The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.
His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.
It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves—and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth—
The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.
Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed—at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.
He stopped short just inside the room. “I wanted to know how you… he… is doing.”
Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her—well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.
She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.
“Come in,” she said. “Please—we’re done here.”
Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles—on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.
His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. “You dumb son of a bitch.”
Layla’s brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. “I beg your pardon.”
“According to John, he went out of that house into the Band of Bastards. Alone.”
“Band of Bastards?”
“The ones who tried to assassinate Wrath tonight. This dumb son of a bitch took it upon himself to go out right into the middle of them, all alone, like he was some kind of superhero—it was a miracle he didn’t get himself killed.”
She immediately transferred her glare to the bed. Clearly, the Lessening Society had a new division, and the idea that he had exposed himself in such a way made her want to yell at him. “You… dumb son of a bitch.”
Qhuinn coughed a little. Then a little more.
With a stab of fear, she jumped up. “I shall get the doctors—”
Except Qhuinn was laughing. Not choking to death.
He laughed stiffly at first and then with growing expression, until the bed shook from the hilarity that only he saw.
“I find no levity in this,” she snapped.
“Nor I,” Blay cut in. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Qhuinn just continued to laugh, enjoying himself over the Scribe Virgin only knew what.
Layla glanced over at Blay. “I find myself rather wanting to hit him.”
“It’d be redundant at this point. Wait until he’s better, then have at him. Matter of fact, I’ll hold him down for you.”
“Right… thing… to do…” Qhuinn groaned out.
“I agree.” Layla put her hands on her hips. “Blay is absolutely right—I shall punch you later. And you taught me exactly where one needs to strike a male.”
“Nice,” Blay muttered.
After they all fell silent, the intense way the males stared at each other made her heart light up. Mayhap they could find an accord now?
“I shall go forth and check the others,” she said quickly. “To see if anyone else requires feeding—”
Qhuinn reached out and snagged her hand. “You?”
“No, I’m fine. You were more than generous enough last week. I feel very strong.” She bent down and kissed his forehead. “You just rest. I’ll check on you later.”
On her way past Blay, she said softly, “You two talk. I’ll tell everyone to leave you be.”
As the Chosen departed, Blay could only stare in disbelief at the back of her perfectly coiffed head.
When he’d walked into the room, the connection between Qhuinn and that female had socked him in the gut: all that eye contact, that hand-holding, the way she curved her elegant body toward him… the way that she and she alone sustained him.
And yet… it appeared as if she wanted him to be by himself with Qhuinn.
It made no sense. If anyone was incented to keep the pair of them apart, it was her.
Refocusing on the male, he thought, God, those injuries were hard to look at, even though they were in the process of healing.
“Who did you go up against?” he asked roughly. “And don’t bother arguing—I spoke to John as soon as I got home. I know what you did.”
Qhuinn lifted a swollen hand and made an X.
“Xcor…?” As the guy nodded, he grimaced like the movement made his head hurt. “Don’t—yeah, don’t force yourself.”
Qhuinn waved the concern off in his classic, nothing-doing kind of way. On a rasp, he said, “S’okay.”
“What made you go out there against him?”
“Wrath… was hit… knew Xcor’s ego—he’d have to be…” Big breath, one that rattled on its way out. “… the guy to prevent the king from leaving. Bastard had to… had to be incapacitated… or Wrath would never…”
“Have gotten out of there alive.” Blay rubbed the back of his neck. “Holy shit—you saved the king’s life.”
“Nah… lot of people… did that.”
Yeah, he wasn’t so sure about that. Back at Assail’s, it had been total chaos—the kind of out-of-control that easily cut both ways: had the Band of Bastards not retreated shortly after the Brotherhood arrived, there would have been heavy losses on both sides.
Staring down at Qhuinn, he had to wonder what kind of shape Xcor was in. If he looked like this? The bastard was at least the same, probably worse.
Blay shook himself, aware that he had been standing at the edge of the bed in silence. “Ah…”
Back long ago, a lifetime ago, there had never been silences between them. Except… they had been boys then. Not fully transitioned males.
Different standard, he supposed.
“I guess I should leave you,” he said. Without leaving.
This could so easily have gone a different way, he thought. Xcor’s ability to kill was well-known—not by Blay personally, but he’d heard the stories from the Old Country. Besides, for chrissakes, anyone with enough balls not only to talk about going against Wrath, but to actually put a bullet in the king?
Deadly or stupid. And the latter didn’t count in this case.
Qhuinn could easily have been hit by a lot more than multiple fists.
“Can I get you anything?” Blay said. Except, duh, the guy couldn’t eat, and he’d already been fed.
Layla had taken care of that.
Man, if he was brutally honest with himself—and it seemed as if brutally was the word of the day—there were times when he resented the Chosen, even though that was a colossal waste of emotion. He had no right to feel cranked, especially given what he and Saxton got up to on a very regular basis. Especially given that nothing was going to change on Qhuinn’s side.
You almost died tonight, he wanted to say. You dumb son of a bitch, you nearly died… and then what would we have done?
And not “we” as in the Brotherhood.
Not even “we” as in he and John. More like… “me.”
Shit, why did he keep coming back to this corner with this male?
It was just too stupid. Particularly as he stood over the guy, watching as more color came into that mangled face, and his breathing grew less labored, and the bruising faded even further… all thanks to Layla.
“I’d better go,” he said, without leaving.
That one eye, the blue one, just kept staring up at him. Bloodshot, with a cut across the brow above it, the thing shouldn’t have been able to focus. But it was.
“I have to go,” Blay said finally.
Without leaving.
Damn him, he didn’t know what the hell he was doing—
A tear escaped from that eye. Welling up along the lower lid, it coalesced at the far corner, formed a crystal circle, and grew so fat it couldn’t hold on to the lashes. Slipping free, it meandered downward, getting lost in dark hair at the temple.