by J. R. Ward
Chapter Forty-Three
At first, Layla could not comprehend what she was looking at. A face, yes, and one that she supposed she knew by shape. But its composite features were distorted to such an extent that she would not have been able to identify the male had she not known him so well.
"Qhuinn. . . ?" she whispered as she approached the hospital bed.
He had been stitched up, little lines of black thread snaking down his brow and across his cheek, his skin shiny from swelling, his hair as yet matted with dried blood, his breathing shallow.
Looking to the machines over the bed, she heard no alarms ringing, saw nothing flashing. That was good, yes?
She would feel better if he replied to her. "Qhuinn?"
On the bed, his hand turned over and released its tight crunch to reveal his broad, flat palm.
She put her own upon it and felt him squeeze. "So you are in there," she said roughly.
Another squeeze.
"I need to feed you," she moaned, feeling his pain as her own. "Please. . . open your mouth for me. Let me ease you. . . . "
As he complied, there was a cracking sound, as if the joints of his jaw weren't working properly.
Scoring her own vein, she carried her wrist to his bruised, parted lips. "Take from me. . . . "
At first, it was clear he had difficulty swallowing, so she licked one of the puncture marks shut to slow the flow. As he gained momentum, she bit herself once again.
She fed him for as long as he would let her, praying that her strength would become his own, and be transformed into a healing force.
How had this happened? Who had done this to him?
Given the number of gauze-wrapped limbs out in the hallway, it was obvious the lessers had sent a brutal force out into the streets of Caldwell upon the eve. And Qhuinn had certainly taken on the toughest, meanest member of the enemy forces. He was like that. Unflinching, always willing to put himself on the line. . . to the point where she worried about that vengeful streak of his.
It was such a fine distinction between courage and deadly recklessness.
When he was finished, she closed her wounds and pulled up a chair, sitting beside him with her palm against his once more.
It was a relief to watch the miraculous transformation of the injuries on his face. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but surface wounds, barely noticeable upon the morrow's arrival.
Whatever damage he had internally would likewise be discharged.
He was going to survive.
Sitting with him in silence, she thought about the pair of them, and the friendship that had sprouted from that misplaced adoration of hers. If anything happened to him, she would mourn him as a brother of her own blood, and there was naught that she would not do for him - further, she had the keen sense that the same was true on his side as well.
Indeed, he had done so much for her. He had taught her to drive and to fight with her fists, to shoot a gun and operate all manner of computer equipment. He had shown her movies and exposed her to music, bought her clothes that were other than the traditional white robe of the Chosen, took time to answer her questions about this side and make her laugh when she needed to.
She had learned so much from him. Owed him so much.
So it seemed. . . ungrateful. . . to feel dissatisfied with her lot. But of late she had experienced a strange irony: The more she was exposed to, the emptier her life felt. And yet as much as he urged her in opposite directions, she still looked upon her service to the Brotherhood as the most important thing she could do with her time -
As Qhuinn tried to reposition himself, he cursed from discomfort, and she reached out to calm him, stroking back his stringy hair. Only one eye of his worked, and it shifted over to her, the light behind the blue color exhausted and grateful.
A smile stretched her lips and she brushed his busted-up cheek with the very tips of her fingers. Strange, this platonic closeness they shared - it was an island, a sanctuary, and she valued it so much more than whatever heat she had once felt for him.
The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.
His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.
It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves - and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth -
The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.
Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed - at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.
He stopped short just inside the room. "I wanted to know how you. . . he. . . is doing. "
Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her - well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.
She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.
"Come in," she said. "Please - we're done here. "
Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles - on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.
His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. "You dumb son of a bitch. "
Layla's brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. "I beg your pardon. "
"According to John, he went out of that house into the Band of Bastards. Alone. "
"Band of Bastards?"
"The ones who tried to assassinate Wrath tonight. This dumb son of a bitch took it upon himself to go out right into the middle of them, all alone, like he was some kind of superhero - it was a miracle he didn't get himself killed. "
She immediately transferred her glare to the bed. Clearly, the Lessening Society had a new division, and the idea that he had exposed himself in such a way made her want to yell at him. "You. . . dumb son of a bitch. "
Qhuinn coughed a little. Then a little more.
