Blay wanted to kick himself in his own ass. “Shit, let me get Doc Jane—you must be in pain. I’ll be right back.”
Qhuinn called out his name, but he was already turning away.
Idiot. Stupid-ass idiot. The poor male was there suffering on a hospital bed, looking like an extra on Sons of Anarchy—last thing he needed was company. More painkillers—that was what he required.
Jogging down the corridor, he found Doc Jane logged in at the clinic’s main computer, entering notes into medical records.
“Qhuinn needs a shot of something. Come quick, will you?”
The female was on it, snagging an old-fashioned doctor’s bag and going back down the hall with him.
While she went inside, Blay gave them some privacy, pacing back and forth in front of the door.
“How is he?”
Stopping and pivoting around, he tried to smile at Saxton—and failed. “He decided to be a hero… and I think he might have actually been one. But, God…”
The other male came forward, moving elegantly in his bespoke suit, his Cole Haan loafers making soft impacts, as if they were too refined to ever make much noise—even on linoleum.
He didn’t belong in the war. Never would.
He would never be like Qhuinn, jumping out of safety into the thick of a fight, going up against the enemy with his bare, clawing hands to take down an aggressor and serve him his own balls for lunch.
It was probably part of the reason Saxton was easier to deal with. No extremes. Plus the male was intelligent, refined, and funny… had lovely manners, and lots of exposure to the very best in life… always dressed well.…
Was fantastic in bed…
Why did it sound like he was trying to convince himself of something?
As he explained what had gone down in the field, Saxton stopped right up close, his Gucci cologne a calming scent. “I’m so sorry. You must be a mess in the head over it all.”
Annnnnd the male was a saint. A selfless saint. Never to be jealous?
Qhuinn wasn’t like that. Qhuinn was jealous and possessive as hell—
“Yes, I am,” Blay said. “A total wreck.”
Saxton reached out and took his hand, giving it a subtle squeeze and then retracting his warm, smooth palm.
Qhuinn was never that discreet about anything. He was a marching band, a Molotov cocktail, a bull in a china shop who didn’t care what kind of mess he made in his wake.
“Does the Brotherhood know?”
Blay shook himself. “I’m sorry?”
“What he did? Do they know?”
“Well, if they’ve heard about it, it wasn’t from him. John looked upset and I asked him—and that’s the way I heard the story.”
“You should tell Wrath… Tohr… someone. He should get credit for this—even though it’s not his style to care about that sort of nonsense.”
“You know him well,” Blay murmured.
“I do. And I know you just as well.” Saxton’s expression tightened, but he smiled nonetheless. “You need to take care of him in this.”
Doc Jane emerged from the room, and Blay wheeled around. “How’s he doing?”
“I’m not sure—what exactly did you think was wrong? He was resting comfortably when I went in there.”
Well, shit, he wasn’t about to say the male had been crying. But the fact of the matter was, Qhuinn would never have shown that kind of weakness unless he was in some serious pain.
“I guess I misread him.”
Over Jane’s shoulder, Blay happened to notice the way Saxton’s hand passed through the thick blond waves that were sculpted up off his forehead.
It was the strangest thing… Sax may have been related by blood to Qhuinn, but at the moment, he looked a lot like Blay had for years.
Then again, unrequited was the same, no matter the features that reflected the emotion.
Crap.
FORTY-FOUR
Down the hall, Tohr sat in a chair across from the hospital bed Wrath had been laid out in. It was probably time to go.
Had been a while ago.
For God’s sake, even the queen had fallen asleep next to her mate on the bed.
Guess it was a good thing Beth didn’t mind his kibitzing. Then again, they had come to an accord years ago, proving just what a Godzilla marathon would do for a relationship.
Over in the corner, on a huge round Orvis bed the color of oatmeal, George stretched out of the curl he’d been in and glanced up at his master. Getting no response, he put his head down and sighed.
“He’s gonna be okay,” Tohr said.
The dog’s ears pricked and he gave two thumps of his feathered tail.
“Yup. I promise.”
Taking a cue from the canine, Tohr repositioned himself, and then rubbed his eyes. Man, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was dog-bed it like George and sleep for a day.
The problem was, even though the drama was over, his adrenal gland still piped up every time he thought of that bullet. Two inches to the right and it would have hit the jugular, turning Wrath’s light out for good. In fact, according to Doc Jane and Manny, where that lead had been lodged by pure chance had been the only “safe” place—assuming the guy was with someone who could, oh, say, do a tracheotomy in a moving van with nothing but a section of hollow tubing and a black dagger.
Jesus Christ… what a night.
And thank the Scribe Virgin for that angel. Without Lassiter showing up to drive? He shuddered—
“Waiting for Godot?”
Tohr’s eyes snapped over to the bed. The king’s lids were low but open, his mouth cracked in a half smile.
Emotion came on thick and quick, flooding Tohr’s neurotransmitters, stealing his voice from him.
And Wrath seemed to understand. Opening his free hand, he beckoned, even though he couldn’t lift up his arm.
Tohr’s feet felt sloppy as he stood up and approached the bed. As soon as he was in range, he knelt by his king and took that big palm, turned it over… and kissed the gigantic black diamond that flashed on Wrath’s finger.
Then, like a pussy, he laid his head down on the ring, on his brother’s knuckles.
All could have been lost tonight. If Wrath had not lived… everything would have changed.
As the king squeezed his hand back, Tohr thought about Wellsie’s dying, and felt nothing but fresh dread. To realize that there were as yet others to lose was not reassuring in the slightest. If anything, it made the churning, ambient anxiety in his gut swirl faster.
You’d think after his shellan’s passing he’d be exempt from the grief pool.
Instead, it appeared that he just had a deeper bottom to look forward to.
“Thank you,” Wrath whispered hoarsely. “For saving my life.”
Tohr lifted his head and shook it. “It wasn’t just me.”
“It was a lot you. I owe you, brother mine.”
“You’d have done the same.”
That patented autocratic tone came out: “I. Owe. You.”
“So buy me a Sam some night and we’ll call it evens.”
“You’re saying my life is only worth six bucks?”
“You vastly underestimate how much I love a good longneck—” A big blond dog head shoved its way under his armpit. Glancing down, he said, “See? I told you he’d be all right.”
Wrath laughed a little, then grimaced as if things hurt. “Hey, big man…”
Tohr moved out of the way so master and canine could reconnect… then ended up scooping the ninety-pound bale of hay-colored fur up and settling it next to the king.
Wrath positively beamed as he looked back and forth between his shellan, who was asleep, and his animal, who was ready to be his nurse.
“I’m glad that’s our last meeting,” Tohr blurted.
“Yeah, I like to go out with a bang—”