Lover Mine (67 page)

John’s brows pulled tight as the Brother took up pacing again.

“Look, John, I don’t like people in my biz and I’m the last person who wants to talk about crap. But that scream . . .” Z faced off at John. “I’ve thrown too many of those out not to know what kind of hell you gotta be in to holler like that. Your girl . . . she’s got some dark in her on a good day, but after Lash? I don’t need no deets—but I can guess she’s rattled and then some. Hell, sometimes after you’re safe again—it’s almost worse.”

John scrubbed his face as his temples started to pound, and then he lifted his hands . . . only to find he had nothing to sign. The sadness that crushed him took his words away, leaving him with a strange, blank numbness in his head.

All he could do was nod.

Zsadist clapped him briefly on the shoulder and then resumed his back-and-forth. “Meeting and getting with Bella, that was my lifeboat. But it wasn’t the only thing I needed. See, before we were mated proper, Bella left me—she took off and just left my ass for no damn good reason. I knew I had to do something to get my head on right if I was ever going to have a shot with her. So I talked to someone about . . . everything.” Z cursed again and slashed his hand through the air. “And no, not some white coat at Havers’s. Someone I trusted. Someone who was part of the family—who I knew wouldn’t see me as dirty or weak or some shit.”

Who
, John mouthed.

“Mary.” Z exhaled. “Rhage’s Mary. We had the sessions down in the boiler room under the kitchen. Two chairs. Right next to the furnace. It helped then and I still go back to her from time to time.”

John could see the logic instantly. Mary had that kind, calm thing going on—which explained how she’d been able to tame not only the wildest Brother, but the son of a bitch’s inner beast.

“That scream tonight . . . John, if you want to mate this female, you gotta help her with that. She needs to talk about her shit because if she doesn’t, sure as fuck it’s going to rot her from the inside out. And I spoke with Mary just now—without using any names. She’s gotten her counseling degree and she said she’s ready to work with someone. If you get a chance and the time is right with Xhex . . . tell her about this. Tell her to go talk to Mary.” As Z rubbed his skull trim, the nipple rings he wore stood out in sharp relief under his black muscle shirt. “And if you want a testimonial, I can tell you on the life of my daughter that your female will be in good hands.”

Thank you
, John signed.
Yeah, I’ll totally say something to her. Jesus . . . thank you.

“No problem.”

Abruptly, John locked eyes with Zsadist.

As the two held stares, it was hard not to feel part of a unique club that no one would ever volunteer to be associated with. Membership wasn’t sought or desirable or something to crow about . . . but it was real and it was powerful: Survivors of similar wrecks could see the horrors of those jagged shoals in the eyes of others. It was like recognizing like. It was two people with the same tattoo on their insides, the divide of a trauma that separated them from the rest of the planet unexpectedly bringing a pair of weary souls closer together.

Or three, as was the case here.

Zsadist’s voice was husky. “I killed the bitch who did it to me. Took her head with me when I left. You get that satisfaction?”

John shook his head slowly.
Wish I had.

“Not going to lie. That helped me, too.”

There was a tight, awkward silence, as if neither of them knew how to hit the
reset
button and get back to normal. Then Z nodded once and stuck out his fist.

John knocked those knuckles with his own, thinking, Shit, you never knew what was in someone’s closet, did you.

Z’s eyes glowed yellow once more as he turned away and walked back toward the door that would take him into the mansion and to his family, to his Brothers. In his back pocket, like he’d shoved it there and forgotten about it, was a pink baby’s bib, the kind that had Velcro patches on the straps and a little skull and crossbones in black on the front.

Life goes on, John thought. No matter what the world did to you, you could survive.

And maybe if Xhex talked to Mary she wouldn’t . . .

God, he couldn’t even finish the thought because he feared defining her exit strategy.

Hustling on down into the training center, he headed for the clinic, where he found his jacket and his weapons and what Xhex needed.

As he picked up the shit, his mind was churning over things . . . things in the past, and in the present. Churning, churning, churning . . .

When he got back to the mansion, he beelined up the grand staircase and down the hall of statues. As soon as he walked into his room, he heard the shower running in the bath and had a brief, vivid image of Xhex gloriously naked and slick from the water and the soap suds—but he didn’t go in and join her. He pulled the bed together and laid the cilices at the foot of it, then changed into his fighting gear and left.

He didn’t go to First Meal.

He went down the hall to another bedroom. As he knocked on the door, he had the sense that what he was about to do was a long time in coming.

When Tohr opened up, the Brother was half-dressed—and obviously surprised. “What’s doing?”

Can I come in?
John signed.

“Yeah, sure.”

As John stepped inside, he felt an odd sense of premonition. But then when it came to Tohr, he’d always had them . . . that and a sense of deep connection.

He frowned while he looked at the male, thinking of the time they’d spent on that sofa downstairs, watching Godzilla movies while Xhex was out fighting in the daylight. It was funny; he was so comfortable around the guy that being with Tohr was like being alone without the solitude . . .

You’ve been following me, haven’t you
, John signed abruptly.
You’re the one . . . the shadow I’ve sensed. At the tattoo parlor and the Xtreme Park.

Tohr’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Look, for real, it wasn’t that I don’t think you can handle yourself—”

Tohr breathed out a curse. “Ah, shit, John . . .” Long pause. And then, “You can’t do anything more for the dead. They’re gone. It’s done. But the living . . . you can take care of the living. I know what kind of hell you’ve been in—and still are in—and I lost my Wellsie because I wasn’t there when she needed me. . . . I couldn’t go through losing you for the same reason.”

As the Brother’s words faded, John felt like he’d been sucker punched—and yet he wasn’t shocked. Because this was the kind of male Tohr was—steadfast and true. A male of worth.

