Lover At Last(211)

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?”

Nice and normal. Blissfully so.

As Blay and his dad moved around the kitchen, pulling out silverware and plates and cloth napkins in shades of red and green, Blay felt a little trippy. In fact, there was a total high associated with having laid it all on the line and finding out, on the far side, that everything you had hoped for was in fact what you had.

And yet, when he sat down a little later, he felt the emptiness that had been riding him return, sure as if he had stepped briefly into a warm house, but had had to leave and go back out into the cold.

“Blay?”

He shook himself and reached forward to accept the plate full of home-cooked loveliness that his mother was extending to him. “Oh, this looks amazing.”

“Best lasagna on the planet,” his father said, as he unfolded his napkin and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “Outside piece for me, please.”

“As if I don’t know you like the crunchy parts.” Blay smiled at his parents as his mom used a spatula to get out one of the corner pieces. “Two?”

“Yes, please.” His father’s eyes were riveted on the crockery pan. “Oh, that’s perfect.”

For a while, there were no sounds except for polite eating.

“So tell us, how are things at the mansion?” his mother asked, after she sipped her water. “Anything exciting happening?”

Blay exhaled. “Qhuinn was inducted into the Brotherhood.”

Cue the dropped jaws.

“What an honor,” his father breathed.

“He deserves it, doesn’t he?” Blay’s mother shook her head, her red hair catching the light. “You’ve always said he’s a great fighter. And I know things have been so hard for him—like I told you the other night, that boy has been breaking my heart since the first moment I met him.”

Makes two of us, Blay thought. “He’s having a young, too.”

Okay, his father actually dropped his fork and had to cough it out.

His mother reached over and clapped the guy on the back. “With whom?”

“A Chosen.”

Total silence. Until his mother whispered, “Well, that’s a lot.”

And to think he’d kept the real drama to himself.

God, that fight they’d had down in the training center. He’d replayed it over and over again, going over every word that had been thrown out, every accusation, every denial. He hated some of the things he’d said, but he stood by the point he’d been trying to make.

Man, his delivery could have used work, though. He truly regretted that part.

No chance to apologize, however. Qhuinn had all but disappeared. The fighter was never down at the public meals anymore, and if he was working out, it was not during the day at the training center’s gym. Maybe he was consoling himself up in Layla’s room. Who knew.

As Blay took seconds, he thought of how much this time with his family, and their acceptance of him, meant—and felt like an asshole all over again.

God, he’d lost his temper so badly, the break finally coming after all the years of back-and-forth drama.

And there was no going back, he thought.

Although the truth was, there never had been.





SEVENTY-SIX


“Hello?”

As Sola waited for her grandmother to answer from upstairs, she put one foot on the lower step and leaned into the bannister. “Are you up? I’m finally home.”

She glanced at her watch. Ten p.m.

What a week. She had accepted a PI job for one of Manhattan’s big divorce attorneys—who suspected his own wife was cheating on him. Turned out the woman was, with two different people as a matter fact.