A Warm Heart in Winter(22)

“Do your thing then, weatherman,” Wrath muttered as the chatter eased off its raucous boil.

Tohr nodded. “Thanks for coming, everybody. So it looks like we’ve got a serious snowstorm on the forecast tomorrow and—”

The double doors, which had been closed, were thrown open, and what was standing in between the jambs was a sight for no eyes. Like, absolutely, positively no eyes whatsoever. None.

Lassiter, the household and race’s favorite fallen angel—at least if you asked him, that was, and if you asked anybody else, you’d get the statistic that there was in fact only one known fallen angel on the planet—struck a pose, hands on hips, chest puffed out, feet planted like he was ready to get his legs judged by ANTM.

“What the fuck are you?” someone said.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” V muttered as he lit up a hand-rolled. “I volunteer to start the list with moron.”

Lassiter sauntered in and did a little turn. “Mr. Freeze, motherfuckers. In honor of the coming blizzard.”

“Now I know why I’m a Marvel fan,” somebody blurted.

Even though Z didn’t know Marvel from Mrs. Maisel, he couldn’t agree more. The angel had somehow managed to jack himself into a pint-sized costume that was the color of blueberry Kool-Aid and had all the pipes and mechanics of an air compressor. A molded plastic weapon of some derivation or another was hanging off his right arm, and he’d completed the ensemble with a pair of bronze-colored, bug-eyed glasses that had been strapped to his pinhead.

Clearly, the getup had cost at least twenty cents to make. Maybe thirty.

Cue the peanut gallery:

“How did you get all your hair under that bathing cap?”

“Do you actually think any of that fits?”

“Can you please put your junk away—”

“Why, why does Amazon Prime offer free shipping. It should offer free burning—”

Lassiter flexed his sizable muscles, especially his glutes. At which point there was a series of tearing sounds.

Which was what happened when you put a five-pound bag over a fifty-pound asshat.

“Oh, my God, if he goes Hulk and flashes his courting tackle, I’m going to poke my own eyes out—”

“I don’t care what any of you say,” the angel cut in. “You’re going to get used to me because this nor’easter coming our way? We’re going to be snowbound inside for days. And days. And days—it’s gonna be all of us here on the mountain together, sharing and caring.”

There was a pin-drop pause of silence. And then V spoke up. “Who wants to leave right now?”

Everyone jacked their dagger hands up on a oner.

Lassiter looked around with the kind of surprise that indicated self-awareness was not in his personality inventory. Then again, the costume proved that as well.

“You guys can all bite me,” the angel muttered as he turned on his heel and headed out of the study. “For real.”





Down in the clinic, Qhuinn turned his head on a pillow that was cushy as a piece of toast. Right next to him, sitting on a chair that had been pulled up tight to the bedside, Blay was looking at his phone, reading something that had just come through. The overhead light had been turned down, and in the low glow, the male’s red hair was all copper and shine.

That fresh fade V had given him was super tight on the bottom, making his jaw look extra strong, and the flop over his forehead was the kind of thing a male wanted to run his fingers through.

Then again, there wasn’t much that Qhuinn didn’t want to touch when it came to his mate.

“What is it?” he asked.

Everyone had pulled out of the OR, Layla with the kids, and Manny and Ehlena after they’d unplugged all the machines from him. The training center was likewise quiet, no more voices off in the distance, no footfalls, no muffled grunts from people working out in the weight room or the big gym. It must be getting close to Last Meal, or maybe Wrath had called a meeting.

“Tomorrow night’s schedule,” Blay said with a frown.

“Where am I going?”

Blay looked up, all serious. Which naturally was sexy as fuck. “Nowhere. You’re redshirted for injury for forty-eight hours. You know the rules.”

“I was hoping they forgot. Are you on?”

“No one’s on.” Blay turned the Samsung around. “Schedule’s empty.”

“What the hell happened?”

Blay started texting. “I’m going to find out.”

Qhuinn waited patiently, and when the tippytapping ended, he snagged the unit and put it face-down on the bedside table. “Hi.”

Blay glanced at the phone. “Hi?”

“Come here.” To give the guy some guidance, he reached out and took a hold of the front of his mate’s shirt to pull him in. “Hi.”

Their lips met briefly, and when Blay went to ease back, Qhuinn tightened his grip on that shirt.

“Mmmm,” he said as he got more of that mouth.

Things were going in absolutely the right direction as he licked his way into his male, his tongue sneaking in, taking and giving, stroking— “Fuck,” he hissed. And not in a good way.

With a groan, he flopped onto his back again and put a hand over the gauze and packing tape that was on his belly. The weight of his palm alone was enough to further aggravate the sharp-shooter, so he let his arm slide to the side. Besides, like touching the sutures was going to help?