With a stab of fear, she jumped up. "I shall get the doctors - "
Except Qhuinn was laughing. Not choking to death.
He laughed stiffly at first and then with growing expression, until the bed shook from the hilarity that only he saw.
"I find no levity in this," she snapped.
"Nor I," Blay cut in. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
Qhuinn just continued to laugh, enjoying himself over the Scribe Virgin only knew what.
Layla glanced over at Blay. "I find myself rather wanting to hit him. "
"It'd be redundant at this point. Wait until he's better, then have at him. Matter of fact, I'll hold him down for you. "
"Right. . . thing. . . to do. . . " Qhuinn groaned out.
"I agree. " Layla put her hands on her hips. "Blay is absolutely right - I shall punch you later. And you taught me exactly where one needs to strike a male. "
"Nice," Blay muttered.
After they all fell silent, the intense way the males stared at each other made her heart light up. Mayhap they could find an accord now?
"I shall go forth and check the others," she said quickly. "To see if anyone else requires feeding - "
Qhuinn reached out and snagged her hand. "You?"
"No, I'm fine. You were more than generous enough last week. I feel very strong. " She bent down and kissed his forehead. "You just rest. I'll check on you later. "
On her way past Blay, she said softly, "You two talk. I'll tell everyone to leave you be. "
As the Chosen departed, Blay could only stare in disbelief at the back of her perfectly coiffed head.
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br /> When he'd walked into the room, the connection between Qhuinn and that female had socked him in the gut: all that eye contact, that hand-holding, the way she curved her elegant body toward him. . . the way that she and she alone sustained him.
And yet. . . it appeared as if she wanted him to be by himself with Qhuinn.
It made no sense. If anyone was incented to keep the pair of them apart, it was her.
Refocusing on the male, he thought, God, those injuries were hard to look at, even though they were in the process of healing.
"Who did you go up against?" he asked roughly. "And don't bother arguing - I spoke to John as soon as I got home. I know what you did. "
Qhuinn lifted a swollen hand and made an X.
"Xcor. . . ?" As the guy nodded, he grimaced like the movement made his head hurt. "Don't - yeah, don't force yourself. "
Qhuinn waved the concern off in his classic, nothing-doing kind of way. On a rasp, he said, "S'okay. "
"What made you go out there against him?"
"Wrath. . . was hit. . . knew Xcor's ego - he'd have to be. . . " Big breath, one that rattled on its way out. ". . . the guy to prevent the king from leaving. Bastard had to. . . had to be incapacitated. . . or Wrath would never. . . "
"Have gotten out of there alive. " Blay rubbed the back of his neck. "Holy shit - you saved the king's life. "
"Nah. . . lot of people. . . did that. "
Yeah, he wasn't so sure about that. Back at Assail's, it had been total chaos - the kind of out-of-control that easily cut both ways: had the Band of Bastards not retreated shortly after the Brotherhood arrived, there would have been heavy losses on both sides.
Staring down at Qhuinn, he had to wonder what kind of shape Xcor was in. If he looked like this? The bastard was at least the same, probably worse.
Blay shook himself, aware that he had been standing at the edge of the bed in silence. "Ah. . . "
Back long ago, a lifetime ago, there had never been silences between them. Except. . . they had been boys then. Not fully transitioned males.
Different standard, he supposed.
"I guess I should leave you," he said. Without leaving.
This could so easily have gone a different way, he thought. Xcor's ability to kill was well-known - not by Blay personally, but he'd heard the stories from the Old Country. Besides, for chrissakes, anyone with enough balls not only to talk about going against Wrath, but to actually put a bullet in the king?
Deadly or stupid. And the latter didn't count in this case.
Qhuinn could easily have been hit by a lot more than multiple fists.
"Can I get you anything?" Blay said. Except, duh, the guy couldn't eat, and he'd already been fed.
Layla had taken care of that.
Man, if he was brutally honest with himself - and it seemed as if brutally was the word of the day - there were times when he resented the Chosen, even though that was a colossal waste of emotion. He had no right to feel cranked, especially given what he and Saxton got up to on a very regular basis. Especially given that nothing was going to change on Qhuinn's side.
