Lover Reborn (49 page)

“The ones who tried to assassinate Wrath tonight. This dumb son of a bitch took it upon himself to go out right into the middle of them, all alone, like he was some kind of superhero—it was a miracle he didn’t get himself killed.”

She immediately transferred her glare to the bed. Clearly, the Lessening Society had a new division, and the idea that he had exposed himself in such a way made her want to yell at him. “You… dumb son of a bitch.”

Qhuinn coughed a little. Then a little more.

With a stab of fear, she jumped up. “I shall get the doctors—”

Except Qhuinn was laughing. Not choking to death.

He laughed stiffly at first and then with growing expression, until the bed shook from the hilarity that only he saw.

“I find no levity in this,” she snapped.

“Nor I,” Blay cut in. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Qhuinn just continued to laugh, enjoying himself over the Scribe Virgin only knew what.

Layla glanced over at Blay. “I find myself rather wanting to hit him.”

“It’d be redundant at this point. Wait until he’s better, then have at him. Matter of fact, I’ll hold him down for you.”

“Right… thing… to do…” Qhuinn groaned out.

“I agree.” Layla put her hands on her hips. “Blay is absolutely right—I shall punch you later. And you taught me exactly where one needs to strike a male.”

“Nice,” Blay muttered.

After they all fell silent, the intense way the males stared at each other made her heart light up. Mayhap they could find an accord now?

“I shall go forth and check the others,” she said quickly. “To see if anyone else requires feeding—”

Qhuinn reached out and snagged her hand. “You?”

“No, I’m fine. You were more than generous enough last week. I feel very strong.” She bent down and kissed his forehead. “You just rest. I’ll check on you later.”

On her way past Blay, she said softly, “You two talk. I’ll tell everyone to leave you be.”

As the Chosen departed, Blay could only stare in disbelief at the back of her perfectly coiffed head.

When he’d walked into the room, the connection between Qhuinn and that female had socked him in the gut: all that eye contact, that hand-holding, the way she curved her elegant body toward him… the way that she and she alone sustained him.

And yet… it appeared as if she wanted him to be by himself with Qhuinn.

It made no sense. If anyone was incented to keep the pair of them apart, it was her.

Refocusing on the male, he thought, God, those injuries were hard to look at, even though they were in the process of healing.

“Who did you go up against?” he asked roughly. “And don’t bother arguing—I spoke to John as soon as I got home. I know what you did.”

Qhuinn lifted a swollen hand and made an X.

“
Xcor
…?” As the guy nodded, he grimaced like the movement made his head hurt. “Don’t—yeah, don’t force yourself.”

Qhuinn waved the concern off in his classic, nothing-doing kind of way. On a rasp, he said, “S’okay.”

“What made you go out there against him?”

“Wrath… was hit… knew Xcor’s ego—he’d have to be…” Big breath, one that rattled on its way out. “… the guy to prevent the king from leaving. Bastard had to… had to be incapacitated… or Wrath would never…”

“Have gotten out of there alive.” Blay rubbed the back of his neck. “Holy shit—you saved the king’s life.”

“Nah… lot of people… did that.”

Yeah, he wasn’t so sure about that. Back at Assail’s, it had been total chaos—the kind of out-of-control that easily cut both ways: had the Band of Bastards not retreated shortly after the Brotherhood arrived, there would have been heavy losses on both sides.

Staring down at Qhuinn, he had to wonder what kind of shape Xcor was in. If he looked like this? The bastard was at least the same, probably worse.

Blay shook himself, aware that he had been standing at the edge of the bed in silence. “Ah…”

Back long ago, a lifetime ago, there had never been silences between them. Except… they had been boys then. Not fully transitioned males.

Different standard, he supposed.

“I guess I should leave you,” he said. Without leaving.

This could so easily have gone a different way, he thought. Xcor’s ability to kill was well-known—not by Blay personally, but he’d heard the
stories from the Old Country. Besides, for chrissakes, anyone with enough balls not only to talk about going against Wrath, but to actually put a bullet in the king?

Deadly or stupid. And the latter didn’t count in this case.

