Lover At Last tbdb-11

by J. R. Ward

  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, slipping 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.
r />   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.

  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.

  Assail made a fist, the black leather of his glove creaking ever so subtly.

  And then he dematerialized into the very room, re-forming directly behind the male’s chair.

  On one level, he couldn’t believe that Elan didn’t fortify his abode with greater security—a fine steel mesh over the windows and within the walls, for example. Then again, the aristocrat clearly suffered from a lack of appropriate risk assessment—as well as an arrogance that would grant him a greater sense of safety than he actually possessed.

  “…and then Wrath shared a story about his father. I must confess, in person, the king is quite…ferocious. Although not enough to change my course, naturally.”

  No, Assail was going to take care of that.

  Elan leaned forward and reached for the cigarette. The thing was screwed onto one of those old-fashioned holders, the kind that females tended to use, and as he brought the end to his lips to take a drag, the tip extended out past the edge of the chair.

  Assail unsheathed a shiny steel blade that was as long as his forearm.

  It had e’re been his preferred weapon for this sort of thing.

  His heart rate was as steady as his hand, his breathing even and regular whilst he loomed behind the chair. With deliberation, he stepped to one side, positioning himself so that his reflection appeared in the window opposite the desk.

  “I am not aware whether it was the entire Brotherhood. How many of them are left? Seven or eight? This is part of the problem. We do not know who they are anymore.” Elan tapped his cigarette, the small stack of ash falling into the belly of the ashtray. “Now, whilst I was at the meeting, I instructed a colleague of mine to be in touch with you—I beg your pardon? Of course I gave him your number, and I resent the tone in your— Yes, he was here at the meeting at my home. He is going to— No, I shan’t do it again. Shall you cease interrupting me? I think so, yes.”

  Elan took a drag and released the smoke in a rush, his annoyance manifested in his breath. “May we move on? Thank you. As I was saying, my colleague shall be in touch with regard to a certain legal provision which may help us. He has explained it to me, but as it is rather technical, I assumed you would wish to question him yourself.”

  There was a rather long pause. And when Elan spoke next, his tone was calmer, as if placating words had soothed the ruffled feathers of his ego. “Oh, and one last thing. I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”

  Assail deliberately curled up his fist.

  As that leather once again let out its quiet sound of protest, Elan straightened in his seat, his crossed foot returning to the floor, his spine stretching upward such that his head appeared over the back of the chair. He looked left. Looked right.

  “I must needs go—”

  At that moment, Elan’s eyes went to the window across from him, and he saw the reflection of his killer in the glass.

  * * *

  As Xcor stood in an insulated room with a proper heating system, he had to admit he preferred Throe’s newest choice of living quarters over that warehouse dungeon they had been in previously. Mayhap he would thank the Shadow who had intruded, if their paths e’er crossed anew.

  Then again, perhaps the sense of warmth in his body was his temper flaring, and not a function of good, operational ductwork: The aristocrat on the other end of his cellular phone was testing his last nerve.

  He did not want to be contacted by anybody else on the Council. Managing one member of the glymera was quite enough.

  Although he typically took a pacifying approach with Elan, his wrath licked out. “Do not give my number to anyone else.”

  Elan and he went back and forth a bit, the aristocrat’s own ire rising.

  Which was, of course, no good. One wanted a usable tool in one’s hands. Not something with a prickly grip.

  “My apologies,” Xcor murmured after a bit. “It is just that I prefer to deal with decision makers only. That is why I contact you and you alone. I have no interest in the others. Only you.”

  As if Elan were a female and theirs was a romantic liaison.

  Xcor rolled his eyes as the aristocrat fell for it, and resumed his discourse. “…and one last thing. I took care of our little problem with a certain ‘business-minded’ gentlemale—”

  Instantly, Xcor’s attention picked up. What in Fate’s name had the idiot done now?

  In truth, this could be monstrously inconvenient. Say what one would about Assail’s failure to see the light around Wrath’s dethroning, that particular “gentlemale” was not cut from Elan’s fragile, rippable silk. And as much as X
cor detested dealing with the son of Larex, he had invested considerable time and resources in the relationship. ’Twould be a shame to lose the miscreant now, and have to establish yet another conduit within the Council.

  “What did you say?” Xcor demanded.

  Elan’s tone changed, wariness creeping in. “I must needs go—”

  The scream that blared through the phone was so loud and high-pitched, Xcor ripped the cell away from his ear and held it outward.

  At the sound, his fighters, who were lounging around the room in various positions, turned their heads in his direction, playing witness, as he did, to Elan’s murder.

  The caterwauling went on for quite some time, but there was no begging for mercy—either because his assailant was working quickly, or because it was very clear, even to a dying male, that there would be none from the attacker.

  “Messy,” Zypher remarked as yet another crescendo vibrated out of the phone. “Very messy.”

  “Still has an airway,” another pointed out.

  “Not for long,” another chimed in.

  And they were right. No more than a moment later, something hit the floor hard and that was the end of the sounds.

  “Assail,” Xcor said sharply. “Pick up the fucking phone. Assail.”

  There was a rustling, as if the receiver Elan had been speaking into had been retrieved from wherever it had fallen to. And then there was the sound of raking breath on the line.

  Which suggested Elan might well be in pieces.

  “I know this is you, Assail,” Xcor said. “And I can only guess that Elan o’erstepped and the indiscretion got back to your ears. However, you have taken my partner from me, and that cannae go unahvenged.”

  It was a surprise when the male answered, his voice deep and strong. “Back in the Old Country, provisions were made for affronts against one’s reputation. Surely you not only recall them, but you shall not deny me my right of retribution in the New World.”

  Xcor bared his fangs, though not because he was frustrated with the one he was speaking to. Fucking Elan. If the dumb bastard had just stuck to being an informant, he’d still be alive—and Xcor could have had the satisfaction of killing him at the end of all of this.