A Warm Heart in Winter

by J. R. Ward

  He would love that. He would really love that.

  “So how are you, son,” Rocke said as they embraced. “How’s Qhuinn?”

  “We’re as good as you could expect.” And he supposed that wasn’t a lie. “It’s really hard.”

  “I can imagine.” Rocke squeezed his shoulder as he hipped the door shut. “We’re so sorry, your mahmen and I.”

  As pain lanced through his chest, Blay rubbed his sternum. “Thanks, Dad. Oh, wow, smell that.”

  “Your mahmen is making stew as well.”

  “You know, I think I’m hungry.”

  “Good thing. She’s going to want to feed you. She always does.”

  The stuff about the hunger was, in fact, a lie, but he had hope that his mahmen’s cooking would wake his stomach up. But even if it didn’t, he had other familiar comforts to sink into. On the way toward the aroma, his father started in with what Blay had always considered the six o’clock newscast for the family: Updates on his shipbuilding, the cooking course the two of them were taking, a distant cousin’s impending graduation from online human college.

  “—really great what they can do with remote learning,” Rocke was saying as they entered the kitchen. “Look who’s here!”

  Blay’s mahmen paused in the midst of kneading. “So I sensed! I would have come out, but I’m knee-deep in—well, you get it. Actually, I think it’s more my elbows. Anyway, come give me a kiss, my son.”

  It was amazing how he regressed to full-on mahmen’s boy whenever he was around her—and like the dutiful young he was, and had always been, Blay went right over and kissed the cheek that was presented to him.

  “Now, go in there.” She pointed across to the refrigerator with a flour-dusted hand. “Second shelf, in a Tupperware container, is the quiche I served for First Meal. There’s fresh fruit next to it, and I want you to make yourself some toast. The bread is over there. You’re too thin.”

  Annnnnnd that was how his mahmen communicated: I love you, I’m so sorry about Luchas, I’m worried about you, and I hope you know that you and Qhuinn are welcome here anytime.

  Rocke shook his head with a smile and went over to the coffee machine. “You better do what she says, or she’ll make you have seconds before you have firsts.”

  “Don’t forget to put a place mat down,” she said as she went back to work with the dough. “And Rocke, that coffee needs to be lighter than we like it. He doesn’t want it too strong.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rocke replied with a wink.

  There was light conversation as Blay followed instructions, outing the broccoli-and-cheese quiche and the mixed fruit, making himself up a plate, and sitting down—with toast and a place mat—at the table. As he dug in, he nodded in the right places, laughed when he was meant to, shared surface updates. And yet there was no elephant in the room. At no point did he feel like he couldn’t talk about what had happened, and he didn’t feel like he was hiding how sad he was.

  It was the very best commentary on his parents, he supposed: That he could be honest friends with the people who raised him. And there was the temptation to stay over day, mostly because he was so exhausted with the silent tension between him and Qhuinn.

  God, he was so tired.

  And lonely.

  “Would you like seconds?” Lyric asked as she put the dough back into its bowl and covered it with a damp dish towel.

  Blay looked down at his clean plate. “Yes, Mahmen. Please.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  After Qhuinn worked out down in the training center, he took a shower in the facility’s locker room and then changed into surgical scrubs because he’d forgotten to bring an extra set of clothes with him. As he stepped back out into the corridor, he had a thought that he should go up to the big house. Blay was off for the evening, and maybe they could try and find each other.

  Or, more likely, he would just stay lost.

  He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was a gray fog between him and everybody else, including his mate and his kids. Even when someone was standing in front of him, they were merely an outline of themselves, and their voice, no matter how familiar, was a whisper off in the distance. It was the strangest phenomenon, and the disassociation reminded him of when he’d gone up to the Fade, the landscape all indistinct, no one else around him.

  Then again, he felt like he’d died last week, too.

  Turning to the right, he looked down toward the office and tried to imagine himself walking into the mansion. As his temples started to pound, he shook his head and went in the opposite direction. When he got to his brother’s door, he pushed his way in and—

  “What are you doing here?” he said as he stopped short.

  Over in the armchair, sitting there like he owned the place… was Zsadist. As usual, the brother was dressed in leathers and a muscle shirt, his powerful arms on display, his hair freshly buzzed, his long legs crossed at the knees.

  His eyes were glowing yellow, not black like when he was going to go off at someone. But they were narrow and they were focused on Qhuinn with a hard edge.

  “Come in,” he ordered. “And shut the door.”

  “This is my brother’s room. Don’t tell me what to do in it.”

  “Your brother’s dead. So this is not his room anymore.”

  “What did you say.” Qhuinn felt a hot flush go through him. “What the fuck did you say—”

  “Get in here, and shut the fucking door. Unless you want everyone in the goddamn training center to hear what I’m about to say to you.”

  Qhuinn’s body stepped forward before he was aware of entering. And he shoved the door closed—

  “Shut up.” Zsadist’s eyes never wavered and he didn’t blink. “Your brother is dead and that is a tragedy. But you’re not bringing him back with this withdrawal shit.”