Qhuinn could easily have been hit by a lot more than multiple fists.

“Can I get you anything?” Blay said. Except, duh, the guy couldn’t eat, and he’d already been fed.

Layla had taken care of that.

Man, if he was brutally honest with himself—and it seemed as if
brutally
was the word of the day—there were times when he resented the Chosen, even though that was a colossal waste of emotion. He had no right to feel cranked, especially given what he and Saxton got up to on a very regular basis. Especially given that nothing was going to change on Qhuinn’s side.

You almost died tonight
, he wanted to say.
You dumb son of a bitch, you nearly died… and then what would we have done?

And not “we” as in the Brotherhood.

Not even “we” as in he and John. More like… “me.”

Shit, why did he keep coming back to this corner with this male?

It was just too stupid. Particularly as he stood over the guy, watching as more color came into that mangled face, and his breathing grew less labored, and the bruising faded even further… all thanks to Layla.

“I’d better go,” he said, without leaving.

That one eye, the blue one, just kept staring up at him. Bloodshot, with a cut across the brow above it, the thing shouldn’t have been able to focus. But it was.

“I have to go,” Blay said finally.

Without leaving.

Damn him, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—

A tear escaped from that eye. Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn’t hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.

Blay wanted to kick himself in his own ass. “Shit, let me get Doc Jane—you must be in pain. I’ll be right back.”

Qhuinn called out his name, but he was already turning away.

Idiot. Stupid-ass idiot. The poor male was there suffering on a hospital bed, looking like an extra on
Sons of Anarchy
—last thing he needed was company. More painkillers—that was what he required.

Jogging down the corridor, he found Doc Jane logged in at the clinic’s main computer, entering notes into medical records.

“Qhuinn needs a shot of something. Come quick, will you?”

The female was on it, snagging an old-fashioned doctor’s bag and going back down the hall with him.

While she went inside, Blay gave them some privacy, pacing back and forth in front of the door.

“How is he?”

Stopping and pivoting around, he tried to smile at Saxton—and failed. “He decided to be a hero… and I think he might have actually been one. But, God…”

The other male came forward, moving elegantly in his bespoke suit, his Cole Haan loafers making soft impacts, as if they were too refined to ever make much noise—even on linoleum.

He didn’t belong in the war. Never would.

He would never be like Qhuinn, jumping out of safety into the thick of a fight, going up against the enemy with his bare, clawing hands to take down an aggressor and serve him his own balls for lunch.

It was probably part of the reason Saxton was easier to deal with. No extremes. Plus the male was intelligent, refined, and funny… had lovely manners, and lots of exposure to the very best in life… always dressed well.…

Was fantastic in bed…

Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of something?

As he explained what had gone down in the field, Saxton stopped right up close, his Gucci cologne a calming scent. “I’m so sorry. You must be a mess in the head over it all.”

Annnnnd the male was a saint. A selfless saint. Never to be jealous?

Qhuinn wasn’t like that. Qhuinn was jealous and possessive as hell—

“Yes, I am,” Blay said. “A total wreck.”

Saxton reached out and took his hand, giving it a subtle squeeze and then retracting his warm, smooth palm.

Qhuinn was never that discreet about anything. He was a marching band, a Molotov cocktail, a bull in a china shop who didn’t care what kind of mess he made in his wake.

“Does the Brotherhood know?”

Blay shook himself. “I’m sorry?”

“What he did? Do they know?”

“Well, if they’ve heard about it, it wasn’t from him. John looked upset and I asked him—and that’s the way I heard the story.”

“You should tell Wrath… Tohr… someone. He should get credit for this—even though it’s not his style to care about that sort of nonsense.”

“You know him well,” Blay murmured.

“I do. And I know you just as well.” Saxton’s expression tightened, but he smiled nonetheless. “You need to take care of him in this.”

Doc Jane emerged from the room, and Blay wheeled around. “How’s he doing?”

“I’m not sure—what exactly did you think was wrong? He was resting comfortably when I went in there.”

Well, shit, he wasn’t about to say the male had been crying. But the fact of the matter was, Qhuinn would never have shown that kind of weakness unless he was in some serious pain.

