Lover Mine (63 page)

At least fighting with the others would have given him a sense of accomplishment and helped the time to pass faster.

After Phury had arrived with Selena, and introductions had been made, Blay had gone to his own room and rationalized the peace out by telling himself he had to straighten things up there. Unfortunately, the Maids R Us routine had taken all of two minutes and involved repositioning the book he’d been reading on the bedside table . . . and moving a pair of black silkies out of his colored-socks drawer to their brethren down below.

One of the curses of being neat was that there was never any major overhauling to be done on the tidy-up front.

He’d also had a haircut recently, too. Nails were clipped. No manscaping to do, thanks to the fact that vampires were hairless except for on their heads.

Ordinarily if he had time to kill, he called home to catch up with his parents, but given what was going through his mind, the number to the family safe house was not something he was dialing. Bottom line? He sucked at lying and wasn’t about to loop his mom and dad: Hey, guys, you don’t know this yet, but I’m gay . . . and I’m thinking about dating Qhuinn’s cousin.

Oh, and he’s here, by the way.

Feeding.

God, the idea that Saxton was taking someone’s vein was hot as hell—even though it was Selena’s.

And except for the fact that Phury was in there with the pair of them. For decorum rather than her protection of course.

So, yeah, no way he was going anywhere near that room. Last thing he wanted was to get aroused in front of an audience.

Blay glanced at his watch. Paced. Tried to watch TV. Picked up the book he’d repositioned for a while.

From time to time his phone went off with reports from the field, none of which helped his twitchy mood. The Brotherhood always sent out regular communiqués so everyone had up-to-the-moment intel, and things were not great: John had been injured, so he and Xhex and Qhuinn were down with Doc Jane in the clinic. The infiltration at the farmhouse had been successful, but only up to a point—the suspected
Fore-lesser
was still at large and they had gotten many, but not all, of the new recruits they’d found. Address tied to that street racer had yielded nothing but snores. Tensions were running high.

He checked his watch. Then the clock on the wall.

And felt like screaming.

Christ, it had been so long since Saxton and Selena had started. Why had no one come and gotten him when it was done?

What if something was wrong? Doc Jane had said the guy’s injuries were not life-threatening and that feeding would put him well on the road to recovery—

Then again, if any Brother was likely to get along with Saxton, it was the Primale. Phury loved opera and art and good books. Maybe the two had gotten to talking afterward?

Eventually he couldn’t stand his own company and went downstairs to the kitchen, where the
doggen
of the household were getting Last Meal ready. He tried to help, offering to put out plates or silver, or chop vegetables in the kitchen, or baste the turkeys that were roasting—but the staff got so flustered, he backed off.

Man, if there was one thing guaranteed to get a
doggen
all turned around, it was a bid to pitch in. By nature, they couldn’t bear someone they served doing anything except getting waited on—
but
they also couldn’t handle denying a request from said party.

Before spinning heads led to burned dinner and possible mass suicide, he left the pantry and came out through the dining room—

The vestibule’s door opened and shut and Qhuinn stalked across the foyer’s mosaic floor.

There was red blood on the guy’s face and hands and leathers. Fresh, glistening blood.

Of the human variety.

Blay’s first instinct was to shout to his buddy, but he held back because he didn’t want to draw a ton of attention to the fact that Qhuinn had very obviously been where John wasn’t.

Noooot a lot of Homo sapiens down at the clinic in the training center.

And he’d supposedly been fighting initiates, who bled black.

Blay hit the stairs and caught up with the guy right in front of Wrath’s study—the doors of which were mercifully closed. “What the hell happened to you?”

Qhuinn didn’t stop, just powered onward to his room. Slipping inside, he made like he was going to close the door in Blay’s face.

So not having any of that, Blay thought, as he shoved himself inside. “What’s up with the blood?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Qhuinn muttered as he started to undress.

