Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last (79 page)

and sat beside her. Putting his jacket and his holsters full of weapons down, he stilled those twining fingers of hers.

“I am
thrilled
about the young.” Matter of fact, that baby inside of her was the only thing keeping him going at the moment. “I am already in love with him or her.”

Yup. Young were the only safe place to put your heart, as far as he was concerned.

“You’ve got to believe that,” he said stridently. “You really have to.”

“All right. Okay, I do.” Layla reached up and brushed the side of his face, making him jerk. “But

then what has broken you, my dear friend. What has happened?”

“Just life.” He smiled over at her. “No big deal. But no matter what mood I’m in, you need to

know I’m right with you in this.”

Her eyes closed in relief. “I am grateful for that. And for what Payne did.”

“As well as Blaylock,” he muttered. “Don’t forget him.”

How fucking ironic. The guy had stabbed him in the chest, but also given him a new heart.

“I’m sorry?” she said.

“Blaylock went to Payne. It was his idea.”

“In truth?” Layla whispered. “He did that?”

“Yup. Stand-up guy. Blaylock’s a real gentlemale.”

“Why are you calling him that?”

“It’s his name, isn’t it.” He patted her arm and got to his feet, picking up his gear. “I’m going out for the night. As always, I have my phone with me, and you call if you need anything.”

The Chosen frowned. “But Beth said you were off rotation.”

Great. So he really was a topic of conversation. “I’m going out.” As she looked like she was

about to argue, he leaned down and put a chaste kiss on her forehead, hoping to reassure her. “Don’t worry about me, ’kay?”

He left before she could marshal another attack on his boundaries. Out in the hall, he closed the

door and—

He stopped dead. “Tohr. Ah, what’s doing?”

The brother was leaning against Wrath’s doorway like he’d been waiting. “I thought you and I

talked about the schedule last night.”

“We did.”

“So what’s up with all the weapons?”

Qhuinn rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not staying in this house until dawn traps me in for a grand

total of twenty-four hours straight. Not going to happen.”

“No one said you had to hang here. What I
am
telling you, brother-to-brother, is that you will
not
be out in the field with us tonight.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Go see a fucking movie if you want. Hit a CVS, but remember to take your car keys in with you

this time. Go to a late-night mall and give Santa your list, I don’t care. But you’re
not
fighting—and before you keep arguing, this is a rule for all of us. You’re not special. You’re not the only one not going out in the field. Clear?”

Qhuinn muttered under his breath, but when the Brother extended his palm, he clapped his own

against it and nodded.

As Tohr took off, jogging down the grand staircase, Qhuinn wanted to go on a cursing spree: a

whole evening to himself. Yay.

Nothing like having a date night with a depressive.

Hell, maybe what he should do is go up to the movie theater, throw on some hormone-

replacement-therapy patches, and cheer himself up by watching
The Sound of Music
and painting his toenails.

Maybe
Steel Magnolias…Like Water for Coconuts.

Or was that
Chocolate
, he wondered.

Then again, maybe he could just shoot himself in the head.

Either would work.

Blay’s family’s safe house was out in the countryside, surrounded by snow-covered fields that

undulated gently to forested boundaries. Made of cream-colored river stone, the manor wasn’t grand, but rather cozy, with low-beamed ceilings, plenty of fireplaces that were always lit in the cold

weather, and a state-of-the-art kitchen that was the only modern thing on the property.

In which his mom cooked positive ambrosia.

As he and his father emerged from the study, his mother looked over from her eight-burner stove.

Her eyes were wide and worried as she stirred the cheese she was melting in a copper double boiler.

Not wanting to make a big deal out of the huge deal that had just gone down in that book-lined

room, Blay flashed a discreet thumbs-up at her and took a seat at the rough oak table in the alcove.

His mother put her hand over her mouth and closed her lids, still stirring even as the emotions

welled.

“Hey, hey,” his father said as he came up to his
shellan
. “Shhhhh…”

Turning her to him, he wrapped his arms around his mate and held her close. Even as she kept up

with that stirring.

“It’s okay.” He kissed her head. “Hey, it’s all right.”

His father’s stare drifted over, and Blay had to blink repeatedly as their eyes met. Then he had to shield his watery eyes.

“People! For the Virgin Scribe’s sake!” The older male sniffled himself. “My beautiful, healthy,

smart, priceless son is gay—this is nothing to mourn!”

Someone started laughing. Blay joined in.

“It’s not like somebody died.” His father tilted his mother’s chin up and smiled into her face.

“Right?”

“I’m just so glad it’s out and everyone’s together,” his mother said.

The male recoiled as if any other outcome was unfathomable to him. “Our family is strong—don’t

you know this, my love? But more to the point, this is no challenge. This is no tragedy.”

God, his parents were the best.

“Come here.” His dad beckoned. “Blay, come over here.”

Blay got up and went across. As his parents wrapped their arms around him, he took a deep

breath and became the child he had once been a lifetime ago: His father’s aftershave smelled the

same, and his mother’s shampoo still reminded him of a summer night, and the scent of the baking

lasagna in the oven teed off his hungry stomach.

Just as it always had.

Time truly was relative, he thought. Even though he was taller and broader, and so many things

had happened, this unit—these two people—were his foundation, his steady rock, his never perfect

but never failing standard. And as he stood in the lee of their familiar, loving arms, he was able to breathe away every bit of the tension he’d felt.

