked. As he yanked open one set, more of the cold rushed in, but he didn’t pay attention to the deep freeze.
In the security lights, he saw the two figures, one back-flatted in the snow, the other crouched down and pumping at a chest.
Blay pivoted and shouted, “Medic! We need a medic!”
Then he and Qhuinn were out in the storm. Z was the one doing the compressions, Balthazar the person in cardiac arrest.
“Do you need me to take over?” Blay asked as he fell to his knees.
“You breathe for him when I say so. Three… two… one… breathe.”
Blay pinched Balz’s nose, sealed the male’s lips, and pushed oxygen into those lungs. When he backed off and took another deep inhale, he smelled the burn. Skin… and something metallic.
He’s not dead, Blay told himself. He can’t be dead.
“Breathe!” Z commanded.
Blay went back down again, forcing air out of his own lungs and into the other male’s. Beside him, Qhuinn had taken Balz’s hand and was rubbing it. Or maybe praying over it.
“Where are they?” Blay said as he wrenched around. “Medic!”
Jesus Christ, the fighter was dead—
Without warning—because hey, nothing was coming with any warning tonight—Balz arched back and hauled in a breath so big, it was as if he had been animated by an outside force, some dark magic rushing through him and bringing him back to life.
The male’s eyes popped wide, and the dilated pupils focused upward. Then the head swiveled toward Z.
In a voice that sounded all wrong, Balz said in the Old Language, “She is here. The demon is back.”
* * *
An hour later, Z was down in the training center. Instead of crowding the clinic, where everybody else was, he was over by the gym.
Every time he blinked, he saw Balthazar in the snow, white face turning to him, eyes rapt and yet unfocused, that haunted voice like something from the other side.
The demon is back.
Z rubbed his eyes and turned away, walking farther down to the pool. Those four words that had been uttered across that cold air had been unconsciously spoken. Z knew this because when Doc Jane and V had come out, assessed Balz, and cleared him to be moved back inside, the real Bastard had returned.
What had spoken those words had been someone halfway back, a ghost with a corporeal shell, the message eerie because it emanated from a place other than mortal consciousness.
When they’d gotten him into the library, he’d jerked again and then glanced at the tree that had broken through one of the sets of doors.
“Who put that in here?” he’d mumbled. “It doesn’t fit.”
There had been such relief at that point, a bubbling happiness for everybody as the stabilization and recovery had presented itself. Balz had still been taken down here, of course. And his fellow Bastards were inside the exam room with him. He was going to be fine, though—no lingering aftereffects anticipated, according to the doctors.
Except they were wrong about that. Although not with respect to Balz.
Z stopped at the glass entrance of the pool area. Those four words were causing a rift in reality for the male they’d been spoken to.
But Z’s demon was not back. He’d been through this before. His rational side knew this.
And yet…
The decision was made before he was aware of coming to any kind of crossroads of choice. His feet were clearly committed to a new course of action, however, turning his body away from the pool’s enclosure and taking him to the office, through the office, into the supply closet.
He fought the direction he was headed. He didn’t want to go into the mansion’s cellar, to that corner far, far in the back, to the cardboard box that he had brought down there—
As Z stepped out into the tunnel, he happened to take a deep breath, and that was when he smelled something that made no damned sense.
Looking to the right, to the darkened void at the far end, he frowned and took another deep inhale.
Fresh air? What the hell?
Given the number of things that had gone haywire tonight, he pivoted and headed in that direction. As he continued along, motion-activated ceiling lights illuminated his way, his footfalls echoing around. God knew there was pelnty of distance to travel. The tunnel connected four things: the Pit, which was one terminal; the mansion and the training center in the middle; and at the far, far opposite end, there was a hidden escape hatch that dumped out on the mountain a quarter of a mile away.
No one should have gone in or out of it.
So why was the scent of the storm, of the night, of evergreens, in this part of the Brotherhood’s complex?
As he got close to the steel hatch, the lineup of emergency weapons, survival packs, and outerwear put in an appearance, everything ready to get grabbed in the event of a dramatic departure. And on the other side of the triple-locked portal? There was a shallow cave with a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe and several snowmobiles, the vehicles sheltered from the elements and camo’d from prying eyes and trespassing.
Glancing around, he frowned.
Nothing was out of place.
