Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (164 page)

construed in cases brought forth for decision. The advantage is that there has been a long-standing discrimination against humans, and it was even more pronounced in the past—when Wrath’s father

was actually issuing proclamations and interpreting the law. That will be the key. The stronger the precedent, the more successful this will be all around.”

How ironic. Wrath’s own sire’s reading of the wording was going to be what brought the son

down.

“The issue for us will be the king himself. He needs to remain breathing—and he needs to not

recognize the weakness inherent in his reign and fix it before we can get things in order.”

“You will e-mail my associate the relevant passages, and then you will meet with me.”

“This will take a number of days.”

“Understood. But I expect your call promptly.”

As names were exchanged, and Xcor gave over Throe’s e-mail address, he began to feel a certain

buoyancy. If this male was correct? Wrath’s kingship was going to be over without any more

bloodshed. And then Xcor would be free to determine the future of the race: As far as he knew, Wrath had no direct family, so if he were removed, there was no one with a strong claim to the throne.

Although that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be relations coming out of the woodwork.

Interlopers he could deal with, however. And with the support of the Council? He was willing to

bet he could become a populist leader—provided everyone got in line.

Wrath wasn’t the only one who could change the laws.

“Do not waste time with this,” Xcor said. “You have a week. No longer.”

The answer that came back at him was gratifying: “I shall proceed with all haste.”

And wasn’t that a lovely way to end a phone call.

SEVENTY-FOUR

The tunnel that connected the mansion with the training center was cool, dim, and quiet.

As Qhuinn walked through it, he was by himself and glad of it. Nothing worse than being

surrounded by happy people when you felt like death.

When he got to the door that led into the back of the office’s closet, he put in the code,

waited for the lock to pop, and pushed his way inside. A quick trip past the stationery and pens, and through another door, and he was going around the desk. Next thing he knew, he was in the corridor in front of the weight room, but exercise wasn’t what he was looking for. After what the Brotherhood

had done to him, he was stiff and achy—especially in the arms, thanks to having held himself upright on those pegs.

Man, his hands were still numb, and as he flexed his fingers, he knew what arthritis felt like for

the first time in his life.

Moving along, he stopped again when he got to the clinic area. As he went to straighten his

clothes, he realized he was still wearing only the robe.

He wasn’t going back to change; that was for sure.

Knocking on the recovery room’s door, he said, “Luchas? You up?”

“Come in,” was the hoarse reply.

He had to brace himself before he entered. And he was glad he did.

Lying on the bed with his head propped up, Luchas still looked as if he were on the verge of

extinction. The face that Qhuinn had remembered as intelligent and young was lined and grim. The

body was painfully thin. And those hands…

Jesus Christ, the hands.

And he thought his ached a little bit?

He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

“Hello.”

“So…yeah. How you been?”

Fucking duh on that one. The guy was staring at weeks of bed rest, and then months of PT—and

was going to be lucky if he could ever hold a pen again.

Luchas winced as he tried to lift his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m surprised you came.”

“Well, you’re my—” Qhuinn stopped himself. Actually, the guy was not, in fact, any relation of

his. “I mean…yeah.”

Luchas closed his eyes. “I have always, and will always, be your blood. No piece of paper can

change that.”

Qhuinn’s eyes went to that mangled right hand, and its signet ring. “I think Father would very

much disagree with you.”

“He’s dead. So his opinion is no longer relevant.”

Qhuinn blinked.

When he didn’t say anything, Luchas popped his lids open. “You seem surprised.”

“No offense, but I never expected to hear that come out of your mouth.”

The male indicated his broken body. “I have changed.”

Qhuinn reached over and pulled a chair out for himself; as he sat down, he rubbed his face. He

had come here because seeing your previously dead estranged brother was the only remotely

acceptable reason for skipping a party thrown in your honor.

And spending the night watching Blay and Saxton together? Not going to happen.

Except now that he was here, he didn’t think he was up to any kind of conversation.

“What happened with the house?” Luchas asked.

“Ah…nothing. I mean, after…what happened went down, no one claimed it, and I had no rights to

it. When it reverted to Wrath, he gave it back to me—but listen, it’s yours. I haven’t been inside of it since I got kicked out.”

“I don’t want it.”

Okaaaaaaaaaaay, another big surprise. Growing up, his brother had talked nonstop of everything

he’d wanted to accomplish when he was older: the schooling, the social prominence, taking over

where their father left off.

Him saying no was like someone turning down a throne—unfathomable.

“Have you ever been tortured?” Luchas murmured.

His childhood came to mind. Then the Honor Guard. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to bust the

guy’s balls. “I been knocked around some.”

“I’ll bet. What happened afterward?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get used to normal again?”

Qhuinn flexed his sore hands, looking at his own fingers that were all perfectly functional and

intact in spite of the aches. His brother wasn’t going to be able to count to ten anymore: Healing was one thing, regeneration another entirely.

“There is no normal anymore,” he heard himself say. “You kind of…just keep going, because

that’s all you got. The hardest thing is being with other people—it’s like they’re on a different

wavelength, but only you know it. They talk about their lives and what’s wrong with them, and you

kind of, like, just let them go. It’s a whole different language, and you’ve got to remember that you can only respond in their mother tongue. It’s really hard to relate.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Luchas said slowly. “That’s right.”

Qhuinn scrubbed his face again. “I never expected to have anything in common with you.”

