Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(173)

As the Brother's words faded, John felt like he'd been sucker

punched--and yet he wasn't shocked. Because this was the kind of male Tohr was--steadfast and true. A male of worth.

The guy laughed harshly. "Don't get me wrong. Soon as you're out from under this Lash bullshit, and that bastard is good and dead, I'm going hard-core on those motherf*ckers. I will kill slayers in her memory for the rest of my natural life. But the thing is, I remember. . . . see, I've been where you were when you were thinking your female was gone. No matter how levelheaded you believe yourself to be, you're insane in the membrane--and 439

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you were blessed to get her back, but life doesn't just return to rational that quick. Plus, let's face it--you'd do anything to save her, even put your chest in front of a bullet. Which I can understand, but would like you to avoid if at all possible."

As the Brother's words sank in, John signed automatically, She's not my female.

"Yeah, she is. And the two of you make so much sense. You have no idea what kind of sense you make together."

John shook his head. Not sure who you're talking about there. No

offense.

"Doesn't have to be easy to be right."

In that case, we're meant for each other.

There was a long silence, during which John had the oddest sense that life was resetting itself, that the gears which had previously been slipping and missing had once more locked into place.

And here it was again, the Shitstorm Survivors' Club.

Christ, for all the crap that the people living in the mansion had been through, maybe V should design a tat they could each get on their asses.

Because sure as shit, the bunch of them had won the lottery when it came to hard knocks.

Or, God, maybe this was just life. For everyone on the planet. Maybe

the Survivors' Club wasn't something you "earned," but simply what you were born into when you came out of your mother's womb. Your heartbeat put you on the roster and then the rest of it was just a question of vocabulary: The nouns and verbs used to describe the events that rocked your foundation and sent you flailing were not always the same as other people's, but the random cruelties of disease and accident, and the malicious focus of evil men and nasty deeds, and the heartbreak of loss with all its stinging whips and rattling chains . . . at the core, it was all the same.

And there was no opt-out clause in the club's bylaws--unless you

offed yourself.

The essential truth of life, he was coming to realize, wasn't romantic and took only two words to label: Shit. Happens.

But the thing was, you kept going. You kept your friends and your

family and your mate as safe as you were able. And you kept fighting even after you were knocked down.

Goddamn it, you dragged your ass off the ground and you kept

fighting.

I've been awful to you, John signed. I'm sorry.

Tohr shook his head. "Like I was any better? Don't apologize. As my 440

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best friend and your father always told me, don't look backward. Only forward."

So that's where it came from, John thought. The belief was in his

blood.

I want you with me, by my side, John signed. Tonight. Tomorrow night. For however long it takes to kill Lash. Do this with me. Find the bastard with me, with us.

The sense that the pair of them would work together seemed so right.

After all, for their individual reasons, they were united in this deadly game of chess: John needed to avenge Xhex for obvious reasons. And as for Tohr .

. . well, the Omega had taken his son when that lesser had killed Wellsie.

Now the Brother had a chance to return the motherf*cking favor.

Come with me. Do this . . . with me.

Tohr had to clear his throat. "I thought you would never ask."

No knuckle-tap this time.

The two of them embraced, chest-to-chest. And when they pulled

apart, John waited for Tohr to throw on a shirt, get his leather jacket, and grab his weapons.

Then they went downstairs side by side.

As if they had never been apart. As if it was as it always had been.

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SIXTY-FOUR

The bedrooms at the back of the Brotherhood's mansion had the

benefit not only of a view of the gardens, but a second-story terrace.

Which meant if you were antsy, you could step out and grab some

fresh air before you faced the rest of the household.

The second the shutters lifted for the evening, Qhuinn opened the

French doors by his bureau and walked into the brisk night. Bracing his palms on the balustrade, he leaned in, his shoulders accepting the weight of his chest easily. He was dressed for war in his leathers and shitkickers, but he'd left his weapons inside.

Staring out over the battened-down flower beds and the spindly fruit

trees that had yet to bloom, he felt the cool, smooth stone under his hands and the breeze in his still-damp hair and the tight pull of the muscles across the small of his back. The scent of freshly roasting lamb was floating up from the blowers on the roof over the kitchen and lights were glowing all over the house, the warm golden illumination pouring out onto the lawn and the patio on the lower level.

Pretty f*cking ironic--to feel so hollow because Blay finally got