A Warm Heart in Winter(87)

“You should definitely ask him. He’s going to say yes.”

Qhuinn drew back with surprise. “What?”

The angel winked. “You know what I’m referring to. Or you will as soon as you think about it.”





At nightfall, Blay got dressed in civilian clothes. He wore his second favorite pair of slacks—his first favorite having been so delightfully destroyed two nights before—and chose a Christmas green cashmere sweater, a red-and-green silk scarf, and the camel hair hand-me-down coat he’d gotten off of Butch the season before.

At the last moment, he took one of his nines and clipped it to his waistband. When he pulled the sweater down, you couldn’t see it, and that was the goal.

Stepping out of the walk-in closet, he put his arms wide and did a spin. “This good? Do I look okay?”

Qhuinn, who was sitting over on the bed, smiled. “Come here.”

As Blay walked over, he was conscious of those mismatched eyes watching every move he made—and not necessarily in a sexual way, although there was heat, as always, in that gaze. It was more—

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Qhuinn said as he wrapped his arms around Blay’s waist and put his chin on Blay’s belly button.

“You’re going to make me blush.”

“Good. I like when you do.”

Blay could only shake his head slowly and smile like a fool. The truth was, something had happened during the day to his male. He wasn’t sure what it was. Qhuinn was still sad. That was obvious. But there was . . . a peacefulness about him. A calmness in the mourning that had not been there before.

“You must have finally slept,” Blay said as he stroked that black-and-purple hair back.

“What do you mean?”

“You look . . . rested.”

Qhuinn shrugged. “I’m finding a way to cope, I guess. And I’m glad you’re coming with me.”

“Anything for you.”

“I’m nervous.”

“I don’t blame you.” Blay bent down and brushed his mate’s lips with his own. “But just know that whatever happens, we’ll get through it together.”

They departed the mansion about fifteen minutes later. As they left, they waved at everyone who was enjoying First Meal in the dining room. There was no question of them stopping to eat, though. Blay was too nervous to eat as well.

Leaving the mansion, they dematerialized to the address that was on the driver’s license V had found. It turned out to be a block-sized apartment building, the two-story split-sides orientated around open stairwells.

“Over here, on the left,” Qhuinn said.

They walked across the skirt of parking lot that had been well plowed, scanning the area the entire time. Cars were parked under open-air ports, and there were others in exposed slots. No trucks. Sedans and SUVs. Mostly Hondas, Fords, and Kias. No minivans.

All the apartments had lights on in them, and there were residents getting out of their cars and going into their flats, the human workday done, the nighttime hunker-down arriving for the other species.

Qhuinn led the way up the staircase in question, and they were halfway up when the tenant on the front right of the building opened her door and stepped out. She had her coat buttoned to her neck, her purse at her shoulder, one glove on, the other in her hand. She was mid-twenties, with her hair all loosely curled and a full face of makeup. Given the time? Probably going on a date.

She took one look at Qhuinn, blanched—and ducked back into her apartment. The sound of the dead bolt getting thrown was loud.

“Shit,” Qhuinn muttered. “Gimme a second.”

He didn’t knock on the door. He just leaned into it, his brows tight, his eyes closed. Then he backed off. A second later, the young woman came out again, gave them a cheery smile, and danced down the stairs. They both watched her cross the parking area and get into a Sorento.

“He better not stand her up. She likes him,” Qhuinn murmured.

On that note, he pivoted to the apartment directly across from her place. The number on the door was 114B.

“I think you better do the knock and greet,” he said. “Assuming she’s human, I don’t want to scare her, and I’d rather not go into her brain. I don’t want to lose any memories she has.”

“Okay.”

Blay squeezed his mate’s shoulder and then put himself solidly in front of the peephole. Curling up a fist, he knocked his knuckles against the cold metal panel.

No answer.

He glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had wrapped his arms around his chest and was staring at the concrete landing under his shitkickers. In the tense silence, a breeze whiffled in, carrying the scent of sautéed onions and ground beef from somewhere.

Blay tried again. “The light’s on—”

The door opened.

The woman on the other side was, just as the license had stated, five feet six inches tall, with dark hair and dark eyes. Her skin was very pale, and she looked thinner than her government-issued photograph—or maybe it was more drawn, as if she were getting over an illness or struggling in life. She was dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a cream Irish sweater, and she smelled like shampoo and toothpaste.

Beyond her, a barren apartment was clean . . . except for the bedroom in the distance. A light illuminated a messy bed with crumpled snack bags on the floor.