by J. R. Ward
“Hit me with that again,” Blay stammered.
Annnnnnnnd whfff.
He stood straight up. “That’s magic.”
“Glad to be of service,” Manny said as he ditched the sinus slapper.
Over on the patient bed, Qhuinn held out his arms. “I’m waiting for a proper hello.”
Blay rushed across and dropped his mouth to his mate’s. The feel of soft, warm lips made his legs go unreliable again.
“What happened?” he repeated. “And how do you get that out?”
“I suggested I could just give it a pull,” Qhuinn muttered, “but I got shot down.”
Manny propped open the door with his hip. “Yeah, I mean, just because you have half a dozen critical structures and veins in that area, what the hell. Give it a yank. In a non-sterile environment with no backup. Suuuuuurrrrrre. What medical school did you go to?”
Qhuinn flipped the guy the bird.
The surgeon returned the favor. “And Blay, to answer your question, I am going to remove it in the OR. Ehlena’s prepping everything. Jane’s going to assist. We’re ten minutes out.”
“Why is he not bleeding to death?” Blay stared down at his mate. “Why are you not passing out from blood loss?”
“Do you want me to?” Qhuinn winked. “You could totally have your way with me then, you know.”
“You let me have my way with you anyhow.”
“This is true. On that note, how’s now sound?”
“I think he’s going to be fine,” Manny said dryly. “But we need to make sure the removal is done carefully and in a place where if something goes wrong, I can fix it. Now if you boys will excuse me, I’m going to scrub up.”
As the human left, Qhuinn reached for the front of Blay’s shirt and grabbed on in desperation.
“Should I call him back in?” Blay took that hand and cradled it between his own. “Do you need—”
“You’re looking good tonight—”
“What?”
The hand in his returned to the shirt—and released the top button. “You just look so good. And you smell nice. And I want to touch you…”
As Qhuinn licked his lips, those blue and green eyes started to twinkle in that way they did when things were taking a turn into naked territory.
“Qhuinn.”
“Yes?”
Blay pointed to the knife. “You’re not getting horny with that sticking into you.”
“You don’t think so? ’Cuz I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about that. And mmmm, sticking things into people.”
As the male started to roll his hips, Blay glanced down the bed. Sure enough, behind the fly of those leathers, a thick erection had sprung up out of nowhere—
A hissing noise preceded an abrupt halt of the grind, and as Blay refocused on his mate’s face, Qhuinn lost that lovin’ feeling: Gone was the sexual speculation. In its place was all kinds of well-shit-that-hurt.
Blay kept his I-told-you-so’s to himself. “Just rest, okay?”
“We have ten minutes.”
“Well, eight now.”
“It’s a shame to waste them.” Qhuinn turned his head on the thin white pillow and stared at the center of Blay’s pelvis like there was a bull’s-eye hanging off his Hermès belt. “Besides, I have something that’s working just fine.”
“Your brain is not it.”
Qhuinn deliberately licked his lips again and then bit down on his pierced lower one with his fangs. Next up on the roster was some kind of pleading sound in the back of his throat, and his final player on the field was his tongue. Which really wasn’t fair. That ball piercing made an extended appearance, the steel catching a glimmer in the light of the exam room as it flicked back and forth—
Blay groaned and closed his eyes. “What are you doing to me—”
“What I’d like to be doing to you, is more the point.” That hand, that talented hand, went for a stroll down Blay’s torso. “I’ll be quick about it and it’ll feel good for you, I’ll make sure of that.”
Well, duh, the male always did. The guy’s jaw was double jointed—
As Blay felt his own arousal get cupped through his fine slacks, he tottered on his feet—and sure, at least this time the wobble was not from terror. But it was not from relief, either. There was an operation looming, and that knife was still STICKING STRAIGHT UP out of Qhuinn’s pancreas.
Or whatever anatomy was playing pincushion.