He discarded his leather jacket on the bureau, disarmed himself at the desk, and kicked his boots off halfway to the bathroom. His T-shirt got tossed over his shoulder and ended up on a lamp.

“Why’s there blood on your hands?” Blay repeated.

“None of your business.”

“What did you do.” Even though he had a feeling that he knew. “What the hell did you do?”

As Qhuinn leaned into the shower to start the water, the corded muscles along his spine flexed above the waistband of his leathers.

God, that red blood was on him in other places, too—which made Blay wonder just how far the beat-down had gone.

“How’s your boy?”

Blay frowned. “My boy—oh, Saxton.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh. Saxton.’” Steam began to rise from the glass-encased shower, the mist boiling up and then falling between them. “How’s he doing?”

“I guess he’s been fed by now.”

Qhuinn’s mismatched eyes focused somewhere behind Blay’s head. “Hope he feels better.”

As they faced off at each other, Blay’s chest hurt so badly he had to rub it. “Did you kill him.”

“Him? Who?” Qhuinn put his hands on his hips, his pecs and his pierced nipples standing out in high relief, thanks to the lights over the sinks. “I don’t know no ‘him.’ ”

“Stop bullshitting. Saxton is going to want to know.”

“Protective of him, are you.” There was no hostility to the words. Just an uncharacteristic resignation. “Okay, fine, I didn’t kill anyone. But I gave that homophobic asshole something to think about other than the throat cancer those cigars will be giving him. I won’t have my family members being disrespected.” Qhuinn turned away. “And—well, fuck, I don’t like you upset, believe it or not. If Saxton had been left for dead and the sun came up? Or humans had found him? You’d have never gotten over it. Couldn’t not settle that score.”

God, wasn’t that just like the son of a bitch. Doing the wrong thing for the perfect reason. . . .

“I love you,” Blay whispered so quietly that the sound of the rushing water drowned out the words.

“Listen, I need a shower,” Qhuinn said. “I want to get the nasty off of me. And then I need to sleep.”

“Okay. Yeah. You want me to bring you some food?”

“I’m good. Thanks.”

As he started to leave, Blay glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn was stripping his leathers off, his ass making a spectacular appearance.

With his head still cranked around, he made it out of the bathroom okay, but slammed into the desk, and had to catch the lamp from falling to the floor. Righting the thing, he peeled the shirt off the shade and, like a pathetic nancy, brought the soft cotton to his nose for an inhale.

Closing his eyes, he cradled what had been on Qhuinn’s chest to his own and listened to the sound of the water falling in flips and flops as the other male washed himself.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, dangling in the purgatory of so-close-yet-so-far-away. What got him on the move again was the fear of getting caught being a sap. Carefully replacing the T-shirt to its former drape, he forced himself to go to the door.

He was about halfway there when he saw it.

On the bed.

The white sash was tangled in the sheets, just one more rumpled stretch of cloth.

As his eyes went upward, he found two head indentations on a pair of pillows that were close together. Clearly, the Chosen Layla had forgotten the tie to her robe when she’d left. Which could happen only if she’d been naked while she was here.

Blay put his hand to his heart once more, a sense of constriction making him feel as if he were underwater . . . with the surface of the ocean far, far above him.

The shower was cut off in the bathroom and a towel flapped around.

Blay walked passed the well-used bed and ducked out the door.

He was unaware of having made a conscious decision, but his feet had direction; that was obvious. Going down the hall, they stopped two rooms over and then his hand lifted of its own volition and knocked quietly. When a muffled answer sounded out, he opened the door. On the other side, the room was dark and it smelled divine . . . and as he stood in the light from the hall, his shadow reached the foot of the bed.

“Perfect timing, they just left.” Saxton’s husky voice was a promise of things Blay wanted. “Have you come to see how I am?”

“Yes.”

There was a long pause. “Then shut the door, and I’ll show you.”

Blay’s hand tightened on the knob until his knuckles cracked.

And then he stepped inside and closed them both in. As he kicked off his shoes, he threw the lock.

