Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(7)

The design formed a perfect arch across the span of muscles, taking

up all of John's considerable acreage.

The Old Language really was beautiful, Blay thought.

Staring at the symbols, for one brief, ridiculous moment he imagined

his own name across Qhuinn's shoulders, carved into that smooth skin in the manner of the mating ritual.

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Never going to happen. They were destined to be best friends . . .

which, compared to strangers, was something huge. Compared to lovers? It was the cold side of a locked door.

He glanced over at Qhuinn. The guy had one eye on John and one eye

on the receptionist--who had locked the front door and come to stand by his side.

Behind the fly of his leathers, the bulge he was sporting was obvious.

Blay looked down at the mess of clothes in his lap. One by one, he

carefully folded the undershirt, the long-sleeve, and then John's jacket.

When he glanced up, Qhuinn was running his forefinger slowly down the woman's arm.

They were going to end up ducking behind that curtain over to the

left. The front door to the shop was secured, the curtain was fairly thin, and Qhuinn would do the woman with his weapons on. So John would be safe at all times . . . and that itch would get scratched.

Which meant Blay would only have to suffer hearing them.

Better than the full bifta. Especially because Qhuinn was beautiful to watch when he had sex. Just . . . beautiful.

Back when Blay had tried to do the hetero thing, the two had tag—

teamed a number of human females--not that he could have recalled any of the women's faces, bodies, or names.

It had always been about Qhuinn for him. Always.

The nibbling pain of the tattoo needle was a pleasure.

As John shut his eyes and breathed deep and slow, he thought about

the intersection of metal and skin, how the sharp entered the soft, how the blood flowed . . . how you knew exactly where the penetration was.

Like right now, the tattoo artist was directly over the top of his spine.

John had a lot of experience with the whole slice-and-dice shit--only on a much larger scale, and more as a giver rather than a receiver. Sure, he'd been cut up out in the field a couple of times, but he'd left more than his fair share of holes behind, and like the tattoo artist, he always took his equipment to work with him: His jacket carried all kinds of daggers and switches, even a length of chain. Also a matched set of just-in-case guns.

Well . . . all that and a pair of barbed cilices.

Not that he ever used those on the enemy.

No, those weren't weapons. And although they hadn't been cinched on

anyone's thigh for almost four weeks now, they weren't useless. Currently, they functioned as a kind of f*cked-up security blanket. Without them, he 30

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felt naked.

Thing was, those brutal ties were the only tie he had to the one he

loved. Which, considering the way things had been left between them, made cosmic sense.

They didn't go far enough for him, however. What Xhex had worn

around her legs to tame her symphath side didn't offer the kind of permanence he was looking for, and that was what had led him to his own metal-on-skin convention. When he was through here, she would always be with him. In his skin as well as under it. On his shoulders as well as his mind.

Hopefully this human was doing a good job with the design.

When the Brothers needed tattoos for whatever reason, Vishous

worked the needle and the guy was a pro at it--hell, the red tear on Qhuinn's face and the black scrolling date around the back of his neck were spank.

Trouble was, you went to V with a job like this one and suddenly there were going to be questions--not just from him, but from everyone else.

Not many secrets in the Brotherhood, and John would just as soon

keep his feelings for Xhex to himself.

The truth was . . . he was in love with her. Totally over-the-line, no-going-back, not-even-dead-would-he-part kind of shit. And although his hearts and flowers hadn't been unrequited, that didn't matter. He'd come to peace with the fact that the one he wanted didn't want him.

What he could not live with was her being tortured or dying a slow,

excruciating death.

Or him not being able to give her a proper burial.

He was obsessed with her disappearance. Single-minded to the point

of self-destruction. Brutal and unforgiving toward the one who'd taken her.

But that was nobody else's biz.

The only good thing in the sitch was that the Brotherhood was

likewise committed to figuring out what the hell had happened to her. The Brothers didn't leave anyone behind on a mission, and when they'd gone up to get Rehvenge out of that symphath colony, Xhex had been very much a member of the team. When the dust had cleared, and she'd disappeared entirely, the assumption was that she'd been abducted, and there were two possible ways to go: symphaths or lessers.

Which was kind of like saying, Do you want her to come down with

polio or Ebola?

Everyone, including John, Qhuinn, and Blay, was on the case. As a

result? It just looked as though finding her was part of John's job as a soldier in war.

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The humming of the needle stopped and the artist wiped at his back.