Lover At Last(127)
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?
Fuck that.
Qhuinn quietly ducked out, shut the door and just stood there. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Wrath had told him to stay home, even if John Matthew went out—he guessed it was a kind of compassionate leave from the ahstrux nohtrum thing. And he did appreciate it. There was so little he could do to help Layla—at least he could stick around in case she needed anything. Soft drink. Aspirin. Shoulder to cry on.
You did this to her.
Going by the chiming that floated out from that godforsaken sitting room, he figured he’d missed First Meal. Nine p.m. Yup, he’d slept through it, and just as well. If he’d had to sit at the table and spend forty-five minutes in the company of nearly two dozen people who were trying not to stare at him, he’d lose his fucking mind.
The sound of someone walking down below in the foyer brought his head up.
Without any particular thought or plan, he wandered over to the balustrade and looked down.
Payne, V’s ass-kicking sister, was coming out of the dining room.
He didn’t know the female all that well, but he respected the shit out of her. Impossible not to, given the way she handled herself in the field…tough, really tough. At the moment, however, Dr. Manello’s shellan looked like she’d been beaten up in a bar fight: She was walking slowly, her feet shuffling across the mosaic floor, her body stooped, her grip on her mate’s arm all that appeared to be keeping her upright.
Had she been injured in some hand to hand?
No scent of blood.
Dr. Manello said something to her that didn’t carry, but then the guy nodded in the direction of the billiards room—like he was asking her if she wanted to go in there.
They headed that way at a snail’s pace.
Given that he didn’t appreciate people staring, Qhuinn backed off from the railing and waited until the coast was clear. Then he jogged down the grand staircase.
Food. Workout. Recheck on Layla.
That was going to be his night.
Heading for the kitchen, he found himself wondering where Blay was. What he was doing. Whether he was out fighting or in for the evening and…
Given that he didn’t know where Saxton was, he stopped that line of inquiry right there.
If Qhuinn had been off rotation, and able to spend some P-time with the guy, he knew what he’d be doing.
And Saxton, his cocksucking cousin, was no fool.
FORTY-FIVE
Assail’s lack of feeding finally caught up with him about five hours after night fell. He was putting on his shirt, a pale blue button-down with French cuffs, when his hands started to shake so badly, there was no fastening the damn thing closed over his chest. And then the exhaustion hit, so overwhelming that he swayed on his feet.