  “Excuse me—”

  “You’re not talking. I am. You respond when I’m done. And before you get all hot and bothered, you think I want to be sitting here, going through this with you? Yeah, you can miss me with that.”

  “So get up and leave.” Qhuinn tossed a casual hand. “In fact, please do us both a favor and quit it before you start. I don’t need the public service.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  It was at that point that Qhuinn realized there was something in the brother’s hand… a toy airplane, one with red and white markings and a spinning prop on its nose. And in response to Qhuinn taking notice, Z flicked the propeller with his fingertip and the blades went for a ride, blurring out for a moment before slowing down so that the two fins became distinct again.

  The shit was so random it temporarily distracted him.

  “I’ve been where you are right now,” Z stated, “and not for a couple of nights or a month. Or even a year. Try a hundred years.”

  Qhuinn opened his mouth to fuck that off—except then he noted the slave bands that were tattooed on Z’s wrists and around his neck… and the scar that ran down the brother’s face.

  Z raised one eyebrow. Like he was challenging Qhuinn to say something about whose burden had been greater. And yeah, being imprisoned, sexually abused, and used as a blood source for a century? You could argue that was a trump card.

  “This is not a competition about pain,” Z said. “And I’m not downplaying your loss.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing both, actually.”

  “Who the fuck else has a chance to get through to you other than me? Huh? Anybody but me, you’d either snow or walk out on. My past doesn’t allow you to do that, so I’m here and you’re going to listen to me.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn eyed the door—and knew he wasn’t leaving. And he hated that the brother was right about that.

  When he looked back, Z shrugged. “Why do you think the only therapist I’ve ever had is one who’s been through terminal cancer. Like I said, I’ve been where you are, so I know what’s going to get through to you.”

  With a curse, Qhuinn rubbed his hea
d. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you that I’m struggling. But it’s been seven nights. Seven. You think maybe you could give me a little more leeway, here? Like a month, maybe?”

  “The longer you stay where you are,” Z declared in a low voice, “the harder it is to come back. I still fight every night to stay connected, stay here—” He pointed to the floor. “Stay present. What brought me back was love, but my situation was different than yours. I had nothing to lose and nobody but my twin in my life. You, on the other hand, have everything to lose—a mate who loves you, young who need you, people who require your contribution to a concerted effort. So you have to start coping, whatever that looks like to you.”

  Qhuinn rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Sure. I’ll get right on that. No problem—”

  “I’m not diminishing your loss. It’s about coping with it—because, FYI, the shit never goes away.”

  “I am coping.”

  “Fine, you want to play footsie with the words? You’re coping badly.”

  Qhuinn jabbed his thumb toward the bed. “I haven’t followed in his footsteps. I haven’t killed myself. So give me some credit, why doncha.”

  “If that’s your standard, you’ve got a ways to go before ‘functioning well’ is anywhere near your zip code.” Z spun the toy’s prop again, a little hissing noise rising up from the plane’s tip. “Let’s go through the checklist, shall we? You’re not at meals, you’re working out too much, and you have bags under your eyes you could pack for an over-day in, so you’re clearly not sleeping.”

  Qhuinn shook his head. “Fuck you, I’ve been to Last Meal at least three times.”

  “Out of fourteen meals served in the dining room. Congratulations.” As Qhuinn opened his mouth, that eyebrow rose again. “Do you really want to debate the facts? We can waste some time with that, but it’s just going to prolong the ass kicking.”

  Crossing his arms, Qhuinn stared off at the wall. “Say your piece. And then I’m leaving.”

  “Figure out how to cope.” Z shrugged. “That’s the message. That’s it. Figure out what works for you and do it. But you can’t keep going, night after night, day after day, stuck in neutral. The work is going to have to be done, and—” As Qhuinn cranked open his mouth again, Z cut him off. “Nope, I finish, then you go. The work is going to have to be done, and you need to do it not just for yourself, but for your kids and that mate of yours, too. It’s not just for you. You do it for them as well.”

  Qhuinn waited, expecting more.

  “Figure out how to cope,” Z repeated. “That’s it.”

  “Oh, sure. That’s it.”

  “I’m not saying it’s easy. Trust me. I went through hell while I was held as a blood slave. And then I went through hell all over again when I started talking about what had been done to me. But at least the second trip through got me to a better place.”

  To avoid those clear yellow eyes, Qhuinn walked around, pacing back and forth from the bed to the door. Then he took a trip through the bathroom for shits and giggles.

  And still the brother sat there in that chair.

  “Why,” Qhuinn asked as he came out again. “Why are you doing this to me.”

  He hated the capitulation in his voice. But like he could change it? Like he could change any part of this?

  “You mean aside from my impeccable credentials when it comes to being fucked in the head?” Z twirled the prop again and swooshed the plane around in circles. “Don’t you remember our little ride together on FUBAR Airlines? If you hadn’t flown me out of that abandoned lesser induction site in that piece of shit we found in the hangar? I’d have died. So I owe you.”

  Qhuinn closed his eyes and remembered that death flight. And what else had happened that night when they’d searched those cabins. “That was when I found Luchas.”

  “I know. Which is the other reason I’m sitting here in his chair.”

