As hotheaded as Ian was, he sat, quelled by their father’s biting reproach.
It was humbling standing near his father. Donal, the strongest of them all, sat quiet and small, his body tense and firm. A soft murmur came from his lips, a Gaelic spill of prayer and promises, words Quinn heard spoken over him when he’d been waylaid by a childhood bout of pneumonia fierce enough to put him in the hospital. The others were moving, talking around one another, but every eye was on the double doors leading to a surgical ward, where their lives lay blown open and struggling to survive.
“Breac, come here.” There would be no arguing with Donal. Not now. Probably not ever. It was startling to see his serene, handsome face turned ashen and fraught. Dread pulled his skin down, a waxy pour of grief and worry over his strong bones.
“Da—”
“Now, boy.”
Quinn took one step, then another until he was at his father’s side, and Donal reached for his hand, clasping it tightly, then letting go.
“I can see what yer thinking. It’s all on yer face. This is not on ye, breac. Yer not the one who put her there. But mark me words, we’ll be finding the one who did, understand me then?”
“Aye.” It was lip service. He’d just paid lip service to his father, and if there was any time God would strike Quinn down, it would be then. The guilt was still there, just cowering under Donal’s cold steel gaze.
“Kane’s looking for ye. Ye’ll be wanting to change. No good to yer mum if she sees ye wearing her blood.” Donal nodded at Quinn’s shirt. “Don’t want the first thing out of her mouth to be a scold on me because yer walking around like an extra on that zombie show she watches.”
The door opened, and the Morgans strained toward it, hungry chicks anxious to be fed a scrap of news. Nothing. An orderly pushing a supply cart with creaking wheels ambled through, working to avoid the gathering crowd. Quinn turned away, unable to watch the sea of blue and stars clustered around his family.
It was too much like a funeral, creased uniforms and worried faces, all catching on his face when he passed by. Rafe’d gone to get him coffee, he remembered as he scanned the waiting area, unsure on when Rafe left. He was about to ask if someone’d seen Rafe when Kane parted the uniforms to thrust a T-shirt and a plastic bag into Quinn’s hands.
“Go change, Q.” His older brother brushed his knuckles against Quinn’s cheek. “You’ll feel better for it.”
“She might—” He wanted to object, but the smell of blood was getting to him, and his stomach roiled at the idea of wearing his mother’s life against his skin.
“I’ll come get you if there’s news. Put your shirt into the bag in case Evidence wants it. Don’t think they will, but you never know,” Kane said, pushing Quinn toward the bathroom. “Go wash up. I’ll be right here. Looking for Miki but right here. Go on. Mum’ll be okay. It’ll take more than a bullet to stop her.”
The bathroom was cold. Cold enough for Quinn to swear there were ice crystals forming on the urinals’ drains. Arctic air blasted through the vents as Quinn stripped quickly, shivering in the chilly tiled room. The water from the sink wasn’t much warmer, but he made do. Slightly damp from the lukewarm water, Quinn shoved his arms through the T-shirt’s sleeves when he heard a retching noise come from the bathroom’s single stall.
Curious, he tossed the plastic bag with his bloodied shirt onto the counter, then padded over to the stall. A push on the door swung it open, and Quinn sighed, saddened by the sight of the man he found hunkered over the toilet.
He’d found Kane’s Miki—emptying his guts out into the blue-tinged water of a hospital’s toilet bowl.
It broke his heart to find Miki—tough, growling Miki—curled up into a ball from the pain inside of him. Quinn knew that pain. It lingered in him now, biting and snapping at his sanity. He came up beside his brother’s lover, brushing his fingers through Miki’s chestnut mane.
And wasn’t surprised when Miki recoiled instantly.
Mimosa pudica had nothing on Miki St. John.
“Get the fuck out.”
As a snarl, it was a watery attempt. Certainly not one of Miki’s best. Quinn crouched, his hand sliding down Miki’s lean back.
“Seriously, just—”
“It’ll be okay,” Quinn murmured into Miki’s hair, his lips brushing the soft, long strands. “She’ll be okay.”
Then he held his brother’s lover as Miki cried.