by J. R. Ward
Not anymore, he thought. His vision, the one on the door to the Fade, was once again on track to coming true.
And this time it was going to stay that way.
Qhuinn withdrew one of the daggers from his chest and streaked the sharp blade across the inside of his palm. As blood welled and started to drip, he offered himself to the female.
“I hereby offer the oath of my—” He stopped short. He didn’t have any bloodline to speak of, not with that disavowal in his background. “I offer the oath of my honor to you and yours from now until the final beat of my heart and the last breath in my lungs. Anything you shall call upon me for shall be provided without question or hesitation.”
On one level, it seemed ridiculous to put himself out like that to the daughter of a motherfucking deity. Like Payne needed any help?
Payne’s dagger hand met his and latched on tight. “I would rather have your honor than any bloodline upon the earth.”
As their eyes met, he had a thought that it was not male-to-female, but fighter-to-fighter, in spite of their sexes.
“I will never be able to thank you enough,” he said.
“Would that she makes it through. Both of them, that is.”
“I have the sense they will now. Thanks to you.”
It felt weird to want to bow to the female, but some things you just went with, and he did. Then he turned away, not wanting to keep her up if she was going to rest.
Just as his hand locked onto the doorknob, Payne murmured, “If you thank anyone, it should be Blaylock.”
Qhuinn froze. Cranked back around. “What…did you say?”
Assail stayed put as that Audi skidded out of the parking lot and hit the road beyond like his burglar had planted a bomb in the restaurant and just hit the detonator.
His body told him to go after her, stop that car, and drag her into the backseat.
His mind, however, knew better.
As he felt the surging in his body, he knew that the extent to which he lost control around her was dangerous. He was a male who defined himself by his self-possession. With that female? Especially if that sex of hers was aroused?
He was consumed with the need to possess her.
So he needed to regather his own reins.
In point of fact, he had no business wasting time stalking some human woman, hanging out in the corner of a cheap dive, watching her with a man.
Also consumed with the urge to kill her cheeseburger dinner companion.
What in the name of the Scribe Virgin had happened to him?
The answer, when it came to him, was something he firmly rejected.
In a bid to refocus his energies, he took out his phone to ascertain who had called and broken the spell that had well needed rupturing.
Rehvenge.
On so many levels, he had no desire to speak with the male. The last thing he was interested in was a rehash of all the reasons he had to participate in the social and political standstill that was the Council.
But it was better than going after his burglar—
He didn’t even know her name, he realized.
And it would be in his best interests to never find out, he told himself.
As he returned the call, he held the iPhone to his ear and put his free hand into the pocket of his wool coat to keep it warm. “Rehvenge,” he said as the male picked up. “I’m talking to you more than I speak with my mahmen.”
“I thought your mother was dead.”
“She is.”
“You have a very low standard for communication.”
“What may I do for you.” ’Twas not a question. No reason to encourage a response.
“Actually, it’s what I can do for you.”
“With all due respect, I prefer to take care of business myself.”
“A very good policy. And as much as I know you like your ‘business,’ that isn’t why I called. I thought you might like to know that the Council met with Wrath tonight.”
“I believe I resigned during our last conversation. So I fail to see what this has to do with me?”
“Your name came up at the end. After everyone had left.”
Assail arched a brow. “In what capacity.”
“A little birdie said you set Wrath up with the Band of Bastards at your home this past fall.”
Assail’s grip tightened on his phone. And during the brief pause that followed, he chose his words with extreme care. “Wrath knows that isn’t true. I was the one who gave him the vehicle he got away in. As I told you before, I am not, and never have been, connected with any insurgency. In fact, I removed myself from the Council precisely because I do not wish to be embroiled in any drama.”
“Relax. He did you a favor.”
“In exactly what manner.”
“The individual said it in front of me.”
“And again, I inquire, how does that equate to a—”
“I knew he was lying.”
Assail became quiet. It was, of course, a good thing that Rehvenge knew the statement to be untrue. But how?
“Before you ask,” the male murmured darkly, “I’m not going to go into exactly why I’m so sure of it. What I will say, however, is that I’m prepared to reward your loyalty with a gift from the king.”
“A gift?”
“Wrath is a male who’s aptly named. He understands, for example, how an individual would feel if he were to be wrongly accused of treason. He knows that someone who would falsely implicate another with information not widely known is likely trying to shift blame for his own actions—particularly if the person talking had a…well, shall we say, an affect…that indicated not just deceit, but a certain level of scheming. As if he were paying you back for something he considered indicative of disloyalty or bad judgment.”
“Who is it,” Assail breathed. Even though he knew.
“Wrath is not asking you to do any kind of dirty work. In fact, if you choose not to take action, the individual will be dead within twenty-four hours. The king just feels, as I do, that your interests are not only aligned with ours, in this case, they supersede them.”
Assail closed his eyes, vengeance boiling his blood in much the same manner in which the sexual instinct had just done. The end result, however, was going to be oh, so very different. “Say the name.”
“Elan, son of Larex.”
