Layla’s words came out so fast, his brain had to work to decipher what she’d said. And then he— “What?”
As her hands started to tangle in that way they did when she was nervous, he went over to the bed 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?”