by J. R. Ward
Saxton had first met him during the process of adoption. But after he had helped with Bitty’s formal adoption papers, he had made sure to stay far away.
Although the male’s physical assets were legion, he had not given any indication that he was sexually open to or even aware of males—or anyone else, for that matter. And knowing the way the universe ran? Ruhn was utterly heterosexual, and God knew Saxton was beyond over wanting things he couldn’t have—
Eyes the color of fine bourbon looked across the table without warning, and the shock of meeting Ruhn’s calm, rather innocent stare made Saxton fumble his napkin off his lap. Which turned out to be a blessing as it gave him an excuse to bend down and get out of view.
Nope. He was definitely not staying the day.
He didn’t care if he ended up stuck headfirst in a snowbank because he had guessed wrong dematerializing, there was no way in hell he was going to get trapped under this roof with unrequited love on the one hand, and unrequited sexual attraction on the other.
It was simply not going to happen.
—
He should have eaten in his room.
As Ruhn looked back down at his place setting, he tried to swallow the anxiety that rose every time one of these meals happened. So many forks and spoons on the sides of plates that had gold all over them. So many people who were as comfortable in this grand dining room as he was not. So many courses and servants and candles and—
“Uncle?”
At Bitty’s soft inquiry, he took a deep breath. “Yes?”
“More rolls?”
“No, thank you.”
He turned the silver basket down not because he wasn’t hungry. Fates, he was starving even after having cleaned his plate. But he hated the way his hands shook and he was worried he would drop the basket and break all the glassware in front of him.
Please send it in the other direct—oh, thank God. Rhage was taking the thing back and putting it down between the sterling silver salt and pepper shakers and the golden candelabra.
Ruhn didn’t understand how they could all just lounge back after they were finished with the entrée and chat casually, wineglasses held with confidence while plates were cleared around them, dessert coming in on more platters—
When he looked up and caught the King’s solicitor staring across at him, he cringed and wanted to bark out, Yes, I know I have terrible manners, but I’m doing the best I can and your cataloging every slipped pea and drip of gravy is making me worse.
Instead, he dropped his eyes and wondered exactly how long he had to stay here before a bolt for the exit would be even marginally permissible.
Saxton, son of no doubt a Very Well-Bred Aristocrat of Noble Bloodline, looked at him a lot. Whenever Ruhn walked by or sat anywhere around the gentlemale, which fortunately was not often, those eyes followed him in disapproval and judgment. Then again, the attorney was always perfectly dressed in suits that fit his lean body like they had been stitched on it, and the male always was perfectly groomed, his blond hair off to one side with nothing out of place, his shave so close that even at the end of a long night, he appeared to be just out of the shower.
To a male like that? Of course someone who had come to the house with only two pairs of jeans, a better, a medium, and a bad T-shirt, and a single set of work boots, would be an insult. Add on to that the fact that Ruhn was illiterate and hadn’t even been able to sign his name to Bitty’s adoption papers? Come on. The distaste was as justifiable as it was obvious.
Maybe there was more to it, though. Maybe Saxton knew the truth about his past.
Ruhn shuddered to think about that. He’d been truthful about where he’d been and what he’d done, and he had to imagine that nothing was kept from the King’s attorney. But who knew. And at least everyone else seemed to accept him—and when he really got up in his head about Saxton, he tried reminding himself of that fact. It still hurt and worried him, though.
In the meantime, all Ruhn wanted was to find a way to contribute to the household and earn his keep. The problem? There were doggen everywhere, and as much as he had tried to take over some basic repair duties around the estate or work in the kitchen, he kept getting shut down by all of them.
So he lifted weights and tried to pretend he was okay while he screamed inside his head and told himself that connecting with his dead sister’s daughter made it all worth it.
Every night and every day were getting harder, however.
And as much as he hated to admit it, he was coming to the conclusion that he had to leave. He just couldn’t stand being a fish out of water any longer.
Things were not working out.
“I love you, Uncle,” Bitty said. Like she could read his mind.
Closing his eyes, he reached out and took her tiny, soft hand. Leaving her would be like putting his heart in cold storage. But he had done that once before.
He could do it again.
The training center’s gym was big enough so that it could be sectioned in half by an air wall and still have room for two full-sized basketball courts. The ceiling was fifty feet high and had caged lights, and rafters of bench seats rose like wings down both of the long sides. There were two scoreboards that could be lowered for games, as well as multiple hoops and backboard arms that were likewise retractable. Finally, the floor was the color of honey, the heavily varnished and basketball-marked pine boards the kind of thing that squeaked your sneakers.
Peyton was chilling on a metal folding chair just inside one set of entrance doors, a bottle of Vishous’s Grey Goose in one hand, an open bag of Combos in the other. The former he was halfway done with, the latter he was scraping the bottom of, the pretzel and cheddar cheese nuggets of processed goodness his Last Meal.
He really missed his bong, but the Brothers were not into the drugs—and besides, the vodka was doing the job well enough, a floaty disassociation making his head feel like a balloon on a barely-there tether to his spine.
