Lover At Last

FIFTY

Downstairs in the clinic’s examination room, Qhuinn felt like he was up in the air, flying high. And not in a soon-to-crash POS Cessna with a wounded Brother in the back.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again?”

Doc Jane smiled as she brought a rolling table over to the bedside. Dimly, the stuff on it registered, but he was more focused on what might or might not come out of the physician’s mouth. “You guys are still pregnant. Her hormone levels are doubling exactly as they should, blood pressure’s perfect, heart rate’s great. And still no bleeding, right?”

As the physician looked over at Layla, the Chosen shook her head, her expression as poleaxed as he sure as shit felt like. “None at all.”

Qhuinn took a little walk, his hand dragging through his hair, his brain cramping. “I don’t understand this….I’m mean, this is what I want—what we want—but I don’t get why she had the…”

After having ridden the roller coaster down into hell, it was completely disarming to hit an unexpected rise back in the direction of earth.

Doc Jane shook her head. “This is probably not helpful, but Ehlena’s never seen this before, either. So I get your confusion, and more to the point, I understand better than you know how treacherous hope can be. It’s hard to give yourself over to any optimism after where you both have been.”

Man, V’s shellan was so not an idiot.

Qhuinn focused on Layla. The Chosen was in a loose white robe, but not the kind she’d worn as a member of the Scribe Virgin’s sacred sect of females. It was an everyday bathrobe, and underneath was a hospital johnny that had pink and red hearts on a white background. And on that rolling table? Turned out it was a box of saltine crackers and a six-pack of little Canada Dry ginger ales.

Talk about your over-the-counter medications.

Doc Jane opened the crackers. “I know that the last thing you’re thinking of is food.” She handed one of the flaky, salty squares over. “But if you eat this, and have a little of the soda? Might settle things down in there.”

And what do you know, it did. Layla ended up working her way through half a sleeve, and two of the small green bottles.

“That really helps, huh?” Qhuinn murmured as the Chosen lay back and sighed in relief.

“You have no idea.” Layla put her hand on her lower belly. “Whatever it takes, I will do it, eat it, drink it.”

“The nausea’s that bad, huh.”

“It’s not about me. I don’t care if I throw up for the next eighteen months, as long as the young is all right. I’m just scared that with the heaving, I’ll lose…well, you know.”

Okay, anyone who thought females were the weaker sex had their head fucking wedged.

He looked at Doc Jane. “What do we do now?”

The doctor shrugged. “My advice? Trust in the symptoms and in the test results, otherwise, you’re going to go crazy. Layla’s body is, and has been, driving all this. If right now there are no indications of a miscarriage, but in fact every reason to believe that the pregnancy has resumed a positive course? Take a deep breath and go one night at a time. If you look forward too much, or get stuck dwelling over the past couple of days? You’re not going to get through this in one piece.”

Word, Qhuinn thought.

The good doctor’s phone went off. “Hold on a sec—shoot. I have to check on that doggen who cut his hand last night. Layla, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no medical reason to make you stay down here. I don’t want you leaving the compound for the next couple of nights, though. Let’s get some time under our belts, okay?”

“But of course.”

Doc Jane left a moment later, and Qhuinn was at a loss. He wanted to help Layla back to the main house, but she wasn’t crippled, for godsakes. Still, he felt like carrying her around—for like, the rest of the frickin’ pregnancy.

He leaned back against the stainless-steel cabinets. “I find myself wanting to ask you how you are every two seconds.”

Layla laughed a little. “That makes the both of us.”

“You want to go to back to the house?”

“You know…I actually don’t. I feel…” She looked around. “Safer down here, to be honest.”

“Makes sense to me. You need anything?”

She nodded at her little tray full of anti-nausea stuff. “As long as I’ve got this, I’m good. And you should feel free to go out and fight.”

Qhuinn frowned. “I thought I’d stay in….”

“And do what? I’m not telling you to leave, by any means. But I have a feeling it’s just going to be me sitting here and stewing. If something happens, I can call you and you can come right home.”

Qhuinn thought about where the Brotherhood and the fighters in the house were heading at midnight: the Council meeting.

If it had been a normal evening of engaging in the field, he probably would have stayed put. But with Wrath actually in the world, meeting with those assholes in the glymera?

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll keep my phone with me, and I’ll make it clear to the others that if you call, I’m out of there.”

Layla took a sip of her ginger ale, and then stared into the cup, like she was watching the bubbles rise around the ice.

He thought of where they’d been the night before at Havers’s—out of control, terrified, in mourning.

Shit could still go back to that, he reminded himself. It was way too early to get attached again.