No empty pegs were in the collection of equipment. No scent of gasoline, either.
Weird. But maybe V had decided to check everything. Considering how things were going tonight, who could blame him for the paranoia?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The classroom was the last one in the training center’s lineup, and as Blay pushed through its door and turned on the light, he looked to the place where he’d once sat as a student with John Matthew and Qhuinn. Back in their pretrans days, when they’d been in the Brotherhood’s training program here, they had stuck together. Part of it had been protecting John Matthew from Lash. More of it had been the simpler, enduring ties of friendship.
As Qhuinn followed him inside, the male had a curious expression on his face. Like everyone else, they’d waited outside Balz’s examination room and had been relieved to get confirming good news—and not just about the patient, although that was the most important thing. Tohr had also announced to everybody that even though the storm was in full rock and roll, all of the shutters up at the mansion were locked down, the tree in the library had been removed, and there was plywood covering the French doors the evergreen had broken open.
So considering the way things had started out?
Qhuinn went over to the blackboard—no dry-erase for the Brothers, none of that fancy new stuff—and picked up a piece of chalk. The heart outline he drew was yellow, the color of a lined legal pad. In the center, he wrote: “Q+B = 4EVA”
As he put the chalk back, he clapped his palms clean. “So I’m twelve, okay? Sue me.”
“I think you’re romantic.”
“Do I hit on you too much?” Qhuinn pivoted around. “I mean, am I—”
Blay answered that question by taking the bottom of his cashmere sweater and lifting it up and over his head. Then came the button-down shirt, the one that he’d chosen because it was blue and coral checked and complemented the blue sweater.
Qhuinn froze where his stood. Then his eyes flared.
“I locked the door,” Blay said. “And no, I don’t think you hit on me too much—” He put his palms out to stop his mate. Then he pointed forward. “Oh, no you don’t. I want you to sit there. Where the teacher would.”
With a sloppy shuffle, Qhuinn planted himself behind the empty desk—and did a piss-poor impression of a professor. Instead of looking like he was in charge, he linked his fingers together, put his hands primly in front of himself, and sat, spine rigid, like a good little boy praying he got a cookie for behaving nicely.
Splaying out his arms, Blay slowly turned in front of his mate. He was not an exhibitionist by any sense of the word, but he liked how the sight of his body made his lover feel.
For example, the groaning? Coming from behind that desk?
Best sound in the world.
Approaching Qhuinn, he put his left boot on the desk lip, angling his hips so that across the wood top, the bulge behind his fly was very obvious. He took his time with the de-lacing, and enjoyed the way Qhuinn’s eyes roamed around his bare shoulders and chest, his abs and his erection. And then it was the other side, again with the de-looping, the pulling free, the shucking out.
The tile floor was cold underneath his feet as he backed away. Then turned away.
Putting his hands to his fly, he made quick work of the button and the zipper. He hadn’t bothered with a belt because of the sweater—and because they’d been delayed in the shower—and he was glad he didn’t need to fuss around with buckles right now.
Although, actually, the anticipation was working for them both: Qhuinn’s bonding scent was flaring all kinds of dark spices—which made Blay wonder what people passing by out in the tunnel might think.
Then again, everybody had returned to the mansion after Doc Jane had sounded the all-clear on Balz’s recovery. And with the storm, who was going out into the parking lot anyway?
Blay’s fine wool pants were loose enough so that he could have just let them drop, but where was the fun in that? He went the inch-by-inch route, slowly letting Qhuinn see what he wanted. And it was clear that things were going exactly the way Blay was hoping because a pumping growl percolated through the classroom.
And then there was a gasping inhale.
Followed by panting.
Moving slowly, Blay stepped out of the slacks and glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had lost the linked-hands routine. Now he’d planted his palms and was leaning forward, his blue and green eyes fixated and hot, his fangs descended, his lips peeled back. He looked bloodthirsty—in a good way. In the best way.
Blay stretched himself, undulating his body from ass to nape, and then he turned around.
His own arousal stuck straight out from his pelvis, and he decided that it needed a little attention. Sweeping his hand down his pecs, he paused to play with one of his nipples and then continued down over the ridges of his abs.
“Touch it for me,” Qhuinn said in a guttural voice. “That’s right… stroke it—oh, fuck.”