The guy laughed harshly. “Don’t get me wrong. Soon as you’re out from under this Lash bullshit, and that bastard is good and dead, I’m going hard-core on those motherfuckers. I will kill slayers in her memory for the rest of my natural life. But the thing is, I remember. . . . see, I’ve been where you were when you were thinking your female was gone. No matter how levelheaded you believe yourself to be, you’re insane in the membrane—and you were blessed to get her back, but life doesn’t just return to rational that quick. Plus, let’s face it—you’d do anything to save her, even put your chest in front of a bullet. Which I can understand, but would like you to avoid if at all possible.”

As the Brother’s words sank in, John signed automatically,
She’s not my female
.

“Yeah, she is. And the two of you make so much sense. You have no idea what kind of sense you make together.”

John shook his head.
Not sure who you’re talking about there. No offense.

“Doesn’t have to be easy to be right.”

There was a long silence, during which John had the oddest sense that life was resetting itself, that the gears which had previously been slipping and missing had once more locked into place.

And here it was again, the Shitstorm Survivors’ Club.

Christ, for all the crap that the people living in the mansion had been through, maybe V should design a tat they could each get on their asses. Because sure as shit, the bunch of them had won the lottery when it came to hard knocks.

Or, God, maybe this was just life. For everyone on the planet. Maybe the Survivors’ Club wasn’t something you “earned,” but simply what you were born into when you came out of your mother’s womb. Your heartbeat put you on the roster and then the rest of it was just a question of vocabulary: The nouns and verbs used to describe the events that rocked your foundation and sent you flailing were not always the same as other people’s, but the random cruelties of disease and accident, and the malicious focus of evil men and nasty deeds, and the heartbreak of loss with all its stinging whips and rattling chains . . . at the core, it was all the same.

And there was no opt-out clause in the club’s bylaws—unless you offed yourself.

The essential truth of life, he was coming to realize, wasn’t romantic and took only two words to label: Shit. Happens.

But the thing was, you kept going. You kept your friends and your family and your mate as safe as you were able. And you kept fighting even after you were knocked down.

Goddamn it, you dragged your ass off the ground and
you kept fighting
.

I’ve been awful to you
, John signed.
I’m sorry.

Tohr shook his head. “Like I was any better? Don’t apologize. As my best friend and your father always told me, don’t look backward. Only forward.”

So that’s where it came from, John thought. The belief was in his blood.

I want you with me, by my side
, John signed.
Tonight. Tomorrow night. For however long it takes to kill Lash. Do this with me. Find the bastard with me, with us.

The sense that the pair of them would work together seemed so right. After all, for their individual reasons, they were united in this deadly game of chess: John needed to avenge Xhex for obvious reasons. And as for Tohr . . . well, the Omega had taken his son when that
lesser
had killed Wellsie. Now the Brother had a chance to return the motherfucking favor.

Tohr had to clear his throat. “I thought you would never ask.”

No knuckle-tap this time.

The two of them embraced, chest-to-chest. And when they pulled apart, John waited for Tohr to throw on a shirt, get his leather jacket, and grab his weapons.

Then they went downstairs side by side.

As if they had never been apart. As if it was as it always had been.

T
he bedrooms at the back of the Brotherhood’s mansion had the benefit not only of a view of the gardens, but a second-story terrace.

Which meant if you were antsy, you could step out and grab some fresh air before you faced the rest of the household.

The second the shutters lifted for the evening, Qhuinn opened the French doors by his bureau and walked into the brisk night. Bracing his palms on the balustrade, he leaned in, his shoulders accepting the weight of his chest easily. He was dressed for war in his leathers and shitkickers, but he’d left his weapons inside.

Staring out over the battened-down flower beds and the spindly fruit trees that had yet to bloom, he felt the cool, smooth stone under his hands and the breeze in his still-damp hair and the tight pull of the muscles across the small of his back. The scent of freshly roasting lamb was floating up from the blowers on the roof over the kitchen and lights were glowing all over the house, the warm golden illumination pouring out onto the lawn and the patio on the lower level.

Pretty fucking ironic—to feel so hollow because Blay finally got fulfilled.

Nostalgia dropped its rose-tinted lens and through it he saw back to all those nights at Blay’s, the two of them sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, playing PS2, drinking beer, watching vids. There had been serious and important shit to talk about then, things like what was doing in training classes and what game was coming out over the human Christmas season and who was hotter, Angelina Jolie or anybody else in a skirt.

Angelina had always won. And Lash had always been an asshole. And Mortal Kombat had still ruled back then.

God, they hadn’t even had Guitar Hero World Tour out in those days.

The thing was, he and Blay had always seen eye-to-eye, and in Qhuinn’s world, where everyone hated his ass, having someone who understood him and accepted him as he was . . . It had been a shaft of tropical sunlight in the North fucking Pole.

Now, though . . . it was hard to comprehend how they’d started out so close. He and Blay were on two different paths. . . . Having once had everything in common, now they had nothing except the enemy—and even there, Qhuinn had to stick with John, so it wasn’t like he and Blay were partners.

Shit, the adult in him recognized that this was the way some things went. But the child in him mourned the loss more than—

There was a click and the breaking of a weather seal.

From out of a dark room that was not his own, Blay stepped onto the terrace. He was wearing a black silk dressing robe and was in bare feet, his hair wet from the shower.

There were bite marks on his neck.

He stopped as Qhuinn stood up from the balustrade.

“Oh . . . hey,” Blay said, and immediately glanced back as if making sure the door he’d come through was shut.

Saxton was in there, Qhuinn thought. Sleeping on sheets they’d messed up royally.

“I was just going back inside,” Qhuinn said, jabbing over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s too cold to be out here for long.”