A Warm Heart in Winter(72)

Firstly, allow me to apologize. You have always been far braver than I, and I believe that what is about to happen proves this truism once again. I am sorry that I am not strong enough to continue upon this path from which I cannot escape, but I am tired. I am bone weary of the pain and the restlessness, and of late, the unchanging nature of my body’s compromises. All has worn me down, whereas you would have persevered. I am weak, however—and the biggest regret of this weakness is that in my actions you may search for, and feel that you find, some sort of personal culpability. Allow me to assuage your conscience. This is naught to do with you.

Secondly, I beg of you a favor. I realize that this is an imposition. For certain, if you are reading this, I am gone and you are in pain. It is entirely unfair of me to ask anything of you in your current state, and yet I beg of you this. Please go unto our family home, and into the confines of my former bedroom. There is a loose floorboard where my bureau was. Hidden beneath it is a secret I have kept. There have been times when I nearly broached this matter that I have kept to myself, but in the end, I was too cowardly. I think I also had hope that I would heal enough to be an advocate for mine own interests. Alas, that did not come to pass. You will know what to do.

Finally, I need you to believe me when I say that our parents chose the wrong son of whom to be proud. I am the failure. You, the paragon. You should be so proud of all you have accomplished, and I wish our sire and mahmen could see you the now. You have proved them all wrong, wholly wrong. You are a Brother. You are a father. You are the mate of a wonderful male. You are everything anyone could have wished for in a son or a brother.

As Fate would have it, my own Honor Guard, the one that I deserved, came and found me. Those lessers and their hateful master were no less than I deserved, and they killed me many times. In retrospect, I believe part of their interest in me was in the reviving. I, however, intend to finish this night what they started. I am well done with resurrections of all sorts and I welcome the abyss. I am through with the seesaw between life and death.

I love you. I pray that you will believe me when I say that this choice is mine and mine alone. Perhaps you are angry at me, maybe you are in sorrow. I wish for you neither of these. I am just so tired. I want to sleep.

With my most sincere love and affection,

Luchas



Qhuinn closed his eyes. Then he read it all again. And a third time. By that last go through, he didn’t even see the words. He simply heard his brother’s voice in his head, the sound so missed that his heart skipped beats.

“Are you . . .” He took a deep breath. “Are you finished?”

Next to him, Blay nodded.

“I’m going to put it away now.” When his mate nodded again, Qhuinn carefully folded up the page and slipped it back into the envelope. “I wish we could have fixed him. I wish . . . our love had been enough.”

And he really wished he could have had a conversation about that night he had come home to their parents’ house to learn that he’d been sent away on purpose because Luchas had been going through his transition. That night when he had removed his makeshift belt and strung it up to the shower head. That night . . . when Blay had arrived in a nick of time.

“You saved me,” he murmured. “That night. In my shower.”

There was no need to offer further details. They both knew exactly what evening he was referring to: Sure enough, as he looked over at Blay, his beloved was staring off into the distance. No doubt the male was remembering when he’d had to bust down the bathroom door and manhandle Qhuinn off the shower head.

“I am so glad you called me,” Blay said roughly.

“I didn’t. You called me.”

“Did I?”

“You seemed to know.” Qhuinn put his hand on Blay’s knee. “You’ve always known.”

As Blay’s eyes blinked quick, Qhuinn reached for his mate, and then they were stretched out on the bed, their heads on one king-sized pillow, their bodies so close they were ankle to ankle, hip to hip, as they lay on their backs. The letter and its envelope stayed on Qhuinn’s chest, over his heart.

“I’m sorry my brother was in such pain,” he said. “And I wish . . .”

Blay turned on his side, and it was automatic, to reposition things so that the male was lying in the crook of Qhuinn’s arm.

“You wish you could have stopped him that night?”

Qhuinn put his free hand over the letter. “I wish I could have told him it gets better. I’ve been where he was. Hopeless, helpless. And now look at where I am. I never could have predicted how my life turned out—I certainly wouldn’t have hoped for even half of the good things that happened to me. Maybe the same was just around the corner for him. Maybe if he’d held on . . .”

“We’ll never know,” Blay said sadly. “And neither will he.”

“I wish I knew that he got into the Fade.”

“That has to be a cautionary tale—that whole ‘suicide keeps you out of the Fade’ thing has to just be a cautionary tale.”

Qhuinn frowned at the ceiling. “Does it? It got started for a reason.”

“Your brother was a just male of worth. It wouldn’t be fair.”

When was life guaranteed to be fair, Qhuinn thought.

He turned his head. Blay was staring off into the distance, his lashes low, his mouth slightly parted, his hair smudged on one side from his having drawn his fingers through it. His cheek, the one that had been cut by that tarp in the storm, was fully healed, nothing marring the smooth skin.