Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (48 page)

And then all went dark.

FORTY-FOUR

Qhuinn woke up with a hard-on.

He lay on his back, his hips moving on their own, the rolling motion stroking that erection

against the weight of the duvet and the sheets. For a moment, as he lingered in that half-

awake stage before true consciousness arrived, he imagined it was Blay creating the friction,

the male’s palms sliding up and down…in a preamble to some mouth action.

It was when he reached out to bury his fingers in that red hair that he realized he was alone: His

hands found only sheets.

In a fit of hope-springs-eternal, he threw out an arm, patting the space next to him, ready to find that warm, male body.

Just more sheets. That were cold.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

Opening his eyes, the reality of where he was hit hard and deflated his arousal. In spite of the

hookups, those two amazing, pounding sessions, Blay was right now, at this very moment, waking up

with Saxton.

Probably having sex with the guy.

Oh, God, he was going to throw the hell up.

The idea that Blay was touching another, riding another, licking and stroking another—his fucking

cousin, as a matter of fact—was nearly as unbearable as the Layla shit. The fact of the matter was, courtesy of what had gone down, any attraction Qhuinn had for the guy had been magnified instead of diminished.

Great. Another round of good news.

It was with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever that Qhuinn dragged himself out of bed and into

the bathroom. He didn’t want to turn the light on, had no interest in seeing that he looked like dog shit, but shaving with nothing save touch to go by was not the brightest idea.

As he flicked the switch, he blinked hard, a headache starting to pound right behind both his eyes.

No doubt he needed to eat again, but for fuck’s sake, his body’s relentless demands were getting him down.

Starting the water in the sink, he picked up his Edge shaving gel and filled his palm with a little swirl. As he rubbed his hands together to puff the stuff up, he thought about his cousin. He had a

feeling, although he didn’t know it for certain, that Saxton would use an old-fashioned brush to suds his jaw and cheeks up. And no Gillette razors for him. Probably had a barber’s thing with a mother-of-pearl handle.

Qhuinn’s father had had one of those. And his brother had been given one with initials on it after

his transition.

Along with that signet ring.

Well, good for them. Besides, given that those two were both dead, it wasn’t like they were

shaving anymore.

When his face was covered with white, just like the landscape outside, he picked up his regular,

pedestrian Mach 3 with its disposable head….

For no apparent reason, he thought maybe he should put a new one on.

Yeah, like a fresh, super-sharp, clean one.

Qhuinn rolled his eyes at himself. Nothing like having your self-worth wrapped up in three little

blades and a moisturizing strip. Real fucking logical, that one.

Self-administered ass slap aside, he started rummaging through the drawers under the counters,

pulling them out, inventorying all manner of bath and beauty crap that he never used, never looked at.

Pulling out the last drawer, the one closest to the floor, he stopped. Frowned. Bent down.

There was a little black velvet box in there, the kind of thing you put jewelry in. Except he didn’t own any, and certainly not from Reinhardt’s, that highbrow place downtown. As no one else stayed in his room, he wondered if maybe it had been there since he’d moved in and he’d just never seen it?

Taking the box out, he flicked the lid and—

“Son of a bitch.”

Inside, like they were worth something, were all his gunmetal gray earrings, as well as the hoop

he’d always worn in his lower lip.

Fritz must have collected them when cleaning one night, and put them in the box. Only explanation

—because Qhuinn certainly hadn’t bothered with them after he’d taken them out one by one. He’d just tossed them in the back of one of the bathroom cabinets.

Qhuinn fingered the steel links, thinking back to when he’d bought them and put them in. His father had been mortified; his mother, too—to the point where she’d excused herself from Last Meal and

taken to her private quarters for a full twenty-four hours after he’d waltzed into the dining room

wearing them.

The piercing place had told him not to put the hoops in until the studs that had been used to make

the holes had had a chance to heal up. But that advice was for humans. Within a couple of hours,

everything was good to go and he’d done the swap.

In Blay’s loo, as a matter of fact.

Qhuinn frowned, remembering the moment he’d stepped out into the guy’s bedroom. Blay had

been over on the bed, nursing a Corona, watching TV. His head had turned, his expression open and

relaxed—until he’d taken a look at Qhuinn.

His face had tightened up ever so subtly. The kind of thing that, unless you knew a person really,

really well, you wouldn’t notice. But Qhuinn had.

At the time, he’d assumed it was because the obvi-Goth shit had been a little much for Mr.

Conservative. But now, thinking back on it, he recalled something else. Blay had refocused on the

plasma screen…and casually taken a pillow and put it on his lap.

He must have gotten hard.

As Qhuinn recast that whole scene in his head, his own sex thickened again.

Except that was a waste of time, wasn’t it.

Staring at those goddamned earrings, he thought about his rebellions and his anger and his fucked-

up idea of what he had to have to be happy in life.

A female. If he could find one who’d take him.

What…a lie…that would have been.

Funny, cowardice came in many forms, didn’t it. You didn’t have to be shrinking in a corner,

shaking like a pussy and sniveling. Hell no. You could be a big, loud noise with a tough attitude and a face full of piercings and a snarl to show the world…and still be nothing but a cocksucking coward.

After all, Saxton might wear three-piece suits and cravats and loafers, but the male knew who he was,

and he wasn’t afraid of having what he wanted.

And what do you know, Blay was waking up in the guy’s bed.