Assail popped his lids and bared his fangs. “You tell your king I shall take care of this with alacrity.”
Rehvenge laughed darkly. “That I’ll do. I promise it.”
FIFTY-SIX
Blay was antsy as he paced around his room. Although he was fully dressed for fighting, he was going nowhere. None of them were.
After the Council meeting, Tohr had ordered the Brotherhood to stay in on a just-in-case. Rehv was reaching out to the Council members, connecting outside of the mansion, getting a sense of where the glymera were. As the guy couldn’t very well show up with a six-pack of Brothers on his ass—at least, not if he wanted to preserve some pretense of civility—they had to chill. But given the political climate, it was important that backup was ready in case the Reverend needed it.
Not that he went by that name anymore…
The door to his room opened wide without a knock, a hello, a hey-are-you-decent.
Qhuinn stood in between the jambs, breathing hard, like he’d run down the hall of statues.
Damn, had Layla lost the pregnancy after all?
Those mismatched eyes searched around. “You by yourself?”
Why the hell would— Oh, Saxton. Right. “Yes—”
The male took three strides forward, reached up…and kissed the ever-loving shit out of Blay.
The kiss was the kind that you remembered all your life, the connection forged with such totality that everything from the feel of the body against your own, to the warm slide of another’s lips on yours, to the power as well as the control, was etched into your mind.
Blay didn’t ask any questions.
He just held on, slipp
ing his arms around the other male, welcoming the tongue that entered him, kissing back even though he didn’t understand what had motivated this.
He probably should care. Probably should pull away.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda.
Whatever.
He was vaguely aware that the door was open into the hall, but he didn’t care—even though things were going to get pretty goddamn indiscreet pretty quick.
Except Qhuinn abruptly put the brakes on, ending the liplock and separating them. “Sorry. This isn’t why I came.”
The fighter was still panting, and that, as well as the burn in that incredible stare, was nearly enough for Blay to say something along the lines of, That’s fine, but can we finish what we started first.
Qhuinn walked back and shut the door. Then he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leathers—like it was either that or he was worried they might latch on again.
Fuck the pockets, Blay thought as he tried to subtly rearrange his erection. “What is it?” he asked.
“I know you went to see Payne.”
The words were spoken clearly and slowly—and they were the one thing that Blay couldn’t really handle. Breaking eye contact, he wandered around his room.
“You saved the pregnancy,” Qhuinn announced, the tone in his voice too close to awe for comfort.
“So she’s still okay?”
“You saved the—”
“Payne did.”
“V’s sister said it never would have dawned on her to try—until you went and talked with her.”
“Payne’s got some serious talent—”
Qhuinn was suddenly right in his way, a solid wall of muscle that there was no going through. Especially as the male reached up and brushed Blay’s cheek. “You saved my daughter.”
In the silence that followed, Blay knew he had something he was supposed to say. Yeah…it was right on his tongue. It was…
Shit. With Qhuinn looking at him like that, he couldn’t remember his own name. Blaysox? Blacklock? Blabberfox? Who the fuck knew…
“You saved my daughter,” Qhuinn whispered.
The words that came out of Blay’s mouth were ones he would later regret—because it was especially important, in light of the sex that seemed to be happening from time to time, to keep a distance.
But linked as they were, stare-to-stare, he was powerless to stop the truth. “How could I not try…it was killing you. I couldn’t not try something. Anything.”
Qhuinn’s lids closed briefly. And then he gathered Blay in an embrace that connected them from head to foot. “You’re always there for me, aren’t you.”
Talk about bittersweet: The reality that the male was going to form a family with someone else, with a female, with Layla, bit into the center of Blay’s chest.
It was his curse, in so many ways.
He released his arms from Qhuinn’s back and stepped off. “Well, I hope it—”
Before he could finish, Qhuinn was in front of him yet again, and those blue and green eyes were burning.
“What,” Blay said.
“I owe you…everything.”
For some reason, that hurt. Maybe because after years of trying to give himself to the guy, the gratitude was finally earned by helping him have a kid with someone else.
“Whatever, you’d have done the same for me,” he said roughly.
And yet even as he put that out there, he wasn’t sure. If someone attacked him? Well, sure, of course Qhuinn would back him up. But then again, the tough-edged SOB loved to fight and was a natural hero—that wasn’t anything about Blay.
Perhaps that was the point of this emptiness. Everything had always been on Qhuinn’s terms. The friendship. The distance. Even the sex.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Qhuinn asked.
“Like how.”
“As if I’m a stranger.”
Blay rubbed his face. “Sorry. Just been a long night.”
There was a long, tense moment, during which all he could feel was Qhuinn’s stare.
“I’ll go,” the fighter said after a pause. “I guess I just wanted…yeah. Anyhow.”
The sounds of shitkickers headed for the exit had Blay cursing—
The knock on the door was a single one and very loud: a Brother.
Rhage’s voice cut easily through the panels. “Blay? Tohr’s called a meeting to go over tomorrow night’s territory. You know where Qhuinn is?”