But they did. As Luchas looked over, those perfectly matched eyes met Qhuinn’s fucked-up ones,

and the connection was there: They had both been through hell, and that lockstep was more powerful

than the common DNA they shared.

It was so weird.

And funny, he guessed tonight was the night for him to find family everywhere.

Except the one place he wanted it.

As silence prevailed, with nothing but the steady beeping of the machinery by the bedside to break

up the quiet, Qhuinn stayed for a long while. He and his brother didn’t talk much, and that was okay.

That was what he wanted. He wasn’t ready to open up to the guy about Layla or the young, and he

supposed it was telling that Luchas didn’t ask if he was mated. And he sure as hell wasn’t bringing up the Blay thing.

It was good to sit with his brother, though. There was something about the people you grew up

around, the ones you’d seen throughout your childhood, the folks you couldn’t remember not knowing.

Even if the past was a complicated mess, as you aged, you were just glad the sons of bitches were

still on the planet.

It gave you the illusion that life wasn’t as fragile as it actually was—and on occasion, that was the only thing that got you through the night.

“I’d better go so you can rest,” he said, rubbing his knees, waking up his legs.

Luchas turned his head on that hospital pillow. “Odd dress for you, isn’t it?”

Qhuinn glanced down at the black robe. “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on.”

“Looks ceremonial.”

“You need anything?” Qhuinn stood up. “Food?”

“I’m doing well enough. But thank you.”

“Well, you let me know, okay.”

“You are a very decent fellow, Qhuinn, you know that?”

Qhuinn’s heart stopped, and then beat hard. That was the phrase that their father had always used

to describe gentlemales…it was the A-plus of compliments, the top of the pile, the equivalent of a

bear hug and a high five from a normal guy.

“Thanks, man,” he said roughly. “You, too.”

“How can you say that?” Luchas cleared his throat. “How in the name of the Virgin Scribe can

you say that?”

Qhuinn exhaled hard. “You want the bottom line? Well, I’ll give you it. You were the favorite. I

was the curse—we were on opposite ends of the scale in that household. But neither one of us had a

chance. You were no more free than I was. You had no choice about your future—it was

predetermined at birth, and in a way, my eyes? They were my get-out-of-jail, because it meant he

didn’t care about me. Did he fuck me over? Yeah, but at least I got to decide what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go. You…never had a fucking chance. You were nothing but a math equation

already solved when you were conceived, all the answers predetermined.”

Luchas closed those lids again and shuddered. “I keep running it through my head. All those years

growing up, from my first memory…to the last thing I saw that night when…” He coughed a little, like his chest hurt, or maybe his heart rhythm went wonky. “I hated him. Did you know that?”

“No. But I can’t say it surprises me.”

“I don’t want to go back in that house again.”

“Then you don’t have to. But if you do…I’ll go with you.”

Luchas looked over once again. “Really?”

Qhuinn nodded his head. Even though he was in no hurry to walk through those rooms and dance

with the ghosts of the past, he would go there if Luchas did.

Two survivors, back to the scene of crimes that had defined them.

“Yeah. Really.”

Luchas smiled a little, the expression nothing close to what he’d used to sport. And that was okay.

Qhuinn liked it much better. It was honest. Fragile, but honest.

“I’ll see you soon,” Qhuinn said.

“That would be…very nice.”

Turning away, Qhuinn pushed open the door, and—

Blay was waiting for him out in the corridor, smoking a cigarette as he sat on the floor.

As Qhuinn came out of his brother’s room, Blay got to his feet and stabbed his Dunhill out on the lip of the drink he’d been nursing. He wasn’t sure what he expected the fighter to look like, but it hadn’t been this: So tense and unhappy, in spite of the incredible honor he’d been paid. Then again, spending time at your brother’s bedside was hardly a joyous occasion.

And Blay wasn’t stupid. Saxton was back in the house.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said, when the other male didn’t even offer a hello.

In fact, Qhuinn’s blue and green stare went around the corridor, hitting pretty much everything

except him.

“So, ah, how’s your brother?” he prompted.

“Alive.”

Guess that was the best they could hope for right now.

And guess that was all Qhuinn intended to say. Maybe he shouldn’t have come down here. “I, ah, I

wanted to say congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

Okay, Qhuinn still wasn’t looking at him. Instead, the guy was focused in the direction of the

office, like in his mind he’d already walked down to the damn thing and put that closet full of paper supplies to good use—

The sound of Qhuinn cracking his knuckles was loud as gunshots. Then he flexed his hands,

spreading the fingers as if they hurt.

“So it’s historic.” Blay went to take another cigarette out of his pack, and stopped himself. “A

real first.”

“Been a lot firsts around here lately,” Qhuinn said with an edge.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It really isn’t relevant.”

Christ, Blay thought, he shouldn’t have done this. “Can you look at me? I mean, would it fucking

kill you to look at me?”

Those mismatched eyes shot around. “Oh, I saw you, all right. Guess your man’s home. You gonna

tell him you fucked me while he was gone? Or you gonna keep that a dirty little secret. Yeah,

shhhhhhh, don’t tell my cousin.”

Blay gritted his teeth. “You sanctimonious son of a bitch.”

“Excuse me, I’m not the one with a boyfriend—”

“You are actually going to stand here and pretend you were all out in the open about us? Like

when Vishous came out of that room”—he jabbed his forefinger across the hall—“you didn’t jump up

like your ass was on fire? You want to pretend that you were all proud that you were fucking a guy?”