As the butler delivered more moo, Qhuinn drank up like a good little boy.
Damn, he hadn’t meant to waste this time in the kitchen. His original intention, when he’d come up from the clinic, had been to go right to Layla’s room. Fritz, on the other hand, had had other ideas, and the old guy hadn’t taken no for an answer—which suggested that it had been an order from on high. Like from Tohr, as head of the Brotherhood. Or the king himself.
So Qhuinn had given up and given in…and ended up sitting at this granite counter, getting stuffed tight as a pi?ata.
At least surrender was delicious, he thought a little later as he put his fork down and wiped his mouth.
“Here, sire, something for your dessert.”
“Oh, thanks, but—” Well, well, well, what do we have here: a bowl of coffee ice cream with hot fudge sauce all over it—no whipped cream or nuts. Just the way he liked it. “You really didn’t have to.”
“It is your favorite, no?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah.” And look, here was the silver spoon.
You know, it would be rude to let the stuff melt.
As Qhuinn started in on dessert, the stitches that Doc Jane had put in over his eyebrow began to throb under their bandage—and the pain reminded him of what a crazy-ass night it had been.
It seemed surreal to consider that an hour ago he’d been on the verge of death, dancing through the dark sky in a rattletrap piece-of-crap airplane he had no idea how to fly. Now? It was a case of Breyers’ best. With hot fudge.
And to think he was actually relieved there were no nuts or whipped cream to shave off lest his palate be ruined. Because, yeah, that was a serious-ass problem right there.
As his adrenaline glands burped and a shot of anxiety trembled along every nerve in his body, he knew damn well the aftershocks were going to come and go. Kinda like whiplash for his nervous system.
But dealing with a case of post-disaster heebs was helluva lot better than going up in flames. Or down, as the case would have been.
After part two of his meal was finished, he did his best to help clean up before he went to see Layla, but Fritz got into a flutter about him even trying to carry his bowl and spoon anywhere near the sink. Giving in yet again, he headed out through the dining room, and paused to look around at the long table, picturing everyone sitting in their usual chairs.
All that mattered was that Z was back safely in the arms of his shellan—and no one else had been injured—
“Excuse me, sire,” Fritz said as he hustled by. “The door.”
Up ahead in the foyer, the doggen went to the security check-in screen. A second later, he sprang the lock on the interior of the vestibule.
And in came Saxton.
Qhuinn hung back. The last thing he wanted to do was tangle with that male right now. He was going to check on Layla, and then crash out—
The scent that drifted over to him wasn’t right.
Frowning, he went over to the archway. Up ahead, his cousin chatted with Fritz for a moment and then started to walk toward the grand staircase.
Qhuinn inhaled deep, his nostrils flaring. Yeah, okay, that was Saxton’s fancy cologne…but there was another smell mingling with it. Another cologne was all over the male.
It was not Blay’s. Or anything the fighter would wear.
And then there was also the unmistakable scent of sex….
There was no conscious thought going on as Qhuinn marched out into the open and barked, “Where you been.”
His cousin halted. Looked over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.” On closer goddamn inspection, it was really frickin’ obvious what the guy had been up to. His lips were red and there was a flush on his cheeks that Qhuinn was willing to bet had jack shit to do with the cold weather. “Where the fuck you been.”
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, cousin.”
Qhuinn stalked over the mosaic floor, not stopping until his shitkickers were steel-toed to the guy’s pretty loafers. “You fucking slut.”
Saxton had the nerve to look bored. “No offense, dearest relation of mine, but I don’t have time for this.”
The guy pivoted around—
Qhuinn snapped a hand out and grabbed an arm. With a yank, he brought them nose-to-nose again. And shit, the stank on the guy made him sick to his fucking stomach.
“Blay is out risking his life in the war—and you’re fucking some random behind his back? Real classy, cocksucker—”
“Qhuinn, this is not your concern—”
Saxton tried to shove him off. Not a good idea. Before Qhuinn knew what he was doing, he locked his palms around the male’s throat.
“How fucking dare you,” he said with his fangs fully bared.
Saxton slapped both his hands on Qhuinn’s wrists and tried to get free, jerking, pulling, getting absolutely nowhere. “You’re…choking…me….”
“I should kill you right here, right now,” Qhuinn growled. “How the fuck could you do that to him? He’s in love with you—”
“Qhuinn…” The strangled voice grew thinner and thinner. “Qh—”
The thought of everything his cousin had, and everything the guy wasn’t taking care of, gave him super-strength, and he channeled it right into his hands. “What the hell else you need, asshole? You think some strange is gonna be better than what you’ve got in your bed?”
The force of his onslaught started to push Saxton backward, the guy’s shoes squeaking on the smooth floor as Qhuinn’s shitkickers drove both of them on. Things halted when Saxton’s shoulders slammed into the staircase’s huge bannister.
“You fucking slut—”
Someone shouted. So did someone else.
And then there was a shitload of fast footfalls coming from different directions, followed by a bunch of people pulling at his arms.
Whatever. He just kept his eyes and his hands locked, the fury in his gut turning him into a bulldog that would…
Not…
Let…
Go…
TWENTY-SIX
“So do you think you guys will ever come back to Caldwell?” Blay asked his mother.
“I don’t know. Your father goes in and out for work so easily every night, and we both like the quiet and the privacy here in the country. Do you think it’s any safer in town now—”
From out of nowhere, shouts penetrated the closed door of his room. A lot of them.
Blay glanced across and frowned. “Hey, Mahmen, I’m sorry to cut you off, but there’s something going on in the house—”
Her voice dropped, fear lacing her words. “You’re not being raided, are you?”
For a moment, that night at their Caldwell home a year and a half ago came back to him in a fast series of stomach churners: his own mother fleeing in terror, his father taking up arms against the enemy, the house ruined.
Even though the shouting seemed to be getting worse, he couldn’t get off without reassuring her. “No, no, no, Mahmen—this place is tight as a tick. Nobody can find us, and even if they could, they can’t get inside. It’s just sometimes the Brothers get into arguments—honestly, it’s fine.”
At least, he hoped it was. Things really appeared to be ramping up.
“Oh, that’s such a relief. I can’t have anything happening to you. Go take care of things, and call me when you know you’re coming for a visit. I’ll get your room all set, and I’ll make you that lasagna.”
On command, his mouth started watering. And so did his eyes, a little. “I love you, Mahmen—and thank you. You know, for…”
“Thank you for trusting me. Now go find out what’s happening, and be safe. I love you.”
Hanging up, he shifted off the bed and hit the door. The second he was out into the hall of statues, it was clear there was a big-time fight going on in the main part of the house: there were a lot of male voices carrying on, all of which were at a volume that had “emergency” written all over it.
Breaking into a jog, he beelined for the second-story balcony—
When he got a gander at the foyer, he didn’t immediately understand what he was seeing down below: There was a whole knot of people at the base of the staircase, all with their arms reaching forward like they were trying to break apart a fight.