“You like this?” Blay moved his palm up and down on his thick shaft. “You want this?”
“Yes…” Qhuinn started to get up, the chair squeaking. “I need—”
Blay turned back around and ran his free hand down his ass. “Or do you want this?”
“I want everything. All of it,” came the growled response.
With another arch, Blay bent over one of the tables. “Then why don’t you come and get it.”
* * *
Fuck the desk.
Qhuinn wasn’t going to waste time going around it; he went over the bitch, jumping up and pushing off into the air. He covered the five feet between where he had been and where he needed to be in one stride, and he managed to out his arousal on the way.
Blay was arched and looking over his shoulder, and he knew what was going to hit him: He grabbed on to the corners of the table and braced himself, his shoulder muscles flexing up, the ones that fanned out along his spine rippling under his smooth skin.
Spitting into his hand, Qhuinn did a pass on his erection, and then he went in, going deep. Beneath him, Blay’s head rose up and he called out, the desperate sound making every inch of Qhuinn’s skin prickle with awareness—except then his hearing was lost as the sensation of constriction and heat overrode everything.
The movement was instinctual and compulsive, the pumping rhythm stronger than he wanted it to be. There was no stopping it, though—
“Harder,” Blay groaned. “Hard-er…”
Qhuinn gripped the tight waist over Blay’s hip bones and sank his fingers into the taut flesh. “How much harder,” he grunted.
Blay’s arms butterflied as he held himself against the onslaught, the front of Qhuinn’s pelvis slapping into the back of that spectacular ass, the climax coming so soon—not that there was a reason to fight it—
The orgasm tackled Qhuinn from behind, shoving his torso over Blay’s back, his hips jerking and locking into place. The ejaculations were sharp points of pleasure, so acute they were sweetly painful.
And he didn’t stop. Reaching around, he pushed Blay’s hand out of the way and took over the stroking as he kept pumping, countering the forward penetration with the pull down on the shaft, the retraction of his cock with the palm moving out to the head. It required coordination.
But he’d had so much practice, hadn’t he.
Blay came next, hot jets covering Qhuinn’s hand and palm, everything slicking up. In both places. There was no stopping either of them, and Qhuinn loved being on this erotic plane with his male, the two of them riding the waves of pleasure, the intensity of the experience uniting them.
Until Qhuinn pulled out. And rolled his mate over.
Usually, Blay was an elegant, lithe mover. Not right now. He landed face-up in a boneless flop, his blue eyes glassy, his mouth parted in a pant, his color high from the exertion. Grabbing one of his mate’s thighs, Qhuinn curled up the knee and angled himself back in.
&
nbsp; This time, he went slow.
“Look at me, Blay,” he whispered.
When those beautiful peepers managed to focus, Qhuinn brought his glossy hand to his mouth. One by one, he licked his fingers, drawing them in, savoring them, extending his tongue and running it up his palm.
Blay moaned and came hard, ejaculating all over his own abdominals.
Which gave a male something to clean up, didn’t it.
But that was going to have to wait while he—
“Oh, God,” Qhuinn grunted as he found another release of his own, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut, his body doing what it did best.
Which was showing his true love exactly what the male meant to him, and how beautiful Blay was.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Daddy?”
As Z opened the door to his bedroom suite, the little voice brought a smile to his face, even though the night had been full of things that were far from happy. Yes, Balz had survived. And yes, the house had been patched up. But for so many reasons, Z’s soul was tossed and turned, an ocean that was raging.
And yet that one word, spoken in that voice?
Zsadist lowered himself down to his knees, even though he wasn’t yet over the threshold of his family’s private space. Suddenly, though, he didn’t care who might see him in this moment when he was so vulnerable.
Besides, he knew nothing else but what was coming across the antique rug at him.
Darling Nalla, sweet, darling Nalla, who was toddling and babbling and living her very best life, was walking toward him, her arms outstretched, her legs chugging along, her healthy body tilting from side to side. The very best part? She was beaming at him.
As if they had been separated by a century, instead of a mere hour or two.
He still couldn’t believe it. He still couldn’t believe that he and his shellan had created this miracle together—and just as wondrous was the fact that in spite of every ugliness inside of him, in spite of the filth that lurked beneath his skin, even with the slave bands that were tattooed around his neck and on his wrists, and his hideous scar…
