A Warm Heart in Winter(59)

“Oh, Qhuinn.”

She made a move like she was going to get up and hug him, but when he stepped back sharply, she ducked her eyes and hung her head.

“I’m okay,” he heard himself say as he waved at Lyric, who’d started beaming at him, and then to Rhamp, who was shaking a rattle in his direction. “I just want to be with them for a while, all right? Just me and them.”

Layla nodded and got to her feet like she was stiff. “Of course. I—ah, a text went out. From Tohr, so . . . I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine.”

She recoiled—and then tried to hide her reaction. But he couldn’t help her with her awkwardness. He couldn’t even help himself right now—and the “fine” thing was just a door to close on her sympathy, her worry, the burden of the referred pain she was feeling as she confronted a tragedy that really only affected him.

“Is there anything I can do?” she said.

“Just give me some time with them.”

The Chosen pulled the waistband of her jeans higher up on her hips. Then she pushed her blond hair back as her eyes roamed around the cheerful room—and he was grateful she kept her thoughts to herself. He did not want to be mean, but he was raw—and like a wounded animal, he was dangerously unstable.

“Let me know when you need me back?” she said. Then she shook her head. “Actually, I was going to feed them in about forty-five minutes. Unless you’d like to?”

“That’ll be good. I mean, forty-five. That’s fine.”

“Okay.”

There was a moment of frozen silence, and then Layla went over to the door. As she hesitated to push her way out, he cleared his throat.

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” he said roughly. “You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve seen entirely too many dead blooded relations of mine tonight.”

Her eyes closed. “Oh, Qhuinn. I am so sorry—”

“Scratch that.” He rubbed his eyes, not because he was getting emotional, but because he couldn’t stop seeing his brother’s face. “Make that for a lifetime. I’ve seen enough dead relatives for a goddamn fucking lifetime.”

She took a deep breath. “I want you to know something—”

“Just come back in forty-five minutes—”

“I took them to see him the night before the storm.”

Qhuinn blinked. “What? Wait, what did you say?”

“Lyric and Rhamp. I took them down to see Luchas two nights ago.” Her eyes started to water. “I’d do that from time to time. You know, I mean . . . I just—he loved seeing them. They sat on his bed, and he played with them, and he smiled at them. They always seemed to make him happy.”

Rhamp ditched the rattle, rolled over onto his tummy, and hit the ground crawling fast, going for broke toward a big, red inflatable ball in the corner. The kid had the grace of an Army tank, the speed of a motivated turtle, and the fixation of a chess master about to be pawn’d out of a tournament.

“Thank you,” Qhuinn said softly. “I’m so glad he got to see them one last time.”

“I’m going to miss Luchas. He was such a sensitive soul. We would talk about books and—”

Qhuinn put his hand up. “I’m sorry, Layla. I, like, don’t mean to be rude. But I can’t talk about him right now. I’m not even on this planet, actually. I’m just trying to find the floor beneath my feet.” He lifted his soggy sneakers one after another. “Because I can’t feel it—and talking about my brother makes this floating feeling worse.”

“Okay. Just please know, there are a lot of us here in the house for you to talk to.”

The door eased shut in her wake, and he looked into Lyric’s beautiful pale green eyes . . . and prayed his brother had made it into the Fade. Surely, even if the rumor was true about killing yourself, Luchas would be granted an exception for all he had suffered.

Right?

Lyric put her arms out, and that was Qhuinn’s cue to scoop—and scoop he did, gathering his daughter up and bringing her to his heart. In response, she made a whole bunch of cooing noises and babbling sounds. She was normally a quiet kid, but in situations like this, when it was just the two of them because her brother was distracted by another one of his missions, oh, she opened up big. It was like she patiently waited her turn, and as such, there was always a backlog of unexpressed opinions and commentary for her to get out.

Meanwhile, across the blue-and-yellow padded floor, Rhamp was up on his feet and throwing punches at the ball. Both of the twins were still a little unsteady when walking, but coordinated activity improved Rhamp’s balance.

And he’d found a helluva rhythm.

Qhuinn pictured them at five years old. At ten. At fifteen and twenty. At . . . fifty and a hundred . . . all their lives ahead of them, adventures to be had, love to be discovered, challenges to best and good fortune to find.

“Oh, Luchas,” he whispered. “Why couldn’t you have stayed for them . . .”

Yet even as that occurred to him, he realized that he was being self-centered. After all, the twins were his young, not his brother’s—

The door to the playroom opened—and he tried not to glare at whoever it was.

When he saw it was Layla, Qhuinn closed his eyes in frustration. “I thought you said I’d have forty-five minutes.”