And yet he couldn’t seem to help himself. Standing in the tiled room, with the scent of Lysol disinfectant in his nose, and the lip of the counter he was leaning against biting into his ass…he realized this was the moment he started to love his young.

Right here, right now.

As a male bonded with his female, so too did a father to his offspring—and accordingly, his heart just opened wide and let it all in: the commitment that came with choosing to try for a child, the terror of losing them that he bet never went away, the joy that there was something of you on the face of the earth after you were gone, the impatience to meet them in person, the desperate desire to hold them in your arms and look into their eyes and give them all the love you had to give.

“Is it okay…can I touch your stomach?” he asked in a small voice.

“Of course! You don’t have to ask.” Layla lay back with a smile. “What’s in there is half yours, you know.”

Qhuinn rubbed nervous hands together as he approached the table. He had certainly touched Layla during the needing, and then afterward in a solicitous manner when a situation called for it.

He had never thought of touching his baby.

Qhuinn watched from a vast distance as his dagger hand reached out. Jesus, the tips of the fingers were trembling like crazy.

But they stilled the instant he made the connection.

“I’m right here,” he said. “Dad’s right here. I’m going nowhere. Just gonna wait until you’re ready to come out into the world, and then your mom and I are going to take care of you. So you hang tight, we clear? Do your thing, and we’ll wait for however long it takes.”

With his free hand, he took Layla’s palm, and put it over his own.

“Your family is right here. Waiting for you…and we love you.”

It was totally stupid to talk to what was, no doubt, nothing but a bundle of cells. But he couldn’t help it. The words, the actions…they were at once totally his, and yet coming from a place that was foreign to him.

Felt right, though.

Felt…like what a father was supposed to do.

Left-hand forty. Check.

Right forty. Check.

Backup ammo on the waist belt. Check.

Daggers one and two in the chest holster. Check.

Leather jacket—

As a knock sounded on Blay’s door, he leaned out of his closet. “Come in?”

When Saxton entered, he pulled his jacket onto his shoulders and pivoted. “Hey. How are you?”

Something was up.

The other male’s eyes made a quick three-sixty on Blay’s “working wardrobe,” as they’d once called it. Unease drew Sax’s pale eyebrows upward; then again, he’d never seemed entirely comfortable around the weapons.

“Heading out into the field, then,” the male murmured.

“To a meeting of the Council, actually.”

“I didn’t realize that required so many guns as accessories.”

“New era.”

“Yes, indeed.”

There was a long pause. “How are you?”

Saxton’s eyes went around the room. “I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Oh, fuck. Now what.

Blay swallowed hard. “About?”

“I’m leaving the house for a little while—for a vacation, as it were.” He put his hand out to stop any arguing. “No, it’s not permanent. I’ve gotten everything in order for Wrath, and there’s nothing he needs for the next couple of days. Naturally, if he does, I’ll come right back. I’m going to be staying with an old friend. I truly need some rest and relaxation—and before you worry, I swear I am returning, and this is honestly not about us. I’ve been working for months straight and I just want to have no schedule, if that makes sense?”

Blay took a deep breath. “Yes, it does. Where are you…” He stopped himself with a reminder that that was none of his business anymore. “Let me know if you need anything?”

“I promise.”

On impulse, Blay walked over and put his arms around his former lover, the platonic connection as unforced and natural as his previously amorous one had been. Holding onto the male, he turned his face in.

“Thank you,” Blay said. “For coming and telling me—”

At that moment, someone passed by in the hall, the stride faltering.

It was Qhuinn; Blay knew by the scent even before the tall, powerful figure registered visually. And in the brief hesitation before the guy kept going, their eyes locked over Saxton’s shoulder.

Qhuinn’s face became a mask instantly, the features freezing, giving nothing away.

And then the fighter was gone, his long legs taking him out of the open door’s frame.

Blay stepped away and forced himself to replug into the good-bye. “When will you be back?”

“A couple of days at the least, no longer than a week.”

“Okay.”

Saxton glanced around the room again, and as he did, it was clear he was remembering. “Be well, and be careful out there. Do not try to be a hero.”

Blay’s first thought was…well, since Qhuinn was usually the first in line for that, it was unlikely he was going to have to put any kind of Superman outfit on.

“I promise.”

As Saxton left, Blay stared off into space. He didn’t see what was in front of him, or remember what he and Saxton had shared in the room. Rather, his mind was next door with Qhuinn, and Qhuinn’s things…and the memories he had of that session with Qhuinn.

Shit.

Glancing at the clock, he put his phone into the chest pocket of the jacket and headed out. As he jogged down to the staircase, voices from the foyer echoed through the hall, a sign that the Brotherhood had already gathered and was waiting for the departure signal.