You almost died tonight, he wanted to say. You dumb son of a bitch, you nearly died. . . and then what would we have done?
And not "we" as in the Brotherhood.
Not even "we" as in he and John. More like. . . "me. "
Shit, why did he keep coming back to this corner with this male?
It was just too stupid. Particularly as he stood over the guy, watching as more color came into that mangled face, and his breathing grew less labored, and the bruising faded even further. . . all thanks to Layla.
"I'd better go," he said, without leaving.
That one eye, the blue one, just kept staring up at him. Bloodshot, with a cut across the brow above it, the thing shouldn't have been able to focus. But it was.
"I have to go," Blay said finally.
Without leaving.
Damn him, he didn't know what the hell he was doing -
A tear escaped from that eye. Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn't hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.
Blay wanted to kick himself in his own ass. "Shit, let me get Doc Jane - you must be in pain. I'll be right back. "
Qhuinn called out his name, but he was already turning away.
Idiot. Stupid-ass idiot. The poor male was there suffering on a hospital bed, looking like an extra on Sons of Anarchy - last thing he needed was company. More painkillers - that was what he required.
Jogging down the corridor, he found Doc Jane logged in at the clinic's main computer, entering notes into medical records.
"Qhuinn needs a shot of something. Come quick, will you?"
The female was on it, snagging an old-fashioned doctor's bag and going back down the hall with him.
While she went inside, Blay gave them some privacy, pacing back and forth in front of the door.
"How is he?"
Stopping and pivoting around, he tried to smile at Saxton - and failed. "He decided to be a hero. . . and I think he might have actually been one. But, God. . . "
The other male came forward, moving elegantly in his bespoke suit, his Cole Haan loafers making soft impacts, as if they were too refined to ever make much noise - even on linoleum.
He didn't belong in the war. Never would.
He would never be like Qhuinn, jumping out of safety into the thick of a fight, going up against the enemy with his bare, clawing hands to take down an aggressor and serve him his own balls for lunch.
It was probably part of the reason Saxton was easier to deal with. No extremes. Plus the male was intelligent, refined, and funny. . . had lovely manners, and lots of exposure to the very best in life. . . always dressed well. . . .
Was fantastic in bed. . .
Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of something?
As he explained what had gone down in the field, Saxton stopped right up close, his Gucci cologne a calming scent. "I'm so sorry. You must be a mess in the head over it all. "
Annnnnd the male was a saint. A selfless saint. Never to be jealous?
Qhuinn wasn't like that. Qhuinn was jealous and possessive as hell -
"Yes, I am," Blay said. "A total wreck. "
Saxton reached out and took his hand, giving it a subtle squeeze and then retracting his warm, smooth palm.
Qhuinn was never that discreet about anything. He was a marching band, a Molotov cocktail, a bull in a china shop who didn't care what kind of mess he made in his wake.
"Does the Brotherhood know?"
Blay shook himself. "I'm sorry?"
"What he did? Do they know?"
"Well, if they've heard about it, it wasn't from him. John looked upset and I asked him - and that's the way I heard the story. "
"You should tell Wrath. . . Tohr. . . someone. He should get credit for this - even though it's not his style to care about that sort of nonsense. "
"You know him well," Blay murmured.
"I do. And I know you just as well. " Saxton's expression tightened, but he smiled nonetheless. "You need to take care of him in this. "
Doc Jane emerged from the room, and Blay wheeled around. "How's he doing?"
"I'm not sure - what exactly did you think was wrong? He was resting comfortably when I went in there. "
Well, shit, he wasn't about to say the male had been crying. But the fact of the matter was, Qhuinn would never have shown that kind of weakness unless he was in some serious pain.
"I guess I misread him. "
Over Jane's shoulder, Blay happened to notice the way Saxton's hand passed through the thick blond waves that were sculpted up off his forehead.
It was the strangest thing. . . Sax may have been related by blood to Qhuinn, but at the moment,
he looked a lot like Blay had for years.
Then again, unrequited was the same, no matter the features that reflected the emotion.
Crap.