It had been hard to tell his father, to find the words, to break through the “safety” that came with not running the risk of having to recast his opinion of the male who had raised him and loved him as no other had. If the guy had not supported him, if he’d chosen the
glymera’s
value system over the authentic him? Blay would have been forced to view someone he loved in a totally different light.

But that hadn’t happened. And now? He felt like he’d jumped off a building…and landed on

Wonder Bread, safe and sound: The biggest test yet of their family structure had not just been passed, but completely triumphed over.

When they pulled apart from the huddle, his father put his hand on Blay’s face. “Always my son.

And I am
always
proud to call you my son.”

As the guy dropped his arm, the signet ring on his hand caught the glow from the overhead

lighting, the gold flashing yellow. The pattern that had been stamped into the precious metal was

exactly what was on Blay’s ring—and as he traced the familiar lines, he recognized that the
glymera
had it so wrong. All those crests were supposed to be the symbols of this space now, of the bonds that strengthened and bettered people’s intertwined lives, of the commitments that ran from mother to

father, father to son, mother to young.

But as was so often the case with the aristocracy, the value was misplaced, being based on the

gold and the etchings, not the people. The
glymera
cared what things looked like, over what was: As long as shit appeared pretty on the outside, you could have half-dead or wholly depraved going on

underneath and they’d still be cool with it.

As far as Blay was concerned? The communion was the thing.

“I think the lasagna’s ready,” his mother said as she kissed them both. “Why don’t you two set the

table?”

Nice and normal. Blissfully so.

As Blay and his dad moved around the kitchen, pulling out silverware and plates and cloth

napkins in shades of red and green, Blay felt a little trippy. In fact, there was a total high associated with having laid it all on the line and finding out, on the far side, that everything you had hoped for was in fact what you had.

And yet, when he sat down a little later, he felt the emptiness that had been riding him return, sure as if he had stepped briefly into a warm house, but had had to leave and go back out into the cold.

“Blay?”

He shook himself and reached forward to accept the plate full of home-cooked loveliness that his

mother was extending to him. “Oh, this looks amazing.”

“Best lasagna on the planet,” his father said, as he unfolded his napkin and pushed his glasses up

higher on his nose. “Outside piece for me, please.”

“As if I don’t know you like the crunchy parts.” Blay smiled at his parents as his mom used a

spatula to get out one of the corner pieces. “Two?”

“Yes, please.” His father’s eyes were riveted on the crockery pan. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

For a while, there were no sounds except for polite eating.

“So tell us, how are things at the mansion?” his mother asked, after she sipped her water.

“Anything exciting happening?”

Blay exhaled. “Qhuinn was inducted into the Brotherhood.”

Cue the dropped jaws.

“What an honor,” his father breathed.

“He deserves it, doesn’t he?” Blay’s mother shook her head, her red hair catching the light.

“You’ve always said he’s a great fighter. And I know things have been so hard for him—like I told

you the other night, that boy has been breaking my heart since the first moment I met him.”

Makes two of us, Blay thought. “He’s having a young, too.”

Okay, his father actually dropped his fork and had to cough it out.

His mother reached over and clapped the guy on the back. “With whom?”

“A Chosen.”

Total silence. Until his mother whispered, “Well, that’s a lot.”

And to think he’d kept the real drama to himself.

God, that fight they’d had down in the training center. He’d replayed it over and over again, going over every word that had been thrown out, every accusation, every denial. He hated some of the

things he’d said, but he stood by the point he’d been trying to make.

Man, his delivery could have used work, though. He truly regretted that part.

No chance to apologize, however. Qhuinn had all but disappeared. The fighter was never down at

the public meals anymore, and if he was working out, it was not during the day at the training center’s gym. Maybe he was consoling himself up in Layla’s room. Who knew.

As Blay took seconds, he thought of how much this time with his family, and their acceptance of

him, meant—and felt like an asshole all over again.

God, he’d lost his temper so badly, the break finally coming after all the years of back-and-forth

drama.

And there was no going back, he thought.

Although the truth was, there never had been.

SEVENTY-SIX

“Hello?”

As Sola waited for her grandmother to answer from upstairs, she put one foot on the lower

step and leaned into the bannister. “Are you up? I’m finally home.”

She glanced at her watch. Ten p.m.

What a week. She had accepted a PI job for one of Manhattan’s big divorce attorneys—who

suspected his own wife was cheating on him. Turned out the woman was, with two different people

as a matter fact.

It had taken her nights and nights of work, and when she’d finally gotten the ins and outs settled—

natch—she’d been gone for six days.

The time away had been good. And her grandmother, with whom she’d spoken every day, had

reported no more visitors.

“You asleep?” she called up, even though that was stupid. The woman would have answered her

if she were awake.

As she backed off and went into the kitchen, her eyes shot immediately to the window over the

table. Assail had been on her mind nonstop—and she knew on some level that her little project in the Big Apple had been more about putting some distance between them than any pressing need to make

money or further her side career as a gumshoe.

After so many years of her taking care of herself and her grandmother, the out-of-control she felt

when she was around him was not her friend: She had nothing but herself to go on in this world. She hadn’t gone to college; she had no parents; unless she worked she had no money. And she was

responsible for an eighty-year-old with medical bills and declining mobility.

When you were young and you came from a regular family, you could afford to lose your head in