Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9)(118)

“Are you okay,” Vishous said as he looked up at her.

“More than okay.” She searched his face. “I feel like I’ve made love to you for the very first time.”

“Good.” He kissed her. “That was the plan.”

Laying her head down on his beating heart, she looked across at the wall behind his table. She’d never thought she’d be grateful for such a terrifying bunch of “toys,” but she was. Through the storm . . . they’d found the calm.

Once apart . . . now they were one again.





FORTY-ONE


Back at the mansion, Qhuinn was pacing around his bedroom like a rat looking for a way out of its cage. Of all the f*cking nights for Wrath to hold them penned in.

Fuckin’ A.

As he made yet another trip past the open door into the bath, he thought the fact that the quarantine made sense somehow pissed him off even more: Only he and John and Xhex were not hurt at this point. Everyone else had been in that melee and gotten sliced, diced, or shaved in some way.

It was Casa del Heal-the-f*ck-up around here.

But come on, the three of them could have been out and about doing payback.

Stopping in front of the terrace doors, he looked over the manicured gardens that were on the verge of getting their spring on. With the lights turned off in his room, he could clearly see the swimming pool with its winter cover stretched over its belly—like the biggest set of Spanx the world had ever seen. And the trees that were still mostly bare. And the flower beds that were—

Blay had been injured.

—still nothing but orderly boxes of dark brown earth.

“Shit.”

Rubbing his now-short hair, he tried to negotiate with the pressure at the center of his chest. According to John, Blay had been hit on the head and striped on the stomach. The former was being monitored; the latter had been stitched up by Doc Jane. Neither was life-threatening.

S’all good.

Too bad his sternum wasn’t buying the hunky-dory. Ever since John Matthew had told him the news, this goddamn ache had set up shop, mole-ing into him and going Barcalounger on his bronchial tubes.

He literally couldn’t take a deep breath.

Goddamn it, if he were a mature male—and given the way he handled things sometimes, that was seriously debatable, if not downright wrong—he would go out into the hallway, march over to Blay’s room, and knock on the door. He’d put his head inside, see for himself that the redhead had a heartbeat and was making sense . . . and then he’d go about his night.

Instead, here he was, trying to pretend he was not thinking about the guy while he wore a path into his carpet.

On that note, more with the walking. He would have rather gone to the weight room and had a run, but the fact that Blaylock was up here in this wing was like a tether that kept him stuck in the vicinity. Without a larger purpose to pull him away, like going out to fight or . . . say . . . the house being on fire, he was evidently incapable of breaking free.

And when he found himself in front of the French doors again, he had an inkling why he kept stopping there.

He tried to talk his palm out of hitting the handle.

Didn’t work.

Pop went the latch, and slap went the cool air on his face. Stepping out in his bare feet and his bathrobe, he barely noticed the ice-cube-cold slate or the draft that shot up his legs and nailed him in the balls.

Up ahead, light streamed out from the double doors of Blay’s room. Which was good news—surely they’d close the curtains before they had sex.

So it was probably safe to look in. Right . . . ?

Besides, Blay was just coming off an injury, so they couldn’t be going Tilt-A-Whirl in there.

Resolving himself to the role of Peeping Qhuinn, he stuck to the shadows, and tried not to feel like a stalker as he tiptoed over. When he got next to the door, he braced himself, leaned in and—

Took a deep, relieved breath.

Blay was alone on the bed, lying all propped up against the headboard, his black robe tied at the waist, his ankles crossed, his feet covered in black socks. His eyes were closed and his hand rested just above his belly, as if he were carefully looking after what was probably still bandaged.

Movement across the way brought Blay’s lids up and took his eyes in the opposite direction of the windows. It was Layla emerging from the bathroom, and she was walking slowly. The two exchanged some words—no doubt he was thanking her for the feeding he’d just had and she was telling him that it was her pleasure: not a surprise that she was here. She’d been making the rounds of the house, and Qhuinn had already run into her shortly before First Meal—or what would have been First Meal if anyone had shown.

And as she left Blay’s room, Qhuinn waited for Saxton to come in. Naked. With a red rose between his teeth. And a motherf*cking box of chocolates.

And a hard-on that made the Washington Monument look stumpy.

Nothing.

Just Blay letting his head fall back and his lids drift down. He looked utterly exhausted and, for the first time, older. That was no recently out-of-transition boy over there. That was a full-blooded male.

A stunningly beautiful . . . full-blooded . . . male.

In his mind, Qhuinn saw himself opening the door and stepping inside. Blay would look over and try to sit up . . . but Qhuinn would wave him down as he walked over.

He would ask about the injury. And Blay would open the robe to show him.