A Warm Heart in Winter (Black Dagger Brotherhood 18.50)

With a numb disassociation, he looked around and recognized the malachite columns, the staircase that rose with such great majesty to the second story, the sconces, the ceiling high above with its warriors and steeds. And beneath his feet? The mosaic depiction of an apple tree in full bloom was just as it was supposed to be.

If Luchas had been moved up here, if he’d been given a proper guestroom with beautiful things and a marble bathroom… if he’d been treated like a member of the family, instead of an invalid who was nothing but his infirmity… would it have made a difference? Would he have held on a little longer?

“Why didn’t I ask him how he was?” Qhuinn turned to his mate. “I should have asked him.”

“You did, many times. I was there for a lot of them.”

“It feels like I didn’t do it enough.”

Every time he blinked, he saw his brother’s remains. Each time he breathed, the pain in his chest got worse. With every beat of his heart, he was boomeranged back to the past and then dragged forward to the present. Images assaulted him, memories battering around his head of him and his brother growing up in that house with their

parents and Solange, all the strictures, the discipline… and in Qhuinn’s case, the censure. And then there were more recent memories, of him sitting at Luchas’s bedside, the pair of them talking about nothing.

Why had he wasted those opportunities? They’d had two, maybe three, serious conversations where they’d gone deep into how Luchas was feeling about his injuries and what had happened to him. But most of their interactions had been kept on the surface. Safely on the surface.

Because Qhuinn had always thought he’d have more time. Sure, not an endless number of nights and days—it wasn’t like they were immortal—but he hadn’t pressed anything, had respected boundaries that might or might not have been there, had given space and kept things light… because he’d assumed there was a future readily available to cover the important things.

When it was time.

Whatever that meant.

And now he was here.

He was here on this heartbreaking side of the great divide that had opened up between them, a divide Luchas had chosen to create when he had walked out into that storm.

A divide that potentially was eternal, if that bullshit about taking your own life was true when it came to the Fade.

If only Qhuinn had known that the male was so close to a decision that could not be unmade. If he’d had a clue, he could have talked Luchas into staying in the land of living. He could have reminded him that he had people who loved him, and a niece and nephew who needed their uncle, and—

From out of the corner of his eye, he noted that someone was standing just inside the billiards room, a tall figure that was, at first, indistinct.

Oddly, what caused recognition to click was a memory from First Meal the night before… of Lassiter staring down the table at him, that odd expression on the angel’s face, his strangely colored eyes so grave.

Like he’d known what was coming.

All at once, Qhuinn’s emotions coalesced into a spearhead, the tip of which was everything he would have done differently if he’d known, if he’d gotten a heads-up, if he could have been down in the training center when it had mattered, standing outside Luchas’s room, the physical barrier that was in the way of his brother’s conclusion that his life was no longer worth living…

… so he was going to walk out and die in a snowstorm.

The sound that ripped out of Qhuinn’s throat was that of an animal, and then his body launched into an attack without any conscious direction from him.

He closed the distance and threw himself at the angel, grabbing on to the front of the male’s neck with one hand while swinging widely with his right fist. And as soon as he made that cracking contact with Lassiter’s face, he didn’t stop. He swung again, now from the left side, hitting whatever was in the way. Then he locked hold of the head and swung hard, casting the angel out into the foyer, onto the mosaic floor.

People were shouting at him. He heard nothing.

People were pulling at him. He shoved them off.

Qhuinn let loose with pounding fists and kicking legs, mounting the angel’s prone body and slamming Lassiter over and over again into the hard floor—

Without warning, Qhuinn was lifted off bodily, dragged back and held off, whoever it was strong enough to keep him from his target.

So he used his voice instead of his fists.

“You knew!” he screamed at Lassiter. “You knew what he was going to do—and you didn’t tell me! You cost me my brother!”

He fought against the iron bars that were under his armpits. They held steady.

“Or you could have stopped him!” Qhuinn’s voice rebounded all around, all the way up to the ceiling. “You’re an angel, you’re supposed to save souls—was he not good enough for you? Was my brother too broken for you to bother saving? Why! Why did you let my brother die!”