“I guess I misread him.”

Over Jane’s shoulder, Blay happened to notice the way Saxton’s hand passed through the thick blond waves that were sculpted up off his forehead.

It was the strangest thing… Sax may have been related by blood to Qhuinn, but at the moment, he looked a lot like Blay had for years.

Then again, unrequited was the same, no matter the features that reflected the emotion.

Crap.

D
own the hall, Tohr sat in a chair across from the hospital bed Wrath had been laid out in. It was probably time to go.

Had been a while ago.

For God’s sake, even the queen had fallen asleep next to her mate on the bed.

Guess it was a good thing Beth didn’t mind his kibitzing. Then again, they had come to an accord years ago, proving just what a Godzilla marathon would do for a relationship.

Over in the corner, on a huge round Orvis bed the color of oatmeal, George stretched out of the curl he’d been in and glanced up at his master. Getting no response, he put his head down and sighed.

“He’s gonna be okay,” Tohr said.

The dog’s ears pricked and he gave two thumps of his feathered tail.

“Yup. I promise.”

Taking a cue from the canine, Tohr repositioned himself, and then rubbed his eyes. Man, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was dog-bed it like George and sleep for a day.

The problem was, even though the drama was over, his adrenal gland
still piped up every time he thought of that bullet. Two inches to the right and it would have hit the jugular, turning Wrath’s light out for good. In fact, according to Doc Jane and Manny, where that lead had been lodged by pure chance had been the only “safe” place—assuming the guy was with someone who could, oh, say, do a tracheotomy in a moving van with nothing but a section of hollow tubing and a black dagger.

Jesus Christ… what a night.

And thank the Scribe Virgin for that angel. Without Lassiter showing up to drive? He shuddered—

“Waiting for Godot?”

Tohr’s eyes snapped over to the bed. The king’s lids were low but open, his mouth cracked in a half smile.

Emotion came on thick and quick, flooding Tohr’s neurotransmitters, stealing his voice from him.

And Wrath seemed to understand. Opening his free hand, he beckoned, even though he couldn’t lift up his arm.

Tohr’s feet felt sloppy as he stood up and approached the bed. As soon as he was in range, he knelt by his king and took that big palm, turned it over… and kissed the gigantic black diamond that flashed on Wrath’s finger.

Then, like a pussy, he laid his head down on the ring, on his brother’s knuckles.

All could have been lost tonight. If Wrath had not lived… everything would have changed.

As the king squeezed his hand back, Tohr thought about Wellsie’s dying, and felt nothing but fresh dread. To realize that there were as yet others to lose was not reassuring in the slightest. If anything, it made the churning, ambient anxiety in his gut swirl faster.

You’d think after his
shellan
’s passing he’d be exempt from the grief pool.

Instead, it appeared that he just had a deeper bottom to look forward to.

“Thank you,” Wrath whispered hoarsely. “For saving my life.”

Tohr lifted his head and shook it. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It was a lot you. I owe you, brother mine.”

“You’d have done the same.”

That patented autocratic tone came out: “I. Owe. You.”

“So buy me a Sam some night and we’ll call it evens.”

“You’re saying my life is only worth six bucks?”

“You vastly underestimate how much I love a good longneck—” A big blond dog head shoved its way under his armpit. Glancing down, he said, “See? I told you he’d be all right.”

Wrath laughed a little, then grimaced as if things hurt. “Hey, big man…”

Tohr moved out of the way so master and canine could reconnect… then ended up scooping the ninety-pound bale of hay-colored fur up and settling it next to the king.

Wrath positively beamed as he looked back and forth between his
shellan
, who was asleep, and his animal, who was ready to be his nurse.

“I’m glad that’s our last meeting,” Tohr blurted.

“Yeah, I like to go out with a bang—”

“I can’t let you do shit like this anymore. You realize that, don’t you.” Tohr stared down at the king’s forearms, tracing those ritualistic tattoos that spelled out his lineage. “You need to be alive at the end of every night, my lord. The rules are different for you.”