  “You said he was dead. That none of this was his anymore.”

  “I said the room isn’t his. This chair is.”

  “Splitting hairs.”

  “Don’t deflect.”

  The two of them stared at each other for the longest time. And stupidly, Qhuinn kept waiting for the brother to back down, look away, maybe apologize for his tone, even if his content was on point. When none of that happened, Qhuinn didn’t want to be the one who flagged out first.

  So they just stared.

  In the end… well, big surprise, he was the one who cracked. He lowered his eyes, but to make it look like it was just because he’d decided to sit on his brother’s bed, he went over… and sat at the foot of his brother’s bed.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” he said with a defeat he hated.

  “So just do something, anything.”

  “Isn’t that the name of a movie?”

  “You should ask Rhage that question, not me.”

  There was a long period of silence. “Can I be honest?” Qhuinn asked.

  “With me? Always.”

  “I’m afraid to know why he did it. I’m afraid it was my fault in some way. And you know, I can live with his death if I have to, but I couldn’t live with…”

  As his voice failed him, he tried to gather the reins, but the next thing he knew he was weeping so hard his back was in on the sobbing, his whole torso wracked with pain. And while he cracked wide open, Z stayed where he was in that armchair, a silent witness to the active mourning.

  It turned out the brother was right.

  Given everything Z had been through, Qhuinn didn’t feel embarrassed or self-conscious—and strangely, if the brother hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t have released the pain.

  Also, if Z had come over and touched him in any way, or said a word, or tried to get help, Qhuinn would have zipped himself up tight—and probably never reopened again.

  But the brother not only had a point about the credibility he possessed, he had the sense to know that this solo journey didn’t need any intrusions.

  It did, however, require a trailhead.

  And maybe a guide.

  Or two.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Qhuinn’s emotional storm passed, as all storms, no matter how strong and overwhelming they might be, did.

  And in the aftermath of his breakdown, as he stood in his brother’s bathroom and rinsed his hot face with cold water, he felt like he’d been on a long, exhausting trip. One that had lasted months.

  He was that tired, and that discombobulated.

  When he stepped back out and looked across at Z, the brother was exactly where he had been, still with the toy airplane, big body lounging in the armchair.

  “Sorry about that,” Qhuinn said as he made another pass of his face with his palm.

  Z lifted a brow. “Really. You’re going to apologize.”

  Qhuinn shrugged and tried to ignore the fact that his eyeballs felt like they had sand in them. “I don’t know… how to handle this. Any of it.”

  “That’s okay.” Z clapped his thigh with his free hand and got to his feet. “But there’s no apologizing. You do that when you’ve offended someone or pissed them off, neither of which you’ve done to me. You also do it when you have some kind of control over your actions—and trust me, like I don’t know you’d have avoided that if you could have?”

  “Guess I’m an open book to you.” Qhuinn looked around the room like there were windows he might be able to see out of. “I’m really not sure what to do now, by the way.”

  “That’s part of how it works.” Z came over and held out the toy airplane. “Anytime you’re lost, I want you to look at this. You piloted us both back home that night. And you’re going to do it again. I believe in you.”

  “You really haven’t given me anything to go on, by the way.”

  “Everyone is different. The path back is not going to be the same for you as it was for me.”

  “How did you start?”

  “I opened my heart to someone who loved me. And then I opened m
y mouth to somebody who cared—and who was more than just a concerned friend.”

  “I don’t want to talk to Mary. I mean, I love Rhage’s shellan and all, and I know she’s a trained social worker, but I don’t want to have to sit across from my therapist at meals, thank you very much.”

  “You think it’s going to be any easier with a stranger? And fuck off with the excuses. I don’t see you skirting work anywhere else in your life. Don’t start the lazy now, and certainly not about this.”

  Whatever, Qhuinn thought. He didn’t want to fucking talk to anyone. But he was too tired from the crying jag to fight the point.

  “What else can I do?” he prompted.

  “Do the hardest thing first. Whatever you think is the hardest… get it out of the way.”

  After a moment, Qhuinn took the toy that was being offered to him. “Where did you get this? It has small parts, so I know it didn’t come from the playroom.”

  “I ordered it off Amazon.” As Qhuinn looked surprised, the brother shrugged. “I can do things like that, you know. I’m not just a brooding cloud.”

  “So you planned this.”

  “Five nights ago. I figured I’d give you a week. Seemed as arbitrary an anniversary as any other, and it was a helluva lot better than a month or a year.”

  Qhuinn looked at the brother’s slave bands. “It was you. You were the one who was holding me back from Lassiter that night I went after him. I saw your… you know, tattoos… out of the corner of my eye.”

  “That fallen angel’s the only savior we’ve got, son.” Z went over to the door. “Besides, if he’s a trend? We lose him and the universe is going to send us Bozo the Clown next.”

  “But that’s the problem. Lassiter isn’t in the savior business.”

  “I think the question is more… who was he supposed to save that night.”

  “FYI, it was the one who went out in the blizzard,” Qhuinn said bitterly.

  Z just shrugged and pointed to the airplane. “Anytime you doubt yourself, look at that. And you can always come and find me, day or night.”