Blay looked across his room at the guy. “No, I don’t.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Qhuinn thought at the interruption. Although in reality, the conversation was over, wasn’t it.
The good news was that at least Rhage didn’t come in. No doubt Blay would prefer the pair of them not got caught hanging in his room.
Hollywood wrapped things up with, “If you see him, let him know if he wants to attend we’re convening in five. Totally understand if he’d rather stay with Layla.”
“Roger that,” Blay said in a dead voice.
As Rhage went next door and knocked on Z’s door, Qhuinn rubbed his face. He had no idea what had gone through Blay’s mind just now, but the way those blue eyes had stared at him had made him feel as if a ghost had passed over his grave.
Then again, what did he expect? He barged into the room that the guy shared with Saxton, pulled a major liplock, and then got all mushy over the Payne thing….This was Saxton space. Not Qhuinn space.
He had a habit of taking things over, though, didn’t he.
“I won’t come in here again,” Qhuinn said, trying to make some kind of amends. “I just wanted you to know that…I owe you so much.”
Qhuinn went over to the door and leaned in, listening for Rhage’s voice, closing his eyes, waiting for the hall of statues to be clear.
Jesus, he could be a selfish prick sometimes; he really could—
“Qhuinn.”
His body turned on a dime, sure as if Blay’s voice was a ripcord that yanked him around. “Yeah?”
The male walked forward. When they were eye-to-eye, Blay said, “I still want to fuck you.”
Qhuinn’s brows popped so high, they nearly landed on the carpet. And instantly, he went hard.
The only trouble was, Blay didn’t seem happy about the reveal. But why would he be? He wasn’t the kind of male who could two-time someone easily—although clearly Saxton’s lack of monogamy had cured him of being faithful.
Kind of made Qhuinn want to strangle his cousin again. And the only thing that stopped him from going and finding the slut was that in this case, the situation worked for Qhuinn.
“I want to be with you, too,” he said.
“I’ll come to your room after dawn.”
Qhuinn didn’t want to ask. Had to. “What about Saxton?”
“He’s gone on vacation.”
Reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally. “For how long?”
“Just a couple of days.”
Too bad. Any chance of an extension…for like a year or two? Maybe forever?
“Okay, it’s a—” Qhuinn stopped himself before he finished that with date.
There was no sense kidding himself. Saxton was away. Blay wanted to get laid. And Qhuinn was more than willing to supply the male with what he wanted.
That construct was not a date. But fuck it.
“Come to me,” he said in a growl. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
Blay nodded, like they’d made a pact, and then he was the one who left first, his body shifting with aggression as he walked by and went through the door.
Qhuinn watched the guy go. Stayed behind. Nearly shut himself in just so he could pull himself together.
Suddenly, he was fucked in the head, in spite of the promise that they’d be hooking up in a matter of hours: That expression on Blay’s face haunted him, to the point where his chest started to ache. Shit, maybe this current series of hookups was just a further evolution of the bad spots they’d been in before, a new facet of their collective unhappiness.
&nbs
p; It had never dawned on him that they weren’t good for each other. That there wouldn’t be, in the future, some kind of meeting of the minds now that he’d opened himself after all these years.
Curling up a fist, he slammed it into the doorjamb, the imprint of the molding biting back into the heel of his hand.
As pain flared and then thumped, for some reason, he thought of punching that flatbed’s dashboard and screaming to get out. Felt like that had been a lifetime ago.
But he wasn’t turning back. If sex was what he could have, he was going to take it. Besides, what Blay had done for Layla?
Surely that meant something. The guy had cared enough to change the course of Qhuinn’s entire life.
Not that Blay hadn’t done that long ago.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Assail took form beside a babbling brook that remained ice-free thanks to its constant movement.
The house before him was one he had been to only one prior time, a brick Victorian with the period’s quintessential gingerbread motifs marking its porches and doorways. So quaint. So homey. Especially with those long four-paned windows made of leaded glass, and the curls of smoke lazying out of not one, but three of its four chimneys.
Which seemed to indicate its owner was back home for the night.
Fine timing, as it were: Dawn was coming soon, so it was logical to batten down one’s personal hatches for the sun. Secure one’s environment. Prepare for the hours that one needed to stay inside to protect oneself from harm.
Assail stalked across the pristine snow, leaving tracks with deep tread. No loafers for this job. No business suit, either.
No Range Rover for his burglar to follow.
Coming up the side lawn, he went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the very receiving room into which the master of the house had, not so very long ago, welcomed certain members of the Council…along with the Band of Bastards.
Assail had been numbered among the males at that meeting. At least until it had become clear that he had to remove himself or get drawn into precisely the kind of discourse and drama he was uninterested in.
At the glass, he looked inside.
Elan, son of Larex, was at his desk, a landline telephone up to his ear, a brandy snifter at his elbow, a cigarette smoldering in a cut-crystal ashtray beside him. As he leaned back in his leather club chair and crossed his legs at the knees, he appeared to be in a state of relaxation and self-satisfaction akin to that of postcoital bliss.
