A Warm Heart in Winter(73)

As Qhuinn remembered the two of them in the garage, him armed with a bandana and thoughts of a gurney, Blay batting his hand away from the minor injury . . . he felt a striking warmth in his chest.

The swell of love permeated his body, filling him up from the inside out, replacing the cold numbness that had frozen him in place even as he had moved and breathed and pretended to be among the living.

With reverence, he stretched over and pressed a chaste kiss to his mate’s forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here with me.”



As Blay lay beside his mate, he was grateful for a lot of things. For one, there was the fact that he and Qhuinn were actually lying together on their mated bed—and not just in a side-by-side, separated-bya-duvet-divide sense. And then there was his inclusion in the reading of the letter. He had wanted to be invited into his male’s grief so that he could help in some small way, even if it was just by being witness to the pain—and now it appeared that he had been.

Considering where the night had started, miracles had been granted.

And yet he was still feeling like shit. He’d read the note to himself twice, and what stood out to him were not all the reassuring things, the hopes for peace in the midst of the chaos of the choice Luchas had made. It was the reckoning.

Intrinsic in the words, in the decision, was a vista, a long view on where Luchas had been and where he was—followed by an extrapolation of the future that had provided no relief at all. If anything, the more-of-the-same had no doubt been yet another burden on top of so many others.

Whether or not it was true, Blay had decided that his conversation, which surely had been one of Luchas’s last, had provided that view. Or at least perhaps the ledge the male had been standing on as he had regarded the valley of his life as it unfurled before him.

God, if Blay could just go back and not have said a thing. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but at least he would be free of this sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“—glad you’re here with me.”

Blay forced himself back into focus. And as he did, he felt Qhuinn’s lips press to his forehead with incredible gentleness. When the male eased back, their eyes met and held.

You may not be holding me responsible, Blay thought to himself. But I cannot forgive myself.

“I didn’t want any of this for your brother,” he said sadly. “I only knew him from afar, as you know. I mean, my family was not on the same level of yours socially—”

“My parents’ level, you mean. I wasn’t on their level, either.”

Blay shook his head. “You’re better than all of them.”

“You’re biased.”

“Not even close.” Blay ran his fingertips over the envelope on Qhuinn’s chest. “And when it came to Luchas, I believe he was a product of his environment, but he wasn’t bad through and through. Some in the glymera were. He was not.”

“He was the one who stopped the Honor Guard from killing me that night I was jumped. He was with them, and he made them quit the beating. Otherwise, I would have died in the middle of that road.”

Blay frowned. “Your family sent him as part of . . . but of course they would have. He was the firstborn son.”

“So having him be a part of it was the best way for them to save even more face after they banished me from the house and removed me from the family bloodline. It proved how serious they were.” Qhuinn frowned. “And you know, I’ve been wondering about something. That black robe Luchas had been wearing? I’ve never known him to have one or wear one before. But somehow he got his hands on it—and I think he wore it because of his guilt over his role in the Honor Guard.”

“Did he ever talk to you about that night?”

“He said he was sorry, of course. But I didn’t know it was still a thing for him . . . I mean, he clearly saw Lash and the lessers as his own version of what he did to me. That had to be the reason he was in that robe. But I wish he hadn’t tortured himself so.”

Blay nodded. And then said, “Are you going back to your old house? Like he asked?”

“I don’t know.” Qhuinn frowned and shook his head. “I mean, of course I am. It’s just going to be fucked up to be there. I wonder what it looks like now.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“It’s too close to dawn now. And aren’t you on tomorrow night?”

“I am, but I’m sure I can get someone to cover.”

Qhuinn’s brows lowered. “I want to return to work. I asked Tohr. He said I needed to be cleared.”

“Medically? Oh, right. Mary.”

“Yeah.”

Blay wasn’t going to touch that one with a ten-foot pole—and as much as he wanted to support his mate, he didn’t disagree with the necessity of a mental health check-in. But there was no reason to bring all that up.

“What can I do to help you?” he said instead.

“You already are. Just by being here.” As Qhuinn yawned, the male’s jaw cracked, and then there was a long exhale. “I’m suddenly exhausted.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep?”

“Are you tired?”

These were simple questions, simple replies, everyday/every-night stuff. And like the proximity, physical and otherwise, the normal was something to be grateful for, especially as Qhuinn mumbled something about food: He wasn’t ready to go down to Last Meal yet, but maybe after a little nap, they could order something from the kitchen? Or at least that’s what Blay thought his mate was saying.