A Warm Heart in Winter(66)

It was the very best commentary on his parents, he supposed: That he could be honest friends with the people who raised him. And there was the temptation to stay over day, mostly because he was so exhausted with the silent tension between him and Qhuinn.

God, he was so tired.

And lonely.

“Would you like seconds?” Lyric asked as she put the dough back into its bowl and covered it with a damp dish towel.

Blay looked down at his clean plate. “Yes, Mahmen. Please.”





After Qhuinn worked out down in the training center, he took a shower in the facility’s locker room and then changed into surgical scrubs because he’d forgotten to bring an extra set of clothes with him. As he stepped back out into the corridor, he had a thought that he should go up to the big house. Blay was off for the evening, and maybe they could try and find each other.

Or, more likely, he would just stay lost.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was a gray fog between him and everybody else, including his mate and his kids. Even when someone was standing in front of him, they were merely an outline of themselves, and their voice, no matter how familiar, was a whisper off in the distance. It was the strangest phenomenon, and the disassociation reminded him of when he’d gone up to the Fade, the landscape all indistinct, no one else around him.

Then again, he felt like he’d died last week, too.

Turning to the right, he looked down toward the office and tried to imagine himself walking into the mansion. As his temples started to pound, he shook his head and went in the opposite direction. When he got to his brother’s door, he pushed his way in and—

“What are you doing here?” he said as he stopped short.

Over in the armchair, sitting there like he owned the place . . . was Zsadist. As usual, the brother was dressed in leathers and a muscle shirt, his powerful arms on display, his hair freshly buzzed, his long legs crossed at the knees.

His eyes were glowing yellow, not black like when he was going to go off at someone. But they were narrow and they were focused on Qhuinn with a hard edge.

“Come in,” he ordered. “And shut the door.”

“This is my brother’s room. Don’t tell me what to do in it.”

“Your brother’s dead. So this is not his room anymore.”

“What did you say.” Qhuinn felt a hot flush go through him. “What the fuck did you say—”

“Get in here, and shut the fucking door. Unless you want everyone in the goddamn training center to hear what I’m about to say to you.”

Qhuinn’s body stepped forward before he was aware of entering. And he shoved the door closed—

“Shut up.” Zsadist’s eyes never wavered and he didn’t blink. “Your brother is dead and that is a tragedy. But you’re not bringing him back with this withdrawal shit.”

“Excuse me—”

“You’re not talking. I am. You respond when I’m done. And before you get all hot and bothered, you think I want to be sitting here, going through this with you? Yeah, you can miss me with that.”

“So get up and leave.” Qhuinn tossed a casual hand. “In fact, please do us both a favor and quit it before you start. I don’t need the public service.”

“Yeah, you do.”

It was at that point that Qhuinn realized there was something in the brother’s hand . . . a toy airplane, one with red and white markings and a spinning prop on its nose. And in response to Qhuinn taking notice, Z flicked the propeller with his fingertip and the blades went for a ride, blurring out for a moment before slowing down so that the two fins became distinct again.

The shit was so random it temporarily distracted him.

“I’ve been where you are right now,” Z stated, “and not for a couple of nights or a month. Or even a year. Try a hundred years.”

Qhuinn opened his mouth to fuck that off—except then he noted the slave bands that were tattooed on Z’s wrists and around his neck . . . and the scar that ran down the brother’s face.

Z raised one eyebrow. Like he was challenging Qhuinn to say something about whose burden had been greater. And yeah, being imprisoned, sexually abused, and used as a blood source for a century? You could argue that was a trump card.

“This is not a competition about pain,” Z said. “And I’m not downplaying your loss.”

“Sounds like you’re doing both, actually.”

“Who the fuck else has a chance to get through to you other than me? Huh? Anybody but me, you’d either snow or walk out on. My past doesn’t allow you to do that, so I’m here and you’re going to listen to me.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn eyed the door—and knew he wasn’t leaving. And he hated that the brother was right about that.

When he looked back, Z shrugged. “Why do you think the only therapist I’ve ever had is one who’s been through terminal cancer. Like I said, I’ve been where you are, so I know what’s going to get through to you.”

With a curse, Qhuinn rubbed his head. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you that I’m struggling. But it’s been seven nights. Seven. You think maybe you could give me a little more leeway, here? Like a month, maybe?”

“The longer you stay where you are,” Z declared in a low voice, “the harder it is to come back. I still fight every night to stay connected, stay here—” He pointed to the floor. “Stay present. What brought me back was love, but my situation was different than yours. I had nothing to lose and nobody but my twin in my life. You, on the other hand, have everything to lose—a mate who loves you, young who need you, people who require your contribution to a concerted effort. So you have to start coping, whatever that looks like to you.”