John roused like he was fighting against a tidal wave, his head lifting slowly, his eyelids flipping up and down like there was a rush of water on his puss.
"Time to feed." Without glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn motioned for Layla by holding out his hand. "We need you to focus for just a little longer and then we'll leave you alone."
The Chosen paused . . . then stepped forward. She took the outstretched palm slowly, sliding her skin against Qhuinn's and stepping in with a kind of shy beauty that made Blay feel sorry for her.
Going by the blush that suddenly flared in her cheeks, he had a feeling she, like everyone else, it seemed, had a spark for Qhuinn.
"John . . . my man? Come on, I need you to pay attention here." Qhuinn tugged at Layla so that the Chosen took a seat on the bed, and the instant she got a good look at John, she was all about him.
"Sire . . ." Her voice was quiet and impossibly kind as she pulled up the sleeve of her robe. "Sire, rouse thyself and take what I may give you. Verily, you are in need."
John started to shake his head, but Qhuinn was on it. "You want to go after Lash? Ain't going to be in this shape. You can't lift your fucking head--'scuse the language, Chosen. You need some strength. . . . Come on, don't be an asshole, John."
Qhuinn's mismatched eyes shot to Layla as he mouthed, Sorry. And she must have smiled at him because for a moment, he tilted his head as if he were struck by her.
Or maybe she'd just mouthed something back.
Had to be it.
Really.
And then both their heads snapped downward and Layla let out a gasp as John's fangs struck deep and he started to take what she offered. Evidently satisfied, Qhuinn returned to where he'd been sitting and refilled his glass. After he'd drunk half, he held it out toward Blay.
Best idea anyone had had in ages. Blay positioned himself against the high back of the wing chair, running one arm along the top of the thing as he took a deep sip, and then another, before passing the tequila back.
They stayed like that, sharing the drink while John fed from Layla . . . and sometime into the process of both nourishments, Blay became aware that he was putting his lips on the very rim Qhuinn was taking from.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the glass. Maybe it was the fact that from where he stood, with every breath Blay took he smelled Qhuinn's dark scent. . . .
He knew he had to leave.
He wanted to support John, but with each passing minute, he was leaning closer and closer and . . . closer to Qhuinn. To the point that as his hand hung over the chair, he was nearly stroking that thick black hair.
"I have to go," he said roughly, returning the glass one last time and heading for the door.
"You okay?" Qhuinn called out.
"Yup. Sleep well and take care, Layla."
"Don't you need to feed?" Qhuinn demanded.
"Tomorrow."
The Chosen said something lovely and pleasant, but there was no turning around. Nope. Couldn't turn around.
And please God, let him not run into anyone out in the hall.
He hadn't checked to see how bad it was, but he knew when he was aroused . . . and that was one thing that, no matter how polite a male was, he couldn't hide in tight leather.
EIGHTEEN
Over on the Far Side, Payne paced around in her mother's fountain, her feet making circles in the pool that caught the falling water. As she splashed, she held her robing aloft and she listened to the colorful birds that sat in the white tree over in the corner. The little ones chirped and carried on, flitting from branch to branch, pecking at each other, fussing with their feathers.
How in the hell they found such limited activity worth waking up for she hadn't a clue.
In the sanctuary there was no conception of time, and yet she wished she had a pocket watch or a chiming clock to figure out how late the Blind King was. They had a standing sparring session every afternoon.
Well, afternoon for him. For her, stuck here on this side, everything was perpetually daytime.
She wondered exactly how long it had been since her mother had sprung her from that deep freeze and allowed her some freedom. No way to know. Wrath had started to show up regularly about. . . fifteen times ago and she'd been reanimated maybe . . . well, long before that. So maybe over six months?
The real question was how long she'd been kept under frosted lock and key--but it wasn't like she was going to ask her mother about that. They weren't talking at all. Until that "divine" female who'd birthed her was prepared to let her out of here, Payne didn't have anything to say.
For truth, the silent treatment didn't seem to be making a difference at all, but she hadn't expected it to. When your mother- mare was the creator of the race and answerable to no one, even the king . . .
It was rather easy to become trapped in your own life.