Sure enough, they were all there. Z and Phury. V and Butch. Rhage, Tohr, and John Matthew.

As he descended, he found himself wishing that Qhuinn was going to come with them—but surely the male was staying home, given the Layla situation.

Where was Payne? he wondered as he went to stand next to John Matthew.

Tohr nodded a hello in Blay’s direction. “Okay, we’re waiting for one more, and then we’ll start moving. First wave will go to the location. On the all-clear, I will dematerialize with Wrath to the house with backup by—”

Lassiter skidded in from the billiards room, the fallen angel glowing from his black-and-blond hair and white eyes, all the way down to his shitkickers. Then again, maybe the illumination wasn’t his nature, but that gold he insisted on wearing.

He looked like a living, breathing jewelry tree.

“I’m here. Where’s my chauffeur hat?”

“Here, use mine,” Butch said, outing a B Sox cap and throwing it over. “It’ll help that hair of yours.”

The angel caught the thing on the fly and stared at the red S. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Do not tell me you’re a Yankees fan,” V drawled. “I’ll have to kill you, and frankly, tonight we need all the wingmen we’ve got.”

Lassiter tossed the cap back. Whistled. Looked casual.

“Are you serious?” Butch said. Like the guy had maybe volunteered for a lobotomy. Or a limb amputation. Or a pedicure.

“No fucking way,” V echoed. “When and where did you become a friend of the enemy—”

The angel held up his palms. “It’s not my fault you guys suck—”

Tohr actually stepped in front of Lassiter, like he was worried that something a lot more than smack talk was going to start flying. And the sad thing was, he was right to be concerned. Apart from their shellans, V and Butch loved the Sox above almost everything else—including sanity.

“Okay, okay,” Tohr said, “we have bigger things to worry about—”

“He has to sleep at some point,” Butch muttered to his roommate.

“Yeah, watch yourself, angel,” V sneered. “We don’t like your kind.”

Lassiter shrugged, like the Brothers were nothing more than yappy dogs circling his ankles. “Is someone talking to me? Or is that just the sound of losing—”

Lot of shouting at that point.

“Two words, bitches,” Lassiter sneered. “Johnny. Damon. Oh, wait, Kevin. Youkilis. Or Wade. Boggs. Roger. Clemens. Is it that the food sucks in Boston? Or just the ball game?”

Butch lunged at that point, clearly prepared to light the guy up like a Christmas tree—

“What the fuck is going on down there!”

The bellowing voice from above shut off the Sox-versus-Yankees showdown.

As Tohr hauled the cop out of angel range, everyone looked over while the king was led downward by his queen. Wrath’s presence tightened everyone up, the crew going professional. Even Lassiter.

Well, except for Butch. But then, he’d been “wicked hyped up,” as he’d call it, for the last twenty-four hours—and he had good reason to be tetchy: His shellan was going to be at the Council meeting. Which, from the Brother’s point of view, was like having two Wraths there. The trouble was, Marissa was the oldest of her line, and that meant if Rehv wanted full attendance, she had to be present.

Poor bastard.

In the lull that followed, Blay’s dagger hand started to tingle, and he had an almost irresistible urge to palm a weapon. All he could think about was that this was nearly identical to the prelude to Wrath’s shooting back in the fall—on that night, they had all gathered here, and Wrath had come down with Beth…and a bullet had been shot out of a rifle and ended its trajectory in the king’s throat.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one thinking like that. A number of hands went to holsters and stayed put.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Tohr said.

Blay turned with a frown, and had to swallow his reaction. It wasn’t Payne who joined them; it was Qhuinn. And man, the male looked more than ready to fuck some shit up, his eyes grim, his body taut as a bowstring in its black leather.

For a moment, a fissure of pure, sexual awareness shot through Blay.

To the point that a totally inappropriate fantasy occurred to him: namely, he and Qhuinn ducking into the pantry for a quick, clothes-stay-on fuck.

With a groan, he refocused on the king. Which was only appropriate. Wrath was what mattered here, not his frickin’ love life….

A feeling of unease replaced the lust.

Were he and Qhuinn ever going to be together again?

God, what a strange thought. It wasn’t like the sex was a good idea emotionally. Arguably, it was an extremely bad one.

But he wanted more of it. God help him.

“All right, let’s do this,” Tohr spoke up. “Everyone know where we’re going?”

It was a troubling relief to have the grave nature of the assignment in front of them clear his brain of everything but the commitment to save Wrath’s life…even if it cost him his own.

That was better than worrying about the Qhuinn shit, though.

For certain.