A Warm Heart in Winter(57)

When it was time.

Whatever that meant.

And now he was here.

He was here on this heartbreaking side of the great divide that had opened up between them, a divide Luchas had chosen to create when he had walked out into that storm.

A divide that potentially was eternal, if that bullshit about taking your own life was true when it came to the Fade.

If only Qhuinn had known that the male was so close to a decision that could not be unmade. If he’d had a clue, he could have talked Luchas into staying in the land of living. He could have reminded him that he had people who loved him, and a niece and nephew who needed their uncle, and—

From out of the corner of his eye, he noted that someone was standing just inside the billiards room, a tall figure that was, at first, indistinct.

Oddly, what caused recognition to click was a memory from First Meal the night before . . . of Lassiter staring down the table at him, that odd expression on the angel’s face, his strangely colored eyes so grave.

Like he’d known what was coming.

All at once, Qhuinn’s emotions coalesced into a spearhead, the tip of which was everything he would have done differently if he’d known, if he’d gotten a heads-up, if he could have been down in the training center when it had mattered, standing outside Luchas’s room, the physical barrier that was in the way of his brother’s conclusion that his life was no longer worth living . . .

. . . so he was going to walk out and die in a snowstorm.

The sound that ripped out of Qhuinn’s throat was that of an animal, and then his body launched into an attack without any conscious direction from him.

He closed the distance and threw himself at the angel, grabbing on to the front of the male’s neck with one hand while swinging widely with his right fist. And as soon as he made that cracking contact with Lassiter’s face, he didn’t stop. He swung again, now from the left side, hitting whatever was in the way. Then he locked hold of the head and swung hard, casting the angel out into the foyer, onto the mosaic floor.

People were shouting at him. He heard nothing.

People were pulling at him. He shoved them off.

Qhuinn let loose with pounding fists and kicking legs, mounting the angel’s prone body and slamming Lassiter over and over again into the hard floor—

Without warning, Qhuinn was lifted off bodily, dragged back and held off, whoever it was strong enough to keep him from his target.

So he used his voice instead of his fists.

“You knew!” he screamed at Lassiter. “You knew what he was going to do—and you didn’t tell me! You cost me my brother!”

He fought against the iron bars that were under his armpits. They held steady.

“Or you could have stopped him!” Qhuinn’s voice rebounded all around, all the way up to the ceiling. “You’re an angel, you’re supposed to save souls—was he not good enough for you? Was my brother too broken for you to bother saving? Why! Why did you let my brother die!”

He was utterly unhinged, his tirade filling the house, calling all kinds of people into the doorways of other rooms. But like he fucking cared? And meanwhile, Lassiter just lay where he had sprawled, oddly colored eyes showing no emotion at all.

Qhuinn surged against whoever was holding him. “He deserved your help! He deserved to be saved—”

“Let him go.”

The angel’s voice, soft and low, cut through his hollering, and he abruptly became aware that there was silver blood all over the floor, all over his own fists . . . all over the male’s face from the split lip, the busted nose, that cut over his eyebrow.

The angel had not fought back.

He hadn’t even tried to protect himself.

“Let him go!” Lassiter yelled.

The constriction was released, and Qhuinn fell forward. Unable to catch his balance, he landed hard on all fours.

And still, Lassiter just looked at him, that silver blood flowing like melted sterling.

“You’re pathetic,” Qhuinn spat. “You’re not worth the effort to kill you. I hope you can live with what a fucking failure you are as the successor to the Scribe Virgin. You’re nothing but a goddamn lazy joke.”

Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled, pushed off someone’s hands—he didn’t know whose. He was alone as he went up the stairs.

That much he was clear on.

Good thing, too.





As Qhuinn stormed up the grand staircase, Blay stood at the base of the carpeted steps and watched his mate retreat. He wanted to go after him, but it was very clear that he was not welcome. He’d been shoved away.

He didn’t know what to do.

So he turned to Lassiter, who was still lying on the foyer’s floor and bleeding silver. Others had gathered around the angel, including V, who had actual medical training—but the bodies parted as Blay went over and lowered himself down.

“He didn’t mean any of that,” he said as he helped the angel sit up. “Truly, he didn’t. I have no clue what he was talking about.”

“Help me to my feet?” Lassiter asked as he wiped his face with his forearm.

Blay grunted at the weight of the male. It was as if gravity had a special interest in the angel, his body heavier than even his prodigious muscles suggested, his bones clearly made of solid gold or something.

“I don’t need medical help.” Lassiter shook his head as V stepped forward. “A little sun and I’ll be fine.”