He was also now horny as fuck.
Boone, Craeg, John Matthew, and Novo were playing a game of two-on-two, the echoing dribbles like a marching band that couldn’t quite settle on a beat. Paradise—along with some others—was over on the bleachers, still with those notes, and that was why he was here on a single, right next to the exit: There was no way she could sidle up for a heart-to-heart without being obvious about it—and she wanted to talk to him. She kept looking over at him, trying to catch his eye.
Nope.
In the words of old-school Dana Carvey, Not gonna dew iiiiiiiit.
Fortunately, she had Zsadist right next to her—and Paradise’s studious nature couldn’t help but get her to ask the Brother questions and point out things she had written down for elaboration.
You had to respect that about her. And given that Peyton wanted to avoid her for the rest of his natural life, the proclivity so worked for him—
A shout got his attention.
Novo had the ball and was driving to the basket, dodging Boone and then dribbling between Craeg’s legs. Her dunk was Michael Jordan from the mid-nineties, all air, nothing-but-net, and the bucket won the game. As John Matthew came in for high fives, she smiled.
Truly smiled.
For a brief moment, she looked her age, her eyes sparkling, her face softening, her aura glowing.
“Suck it, douchebags,” she said as she pointed fingers at Boone and Craeg. “Suck it good.”
John Matthew and she fell into Hammertime, all precise coordination of athletic bodies with her rocking the #suckit chorus while the vanquished losers threw up their arms and bemoaned their pitiable fate.
Abruptly, Peyton forgot about everything else. Funny…how you could notice something new about somebody you’d known for a while. And the revelation about Novo?
She was desperately unhappy. Otherwise, this brief show of normal wouldn’t offer such a frickin’ contrast.
Sure enough, she happened to glance over at him, and instantly, she dropped the victory song and d
ance, her mask of cold, hard competence slamming down over her features. Turning her back on him, she went over to where Paradise was sitting and fished through a duffel, grabbing a water bottle.
But she didn’t drink. She took out her phone and frowned at the screen.
When John Matthew came over and tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped and fumbled with the cell.
The Brotherhood had recently improved reception in the underground facility, so texts and calls now went through with greater reliability. And that was a blessing and a curse. Sometimes it was good to just be in the zone.
With a shake of the head to John Matthew, she disengaged and headed for the equipment room/PT suite, disappearing behind closed doors.
As the next game was organized and got started, Peyton watched Xhex and Payne go up against Butch and V. But not for long. After about five minutes of play, he got to his feet and started down the opposite flank of the gym…following in Novo’s wake.
—
Saxton barely made it through dessert, and as soon as the parfaits and fruit started to be cleared, he folded his napkin and placed it next to his untouched sweet. After saying good day to those on either side of him, he pushed his chair back and retreated from the table along with a couple of stragglers who were likewise peeling off early: The Brotherhood usually lingered after the final meal of the night, relaxing and talking over coffee, wine, or aperitifs.
Which would feel like two lifetimes and a second-degree burn all over his body at this point—
“Are you really going home in this storm?”
Saxton looked over his shoulder and tried to hide his true reaction. Blay had come up behind him, napkin still in hand, as if the male had hurried from his seat.
Well…damn. It was so hard not to notice how beautiful he was, how kind, how smart and loving, how considerate.
“I shall be fine,” Sax said roughly.
It was hard to put any faith in that, though, especially standing so close to the source of his pain. What he wanted to say? I miss you. I want to hold you. I want to feel that wholeness again, that sense of purpose and—
“The weather is really bad out there.”
Saxton took a deep breath. “It’s the work of a moment to get back downtown.”
Blay frowned. “Downtown? Why would you—sorry, that’s none of my business.”
“I moved about three months ago.”
“Wait, I thought you were at your Frank Lloyd Wright?”
“No. I sold it and bought Rehv’s penthouse at the Commodore.”
Red eyebrows rose high. “And what happened to your Victorian?”
“I sold it, too.”
“You loved that house.”
“And I love my new place.”
“Wow.” Blay smiled after a moment. “Well, you’re moving up in the world.”
“To a higher elevation, certainly.” There was a pause. And then Saxton felt compelled to say, “Your young are doing well.”
Blay glanced back at Qhuinn and the two bouncy chairs that had been brought in from the kitchen. “They’re so much fun. It’s also a lot of work, but between the four of us, we cover it.” The male crossed his arms over his chest, but it was in a relaxed way. “God, I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever.”
“We’re both busy.” And you’re in love with someone else. “I’m happy for you. Everything seems to be working out for the best.”
If you were Qhuinn, that was.
“For you, too. You and the King are doing an incredible job together. Which brings me to my point. Do you mind if I talk to you about something? It involves my parents’ neighbor? I’d really like your take on what’s happening.”
Oh, so this wasn’t about my going home in the blizzard. It was about work.
“Yes, of course,” Saxton said in what he hoped was a level, calm tone.
As Blay started to lay out the facts, Saxton felt himself pull back from reality, the inner part of him retreating until he was tucked deep inside of his mind and his body, miles and miles away from this pleasant, largely uncomplicated discussion concerning real property.