Qhuinn closed the lid and put the piercings back where he’d found them. Then he glanced up into

the mirror. What was he doing again? he thought as he looked at his face.

Oh, yeah. Shaving.

That was it.

About twenty minutes later, Qhuinn left his room. Walking down the hall of statues, he passed by the closed doors to Wrath’s study and kept going.

As he continued onward, it was hard to stare into the second-story sitting room, hard to stay cool

as that couch came into view.

Never going to look at that piece of furniture in the same way. Hell, maybe even all sofas were

ruined for him, forever.

At Layla’s door, he leaned in and put his ear to the panels. When he didn’t hear anything, he

wondered exactly what he thought he’d find out that way.

He knocked quietly. When there was no answer, he was gripped at the throat by an irrational fear,

and without conscious thought, he threw open the door.

Light poured into the darkness.

His first thought was that she had died; that Havers, the son of a bitch, had lied, and the

miscarriage had gotten out of hand and killed her: Layla was unmoving as she lay against the pillows, her mouth slightly open, her hands clasped over her chest as if she’d been arranged by a funeral

director who had respect for the dead.

Except…something was different, and it took him a minute to figure out what it was.

There was no overwhelming scent of blood. In fact, only her delicate, cinnamon fragrance marked

the air, freshening it in a way that brightened the whole room up.

Was the miscarriage finally over?

“Layla?” he said, even though he’d told her that if he found her asleep, he would let her stay that way.

It was a relief to see her brows twitch as her name registered to her brain, even under the veil of sleep.

He had the sense that if he were to say it again, she would wake.

Seemed cruel to force consciousness on her. What did she have to greet her when she woke up?

The pain she’d been feeling? The sense of loss?

Fuck that.

Qhuinn quietly ducked out, shut the door and just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do with

himself. Wrath had told him to stay home, even if John Matthew went out—he guessed it was a kind

of compassionate leave from the
ahstrux nohtrum
thing. And he did appreciate it. There was so little he could do to help Layla—at least he could stick around in case she needed anything. Soft drink.

Aspirin. Shoulder to cry on.

You did this to her.

Going by the chiming that floated out from that godforsaken sitting room, he figured he’d missed

First Meal. Nine p.m. Yup, he’d slept through it, and just as well. If he’d had to sit at the table and spend forty-five minutes in the company of nearly two dozen people who were trying not to stare at

him, he’d lose his fucking mind.

The sound of someone walking down below in the foyer brought his head up.

Without any particular thought or plan, he wandered over to the balustrade and looked down.

Payne, V’s ass-kicking sister, was coming out of the dining room.

He didn’t know the female all that well, but he respected the shit out of her. Impossible not to,

given the way she handled herself in the field…tough, really tough. At the moment, however, Dr.

Manello’s
shellan
looked like she’d been beaten up in a bar fight: She was walking slowly, her feet shuffling across the mosaic floor, her body stooped, her grip on her mate’s arm all that appeared to be keeping her upright.

Had she been injured in some hand to hand?

No scent of blood.

Dr. Manello said something to her that didn’t carry, but then the guy nodded in the direction of the billiards room—like he was asking her if she wanted to go in there.

They headed that way at a snail’s pace.

Given that he didn’t appreciate people staring, Qhuinn backed off from the railing and waited

until the coast was clear. Then he jogged down the grand staircase.

Food. Workout. Recheck on Layla.

That was going to be his night.

Heading for the kitchen, he found himself wondering where Blay was. What he was doing.

Whether he was out fighting or in for the evening and…

Given that he didn’t know where Saxton was, he stopped that line of inquiry right there.

If Qhuinn had been off rotation, and able to spend some P-time with the guy, he knew what he’d

be doing.

And Saxton, his cocksucking cousin, was no fool.

FORTY-FIVE

Assail’s lack of feeding finally caught up with him about five hours after night fell. He was

putting on his shirt, a pale blue button-down with French cuffs, when his hands started to

shake so badly, there was no fastening the damn thing closed over his chest. And then the

exhaustion hit, so overwhelming that he swayed on his feet.

Cursing under his breath, he went over to his bureau. On the polished mahogany top, his vial and

spoon were waiting, and he took care of business in two quick inhales, one for each nostril.

Nasty habit—and one he fell back into only when he really needed it.

At least the blow took care of the tiredness. But he was going to have to find a female. Soon.

Indeed, it was a miracle he’d lasted this long: The last time he’d taken a vein had been months ago, and the experience had been less than enthralling, a fast-and-dirty with a female of the species well versed in providing sustenance to needful males. For a price.

What a nuisance.

After arming himself and retrieving a black cashmere overcoat, he headed down the stairs and

unlocked the steel sliding door. As he opened the way into the first floor, he was greeted by the

sounds of guns being checked.

In the kitchen, the twins were running several forties through their paces.

“Have you made the call?” Assail asked Ehric.

“As you said.”

“And?”

“He’s going to be there and he’s coming alone. Do you need weapons?”

“Have them.” He picked up the keys to the Range Rover from a silver dish on the counter. “We’re

taking my vehicle. In the event someone is injured.”

After all, only an idiot took the word of an enemy, and his SUV came with an undercarriage

device that could be very helpful if there was a mass attack.

Boom.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them were crossing the bridge into Caldwell, and as Assail

drove along, he was reminded of why bringing the cousins here had been an inspired idea: Not only