For privacy.

O
n the Far Side, Payne sat on the edge of the reflecting pool and stared down at her own face in the still water.

She recognized well the black hair and the diamond eyes and the strong features.

Was all too aware of who had sired and birthed her.

Could recite the days of her history thus far.

And yet, she felt as though she had not a clue as to who she truly was. In many ways, more than she took comfort in adding up, she was naught but this echo on the surface of the pool, an image that lacked depth and substance . . . and would leave nothing of permanence in her wake when she departed.

As Layla came up from behind her, she met the female’s eyes in the mirror of the water.

Later, she would consider that Layla’s smile was what changed everything. Even though of course, ’twas more than that . . . but her sister’s radiant expression was what ultimately cast her upon the winds of change, the subtle push that had her tumbling off the cliff.

“Greetings, my sister,” Layla said. “I have been searching for you.”

“And alas you have found me.” Payne forced herself to turn about and stare up at the Chosen. “Please. Sit and join me. I infer from your good cheer that your time with the male continues apace.”

Layla lowered herself for but a moment, and then her kinetic joy had her up on her feet again. “Oh, yes, indeed. Indeed, yes. He is to call me anon this day and I shall go to him again. Oh, dearest sister, you cannot imagine . . . what it is like to be held within a circle of fire and yet emerge unscathed and o’erjoyed. ’Tis a miracle. A blessing.”

Payne turned back to the water and watched as her own brows tightened. “May I ask you something intrusive.”

“Of course, my sister.” Layla came over and settled once more on the pool’s white marble edge. “Anything.”

“Are you thinking of mating him? Not just mating with him—but becoming his
shellan
?”

“Well, yes. Of course I am. But I am waiting to find the right time to broach it.”

“What shall you do . . . if he says no?” When Layla’s face froze, as if she had never considered such a thing, Payne felt as though she had crushed a rosebud in her palm. “Oh, damn me... I don’t mean to upset you. I just—”

“No, no.” Layla took a bracing breath. “I am well aware of the construction of your heart and you have not a cruel chamber within it. Which in truth is why I feel as though I may speak with such candor to you.”

“Please forget I asked.”

Now Layla stared into the pool. “I . . . we have yet to actually have relations.”

Payne’s brows popped. Verily, if just the precursor to the actual event was eliciting such elation, the act itself must be incredible.

At least for a female like the one before her.

Layla brought her arms around herself, no doubt because she was remembering the feel of another, stronger set. “I have wanted to, but he holds back. I hope . . . I believe it is because he wishes to mate me properly first, in ceremony.”

Payne felt the awful weight of premonition. “Beware, sister. You are a gentle soul.”

Layla got to her feet, her smile now saddened. “Yes, I am. But I would rather my heart be broken than unopened and I know that one must ask if one is to receive.”

The female was so certain and steadfast that in the shadow of her courage, Payne felt small. Small and weak.

Just who was she? A reflection? Or a reality?

Abruptly, she stood up. “Will you permit me my leave?”

Layla seemed surprised and bowed low. “But of course. And please, I mean no offense by my ramblings—”

On impulse, Payne embraced the other Chosen. “You have given none. Worry not. And best of luck with your male. Verily, he would be blessed to have you.”

Before anything more could be said, Payne walked off, moving quickly past the dorm and surmounting with ever gathering speed the hill that led up to the Primale Temple. Going beyond that sacred bedding place, which was never used anymore, she entered her mother’s marble courtyard and strode down the colonnade.

The modestly sized door that marked the Scribe Virgin’s private quarters was not what one would expect to herald such a devine space. But then when the whole world was yours, you had nothing to prove, did you.

Payne did not knock. Given what she was about to do, the inappropriateness of bursting in uninvited was going to be so far down her list of sins, it was barely going to count as one.

“Mother,” she demanded as she stepped into the empty white room.

There was a long wait before she was answered and the voice that came to her was disembodied. “Yes, daughter.”