“Gimme just a taste,” Qhuinn growled. “Come on, just a taste…”
Blay swayed so badly he had to catch himself on the gurney’s edge. “This isn’t the time—”
“Oh, I think it is.” That hand went for the zipper. “Tell me to open wide for you, Blay. Tell me you’re going to fill my mouth up. Tell me you’re going to stretch my lips and—”
The door swung open and Blay jumped back so far, so fast, he slammed into the wall, rattling the framed Claude Monet poster that added a slice of color to all the clinical stainless steel and tile. The good news? Ehlena, the clinic’s nurse, was busy rolling in a piece of equipment so she missed all the rearranging. On both his and Qhuinn’s part.
“—just need a quick EKG,” she was saying. “Won’t take a moment.”
Qhuinn’s voice dropped to a whisper as he looked up at Blay. “Six minutes. Still enough time. And my heart’s doing a-okay, so we can tell her to go.”
Blay glared at the fool. “You are out of your mind.”
“I could be out of my pants if you let me.”
“Ehlena?” Blay said.
“Yes?”
As Qhuinn got all kinds of hopeful, Blay crossed his arms over his chest. “Can you hook that thing up to his skull? I think that’s the area on him we need to check first.”
Qhuinn’s beautiful lips mouthed: Party pooper.
Ehlena laughed. “I’m not going to ask.”
“You’re a smart female,” Blay muttered.
As the nurse started affixing pads to various pulse points, he went still as reality sunk in. Fear, ever a tenacious interloper, made him focus on his mate with such intensity that it felt as though he was seeing that which was intimately familiar for the first time: The teardrop tattoo that had been colored in in purple when Qhuinn had been relieved of his ahstrux nohtrum position for John Matthew. Those incredible eyes, one like a piece of jade, the other like a Ceylon sapphire. The slashing brows that could fluctuate from aggression to flirtation in a second. The piercings in the ears, all gunmetal, the hoops running up from the lobe. The piercings elsewhere, winking in the bright light. The black hair that was cut in an asymmetric flop at the moment, part of it colored grape Kool-Aid. The thick neck, the heavy pecs, the rippled arms and broad shoulders.
The sacred scar of the Black Dagger Brotherhood right over the heart.
It was a helluva package. And yet as unforgettable as it was… the inside of the male was even more beautiful: The loyalty. The love. The soul that shone with such inner purity.
“I love you,” Blay said quietly. “More than the first moment I saw you and less than I will as the sun sets tomorrow.”
Ehlena hesitated with the tangle of colorful wires. “Would you guys like a moment?”
“Oh, no, we’re good.” Clearing his throat, Blay motioned her to come closer. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have started babbling—”
Qhuinn grabbed Blay’s arm. In a rare moment of feeling, the male said, “Yes, you should have. You should always tell me what you need me to hear.”
Tears, unexpected and embarrassing, sprung to Blay’s eyes, making it seem like he was looking through antique glass. In a flash of paranoia, he blinked them away. What if these were their last moments together and he wasted them on blurry vision?
“I love you, too,” Qhuinn said softly. “And I’m going to be just fine. I promise.”
After everything Blay’s true love had been through—from the way his parents had hated and shamed him when he’d been growing up, to the Honor Guard beating by his own blooded bro
ther and three others, to the acting out and acting in of it all after his transition—it was rare for emotion to come through that facade of resolve and strength. As a result, when Qhuinn’s feelings were shown, they had a way of stopping the whole world. Blay never questioned his mate’s love, and he didn’t require the constant expression of it. He wasn’t needy like that. But oh, God, when he did see Qhuinn’s heart, it was like the sun coming out on a rainy day.
He had to stop and savor the warmth.
In the back of his mind, he heard Bitty’s voice: So you’re not properly mated?
Blay leaned down and kissed his mate. “In all the ways that matter.”
“What?” Qhuinn asked.
“Nothing.” Blay looked across Qhuinn’s bare chest at Ehlena. “I’ll get out of your way.”
The female in scrubs smiled. “We’re going to take excellent care of him. I swear it.”
