A Warm Heart in Winter (Black Dagger Brotherhood 18.50)

After all, Qhuinn knew exactly what it was like to be less than, through circumstances completely beyond your control. He hadn’t chosen his mismatched eyes; his brother hadn’t chosen to be abducted by Lash and tortured. So, yes, the last thing Qhuinn would ever do was rub Luchas’s nose in the very obvious reality that there had been a reversal of fortune for them both.

Looking around, Qhuinn focused on the armchair. Usually when he’d come into this room, he’d find his brother there, a book open in his lap, a cup of tea on that table by the lamp. Because Luchas had always been dressed in clean things, and his hair freshly washed, and that cane set aside… it had been simpler to believe all was well. Or at least, all was improving, even if it was just at a snail’s pace.

Qhuinn went over to the little table and picked up what his brother had been reading. Because it was easier than touching that last missive’s envelope.

Ah, yes. A little light diversion before bed: The leather-bound volume was in the Old Language, something that was, giv

en the current status of Qhuinn’s head, wholly foreign and totally unreadable to him as he flipped through the pages.

When he got to where a satin ribbon marked Luchas’s pause, he felt sick with sadness.

This journey of letters and words and sentences and paragraphs would never be completed, the eyes that had traced the symbols that had been written now closed forever.

With a sad capitulation, Qhuinn lowered himself into the chair his brother had spent so many hours in. He kept hold of the book, closing it up and cradling it in his hands. As he stared across at the empty bed, he pictured Layla with the twins and wondered exactly where the visit had occurred. It would help him picture it if he knew whether they’d been over there on the bed or here on the chair and ottoman.

He would ask her for the details later.

He wanted to hold on to the memory, even if it was one he had to create on his own.

And maybe it was better that way. He wanted a picture-perfect, happy, imagined storyline of Layla coming down with the young and Luchas sitting in this chair with both of them in his lap. A poignant, final goodbye—

Had Luchas had his plan already set? Or had it been later?

As Qhuinn let his head fall back, he tried to stop his mind from spinning. When that failed miserably, he considered getting a bottle of Herradura. Then he upgraded that plan to asking Manny for some knockout drops in the form of nice, little white pills that would help him exit this miserable train at the REM Sleep Station.

Surrounded by his brother’s few things, he thought back to an evening in his own timeline, one that he had never told Luchas about. One that only Blay really knew of.

Because Blay had been the one who saved him from his own suicide attempt.

And it was because of that that Qhuinn couldn’t blame his mate for what he’d said to Luchas. That one comment about the private guard was not the reason for it all—and besides, Blay had already proven himself and his loyalty and his compassion over and over again, throughout his life.

There had been a lot of reasons why Luchas had chosen to walk out into that storm. So many reasons, all of which were tragic, none of which were a mystery.

A news flash about the King’s private guard? Drop in the bucket.

Qhuinn’s eyes returned to the rolling table. From his current angle, he couldn’t see the envelope, couldn’t read those two words that had been written upon it, couldn’t reach for the thing if he’d wanted to.

And, he realized, he didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to read whatever was in there. He’d rather have unfinished business forever…

… as opposed to confirmation that maybe, just maybe, it was his fault because he’d been too busy, too negligent, too self-centered to take care of his own blood and make sure that Luchas was getting not just the medical care he needed, but the psychological counseling that was just as important to health and well-being.

Maybe more important.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

One week later, Blay opened the door to his bedroom suite’s bathroom and leaned out. Across the way, the light in the walk-in closet was glowing, the illumination spilling onto the Persian carpet, making the jewel tones even brighter. He hesitated. Then retreated back and shut the door again.

Looking around, he saw that everything was the same in the loo. The toothbrushes by the pair of sinks were in their separate holders and the pair of paste tubes, one Crest, the other Colgate, were teamed with their appropriate Oral-B partners. The Waterpik on one side was Qhuinn’s.

It had been likewise in the shower, the shampoo and conditioner bottles where they had always been. The bar of soap was just a single in a dish, as they both used Ivory.

Because it was ninety-nine percent pure. Whatever the hell that meant.

At a loss, Blay lowered the toilet seat, rewrapped the bath towel around his body, and sat down. For some reason, it seemed vitally important to cover himself even though no one was in with him—and he remembered Qhuinn sitting in the same place during that bath time right after Luchas had been found.

That was as close as he and his mate had been for the last seven nights.