He lay on his back, his hips moving on their own, the rolling motion stroking that erection against the weight of the duvet and the sheets. For a moment, as he lingered in that half-awake stage before true consciousness arrived, he imagined it was Blay creating the friction, the male’s palms sliding up and down…in a preamble to some mouth action.
It was when he reached out to bury his fingers in that red hair that he realized he was alone: His hands found only sheets.
In a fit of hope-springs-eternal, he threw out an arm, patting the space next to him, ready to find that warm, male body.
Just more sheets. That were cold.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
Opening his eyes, the reality of where he was hit hard and deflated his arousal. In spite of the hookups, those two amazing, pounding sessions, Blay was right now, at this very moment, waking up with Saxton.
Probably having sex with the guy.
Oh, God, he was going to throw the hell up.
The idea that Blay was touching another, riding another, licking and stroking another—his fucking cousin, as a matter of fact—was nearly as unbearable as the Layla shit. The fact of the matter was, courtesy of what had gone down, any attraction Qhuinn had for the guy had been magnified instead of diminished.
Great. Another round of good news.
It was with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever that Qhuinn dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He didn’t want to turn the light on, had no interest in seeing that he looked like dog shit, but shaving with nothing save touch to go by was not the brightest idea.
As he flicked the switch, he blinked hard, a headache starting to pound right behind both his eyes. No doubt he needed to eat again, but for fuck’s sake, his body’s relentless demands were getting him down.
Starting the water in the sink, he picked up his Edge shaving gel and filled his palm with a little swirl. As he rubbed his hands together to puff the stuff up, he thought about his cousin. He had a feeling, although he didn’t know it for certain, that Saxton would use an old-fashioned brush to suds his jaw and cheeks up. And no Gillette razors for him. Probably had a barber’s thing with a mother-of-pearl handle.
Qhuinn’s father had had one of those. And his brother had been given one with initials on it after his transition.
Along with that signet ring.
Well, good for them. Besides, given that those two were both dead, it wasn’t like they were shaving anymore.
When his face was covered with white, just like the landscape outside, he picked up his regular, pedestrian Mach 3 with its disposable head….
For no apparent reason, he thought maybe he should put a new one on.
Yeah, like a fresh, super-sharp, clean one.
Qhuinn rolled his eyes at himself. Nothing like having your self-worth wrapped up in three little blades and a moisturizing strip. Real fucking logical, that one.
Self-administered ass slap aside, he started rummaging through the drawers under the counters, pulling them out, inventorying all manner of bath and beauty crap that he never used, never looked at.
Pulling out the last drawer, the one closest to the floor, he stopped. Frowned. Bent down.
There was a little black velvet box in there, the kind of thing you put jewelry in. Except he didn’t own any, and certainly not from Reinhardt’s, that highbrow place downtown. As no one else stayed in his room, he wondered if maybe it had been there since he’d moved in and he’d just never seen it?
Taking the box out, he flicked the lid and—
“Son of a bitch.”
Inside, like they were worth something, were all his gunmetal gray earrings, as well as the hoop he’d always worn in his lower lip.
Fritz must have collected them when cleaning one night, and put them in the box. Only explanation—because Qhuinn certainly hadn’t bothered with them after he’d taken them out one by one. He’d just tossed them in the back of one of the bathroom cabinets.
Qhuinn fingered the steel links, thinking back to when he’d bought them and put them in. His father had been mortified; his mother, too—to the point where she’d excused herself from Last Meal and taken to her private quarters for a full twenty-four hours after he’d waltzed into the dining room wearing them.
The piercing place had told him not to put the hoops in until the studs that had been used to make the holes had had a chance to heal up. But that advice was for humans. Within a couple of hours, everything was good to go and he’d done the swap.
In Blay’s loo, as a matter of fact.
Qhuinn frowned, remembering the moment he’d stepped out into the guy’s bedroom. Blay had been over on the bed, nursing a Corona, watching TV. His head had turned, his expression open and relaxed—until he’d taken a look at Qhuinn.
His face had tightened up ever so subtly. The kind of thing that, unless you knew a person really, really well, you wouldn’t notice. But Qhuinn had.
At the time, he’d assumed it was because the obvi-Goth shit had been a little much for Mr. Conservative. But now, thinking back on it, he recalled something else. Blay had refocused on the plasma screen…and casually taken a pillow and put it on his lap.
He must have gotten hard.
As Qhuinn recast that whole scene in his head, his own sex thickened again.
Except that was a waste of time, wasn’t it.
Staring at those goddamned earrings, he thought about his rebellions and his anger and his fucked-up idea of what he had to have to be happy in life.
A female. If he could find one who’d take him.
What…a lie…that would have been.
Funny, cowardice came in many forms, didn’t it. You didn’t have to be shrinking in a corner, shaking like a pussy and sniveling. Hell no. You could be a big, loud noise with a tough attitude and a face full of piercings and a snarl to show the world…and still be nothing but a cocksucking coward. After all, Saxton might wear three-piece suits and cravats and loafers, but the male knew who he was, and he wasn’t afraid of having what he wanted.
And what do you know, Blay was waking up in the guy’s bed.
Qhuinn closed the lid and put the piercings back where he’d found them. Then he glanced up into the mirror. What was he doing again? he thought as he looked at his face.
Oh, yeah. Shaving.
That was it.
About twenty minutes later, Qhuinn left his room. Walking down the hall of statues, he passed by the closed doors to Wrath’s study and kept going.
As he continued onward, it was hard to stare into the second-story sitting room, hard to stay cool as that couch came into view.
Never going to look at that piece of furniture in the same way. Hell, maybe even all sofas were ruined for him, forever.
At Layla’s door, he leaned in and put his ear to the panels. When he didn’t hear anything, he wondered exactly what he thought he’d find out that way.
He knocked quietly. When there was no answer, he was gripped at the throat by an irrational fear, and without conscious thought, he threw open the door.
Light poured into the darkness.
His first thought was that she had died; that Havers, the son of a bitch, had lied, and the miscarriage had gotten out of hand and killed her: Layla was unmoving as she lay against the pillows, her mouth slightly open, her hands clasped over her chest as if she’d been arranged by a funeral director who had respect for the dead.
Except…something was different, and it took him a minute to figure out what it was.
There was no overwhelming scent of blood. In fact, only her delicate, cinnamon fragrance marked the air, freshening it in a way that brightened the whole room up.
Was the miscarriage finally over?
“Layla?” he said, even though he’d told her that if he found her asleep, he would let her stay that way.
It was a relief to see her brows twitch as her name registered to her brain, even under the veil of sleep.
He had the sense that if he were to say it again, she would wake.
Seemed cruel to force consciousness on her. What did she have to greet her when she woke up? The pain she’d been feeling? The sense of loss?