Cruelty came in so many different fashions, did it not. And Blay was not being purposely mean. In all his un-complication and warmth and casual conversation, he would no doubt have been shocked to find that he was tearing a hole in the soul of the sad, hollow male he was speaking with.
“Forgive me,” Saxton interrupted. “I don’t mean to cut you off, but perhaps you could summarize this in an email and I could respond a bit later? If I’m going to leave, I should probably do it now.”
“Oh, God, yeah of course. I’m so sorry. And your safety comes first, I shouldn’t have even brought it up here.” Blay put a hand on Saxton’s shoulder. “Be careful out in the blizzard.”
“Thank you.” Although it is so much more intolerable under this roof, Saxton added to himself.
With a reflexive bow, he took leave of his former lover—and as he turned away, he was relieved to find that his coat and briefcase were still where he’d left them by the sideboard. Drawing his coat on, he crossed the foyer and let himself out into the vestibule.
At which point, he stopped and dropped his head.
His heart was pounding and he felt sweaty, even in the chill.
This really wasn’t going to work. This whole thing in Caldwell. He loved what he did for the King, but the grind of being around what he had lost and was never going to have again was wearing him out.
Blay, and everything they’d shared for that brief time, was why he’d had to switch to living in a penthouse in the sky. The Frank Lloyd Wright house didn’t name the requisite technology upgrades, and the pair of them had been together too much in that beloved Victorian of his—it had been their love nest when they’d sneaked out of the Brotherhood mansion in search of privacy: They had made love in the master bedroom. Lain side by side in front of the fire. Talked of private things and taken meals. Read books and newspapers. Sung in the shower and laughed in the claw-footed bath.
He’d had dreams of them settling there forever, raising a family of some description, enjoying the ups and enduring the declines of life.
So, of course he’d had to move somewhere else. He didn’t want to catch glimpses of the male all night, and worry about the fighter when he was out in the field with the Brothers, and remember what it was like to have sex with him…and then have to go home and be stuck indoors where the last one on that list of mournful memories had happened on every flat surface and most of the bumpy ones.
It was hell—
Some kind of rhythmic noise got his attention and he frowned.
Leaning an ear to the outer door of the vestibule, he couldn’t identify the sound, but he was fairly sure that whatever it was, it was directly outside.
If it were lessers, they would be banging the panels down, and it certainly wasn’t that loud or urgent.
Setting the briefcase on the floor, he looped the scarf around his neck, tucked the ends across his chest, and anchored them by buttoning up the coat’s front.
And then he opened the door—
The wind hit him square in the face and brought with it a slurry of flakes, his vision diminishing in the midst of the stinging onslaught. But the barrage didn’t last. In the next breath, the gust shifted to another direction, and like a rock star drawing a crowd, the flurries followed the leader, leaving a vacuum that gave him plenty of sight.
Schhhht. Heave. Schhht. Heave. Schht. Heave…
Ruhn was shoveling huge loads of snow over his shoulder, the movements powerful and showing no sign of tiring, the path he was creating from the front entrance three to four feet deep in the drifts—and one had to wonder why he bothered. Nobody was going to try to come in that way before dawn, and certainly not afterward, even with the heavy cloud cover—
What a powerful body that was.
As Saxton traced the movements, the jabbing forward, the hauling back, the over and over again, something stirred inside of
him…and it was a surprise. Ever since Blay had passed through his life, leaving behind a frigid, ruined landscape, Saxton had noticed no one, really. Sure there had been sex, but he’d quickly discovered that was no solution to his pain, and nobody had resonated with any depth. Yet here he was in a snowstorm, measuring the width of a set of broad shoulders, and the swing and twist of a torso, and a pair of legs planted with such strength.
As if Ruhn sensed the presence behind him, the male wrenched around. “Oh, excuse me. I’m in your way.”
“Not at all.”
A gust blew in between them, ushering a swirl of flakes through the distance that separated their bodies. Then Ruhn abruptly stepped back into the fresh snow and rested the business end of the shovel at his feet. Dropping his head, he folded his hands on the handle and assumed the role of a servant male, prepared to wait through even the deadly rising sun if it was necessary for his social superior to move along.
“Why are you out here?” Saxton asked.
Ruhn’s eyes rose in surprise. “I…there needs to be a path cleared.”
“Fritz has a snowblower.”
“He is busy inside.” Those eyes refocused on the ground. “And I would like to help.”
“Does he know you are doing this?”
Except that was a silly question. Regardless of Ruhn’s station prior to moving in, the male was now a guest in the First Family’s house, and as such, the idea he was doing manual labor out here in a storm? The butler would have an apoplectic fit.
“I won’t tell anyone.” Saxton shook his head even though the male wasn’t looking at him. “I promise.”
Those toffee-colored eyes lifted again. “I don’t…I don’t wish to cause any difficulty. But the truth is…”
Another volley of wind barreled into them, and Saxton had to shift his weight to keep from being pushed over. When things re-quieted, he waited for Ruhn to finish.
