Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood 8)

He started down the steps, moving fast.

And was not at all surprised when Qhuinn stuck with him--and the conversation. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Oh, right, like they needed to do this in front of the people in the dining room. Qhuinn was fine with audiences for all sorts of things, but Blay did not find peanut galleries helpful in the slightest.

He marched back up two steps, until they were face-to-face. "What was her name?"

Qhuinn recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"The receptionist's name. "

"What receptionist?"

"From last night. At the tat shop. "

Qhuinn rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on--"

"Her name. "

"God, I have no fucking clue. " Qhuinn went palms-up, the universal language for whatever. "Why does it matter?"

Blay opened his mouth, on the verge of spelling out that what had meant nothing to Qhuinn had been hell to watch. But then he knew it would sound possessive and stupid.

Instead of talking, he reached into his pocket, took out his Dunhills, and fingered one up. Popping it into his mouth, he lit the thing while staring into those mismatched eyes.

"I hate that you smoke," Qhuinn muttered.

"Get over it," Blay said, turning away and heading downward.

Chapter Eleven

"Where you going, John?"

Down in the mudroom at the back of the mansion, John froze with his hand on one of the doors that led into the garage. Goddamn it. . . a house this big, you'd think you could leave without an audience. But no. . . eyes everywhere. Opinions. . . everywhere.

It was like the orphanage in that respect.

He turned and faced Zsadist. The Brother had a napkin in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, having obviously just gotten up from the dining room table and come in through the kitchen. And gee, guess what. . . next person through the door was Qhuinn, and he had a half-eaten turkey leg with him as if it were his last hope of food for, like, the next ten hours.

Blay's arrival turned it into a fucking convention.

Z nodded at the grip John's hand had on the knob, somehow managing to look like a serial killer in spite of the baby paraphernalia. Probably the facial scar. More likely the eyes that were flashing black.

"I asked you a question, boy. "

I'm taking the frickin' garbage out.

"So where's your Rubbermaid. "

Qhuinn polished off his dinner and then deliberately walked over to the trash bins to toss the cleaned-off bone. "Yeah, John. You wanna answer that. "

No, he fucking didn't.

I'm out of here, he signed.

Z leaned forward and planted a palm on the door panels, the napkin hanging loose like a flag. "You've been taking off a little earlier and a little earlier every night, but you've reached the cutoff. I'm not letting you go this early. You'll be burned to a crisp. And P. S. , if you ever think of leaving without your private guard again, Wrath's going use your face as a hammer, feel me?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, John. " Qhuinn's voice was a growl of disgust and he had an expression on his puss like someone had cleaned a bathroom with his bedsheets. "I've never stopped you. Ever. But you fuck me like this?"