* * *
Up at the mansion, Zsadist whispered down the Hall of Statues, heavy shitkickers silent over the Persian runner, big body moving through the still, lemon-scented air without a rustle, breathing even and inaudible as he passed by the Greco-Roman warriors that had been carved out of marble by human hands long dead and gone. All the stealth was not something he cultivated and not anything that was required given the safety and security of his home. But he had moved in the shadows as a shadow ever since his twin had gotten him out of Hell. He never liked to call attention to himself if he didn’t need to, whether it was traveling through a house, standing in a room, or sitting in a chair.
When you had had attention forced on you, when your body had been taken against your will, when you had been a toy used and abused at the whims of a malicious other, calendar nights could put the distance of an era between you and your nightmare, and geographic miles could likewise reinforce the difference between the there-and-then and the here-and-now, but you never lost your adaptive behavior. Like the slave bands tattooed around his neck and his wrists, and the S-shaped scar that intersected his face, and the way he preferred to be invisible even outside of hostility, his marble had been carved in a certain way. And as with the statues he currently walked by, his evolution was as irreversible and structural as their forever-frozen poses.
A millennium from now, the statues would still be as they were—and so he would ever be as he was. His artist was dead, too. He knew this because he had killed her and slept beside her skull for a century… and yet there had been a corner turned for him, an unexpected fresh start that had eased him in ways that even he was coming to trust.
Love had done more than turn his black eyes back to yellow.
Yet he still walked in silence.
Stopping in front of one of the lineup of bedroom suites, he went to knock—
The door opened sharply, and on the other side, the Chosen Layla was dressed in jeans and a SUNY Caldwell sweatshirt, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, her glowing beauty the kind of thing that didn’t need makeup or fancy clothes for enhancement.
The look of abject terror on her face was wholly at odds with all of her casual, night-at-home-with-the-kids attire.
“Qhuinn’s going to be fine,” Z said. “They’re taking him in the OR now, and Manny is confident there’s going to be a good result.”
“Thank the Virgin Scri—” Layla stopped herself. “Oh… sorry, old habits die hard. I keep forgetting She’s gone.”
“Just please don’t bring up Lassiter’s name right now, especially if it’s with gratitude. He’s liable to show up so he can enjoy the praise, and I’ve had a long night already.”
The female smiled. “I will thank our angel in private then.”
When there was a cooing sound from deeper inside the room, Z looked in. Across the antique rug, between a museum-quality inlaid bureau of Italian provenance and a Scottish writing desk from the 1800s, the dual Pottery Barn cribs were a splash of modern, some-assembly-required in the midst of all the Old World luxury. One crib was done in pink, the other in blue.
“Would you like to come in and see them?” Layla stepped back. “They love visitors, and Rhamp particularly adores you.”
Z thought of those two human girls, out in the winter darkness alone in daddy’s BMW. As he walked across the room, he wondered if they’d gotten home safe.
You have a daughter. Some night, she may need help from a human. How’d you like him to treat her?
He went over to say hi to Lyric first, but that was not how it worked out. In the midst of all the pink frills of her crib, her sturdy little brother was holding on to his feet and doing some kind of baby pull-up thing with his chunky torso. The moment Z leaned over the rail, the kid stopped his infant-robics and shifted his eyes over, those peepers narrowing into an assessment that penetrated into places a grown-ass male would just as soon not have anybody go.
Much less a bag of carbon-based molecules that only had pooping and consuming down pat.
Except then the young started to smile. Instantly, that intensity was cut off and there was nothing but toothy grin—in spite of how ugly Z was with the scar that ran down his face. Then again, one of the things he liked about these young was that they had never not known males who had deformities. Their stepdad, Xcor, had a harelip they were well used to, so there was no scaring them with what was doing on Z’s puss.
Although on that note, one couldn’t be too sure Rhamp was going to be scared of anything. He was like his sire in that regard. Qhuinn wasn’t ever afraid.
“They like to switch cribs,” Layla said as she ruffled her son’s dark hair. “Rhamp insists on being in Lyric’s space sometimes. She doesn’t mind. I feel like he’s checking the crib rails to make sure she’s safe. It’s the funniest thing.”
“He’s right to look after her.”
“Well, she looks after him, too.”
“That’s as it should be.”
Z reached out and ran his forefinger down Rhamp’s chubby cheek. As the kid grabbed hold and squeezed, the compression was surprisingly strong. Then it was a case of tug… tug… tug… and all the time, the kid was cheery as he stared up. Even though Zsadist was a fully grown male capable of great violence.
“How do they know?”
As Z heard his voice hit the airwaves, he wanted to curse. He’d meant to keep that to himself.
Second time tonight. Maybe he needed to go see Doc Jane for some oral cavity Imodium.
“Know what?” Layla asked softly. “About who to trust, you mean?”
“People are dangerous. Especially to those who are weaker. And you don’t get weaker than a young.”
“Not everyone is dangerous. Look at you standing over the cribs of my young.”
He moved over to Lyric, and as soon as she saw him, she smiled, her eyes twinkling like stars in her baby face.
“You would kill to protect them,” Layla murmured.
“Damn right I would. They are my family, even though we are not of close blood.” As Z thought of those two human girls again, he was of a mind to try to strip his own damn memories. “Do you worry about them? Out in the world?”
“Not at the moment. Right now they are here, within my reach, every second of every hour. Later, though, I will. I imagine it will be similar to how I worry about Xcor out in the field. So many things can go wrong. A second can change a lifetime forever.”
Z rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to go.”
And yet he did not move.
“What consumes you, friend,” Layla prompted gently.
“I don’t like the vagaries of chance.”
“What’s making you think of fate tonight?”
“Nothing.” Just snowbanks. And children. And stabbings. “Nothing in particular.”
“Are you going to go see your Bella and Nalla? They were in the playroom last time I checked.”
He glanced at the Chosen. “Take care of yourself, and your precious ones.”
“I will. Take care of my beloved out in the field? I don’t know what I would do if�
��”
“I always have Xcor’s back.” He pictured the huge fighter with the disfigured upper lip and the jawline of an I beam. “We all watch after each other. Worry not, Chosen.”
And yet would it be enough, he wondered as he left.
Probably on most nights, sure. But on every night? Every single night? Mathematical probability said no on that one.
And young needed their fathers.
Guess Rhamp and Lyric were lucky in that regard. They had three of them.
CHAPTER SIX
Outside of the training center’s OR, Blay sat on the corridor’s concrete floor and leaned back against the concrete wall. The subterranean cold of everything didn’t register and he didn’t pay much attention to how hard everything was against his body. Hard was what was happening on the other side of that closed door. Hard was opening up someone’s insides, seeing a leak that was life-threatening, and being all I-know-how-to-fix-that.
There was a time when he’d thought he would go into medicine. He was getting over that now.
Especially as he imagined what was going on with Qhuinn’s abdomen at the moment. The only thing that made him feel even halfway okay about the knife removal was the fact that the male had had sex on the brain right up until Ehlena had slapped him silly with those EKG wires. Surely that meant something, right?
Blay looked down the hall toward the reinforced steel door that opened into the underground parking garage. Then he glanced down the other way, toward the gym, the Olympic-sized pool, and the target range. He could smell the distant chlorine, and someone was working out in the weight room, the rhythmic metal clanking going on for what seemed like forever. Probably Ruhn. Saxton’s male was a big lifter, even compared to the Brothers.
The guy would have been a great asset out in the field, but he was a certified pacifist now, and considering his history, no one could blame him—
The OR door swung wide, and Manny braced it open with his foot, a vision in blue scrubs and his surgical mask. The fact that he kept his hands behind his back suggested there was blood on those nitrile gloves, and as Blay’s stomach went storm-surge on him, he was determined not to throw up on himself.