Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood 9)

“You’re welcome,” she said slowly. “And I’ll get word to V.”

“Good.”

Back at Payne’s room, he entered silently and stopped just inside the door. She was dead asleep in the dimness, the glow gone from her skin. Would she wake up paralyzed again? Or would the progress stay with her?

He guessed they would have to find out.

Leaning the crutches and braces against the wall, he went over to the hard chair by the bed and sat down, crossing his legs and trying to get comfortable. No way he was going to sleep. He just wanted to watch her—

“Join me,” she said into all the quiet. “Please. I need your warmth right now.”

As he remained where he was, he realized the stay-sitting routine wasn’t really about her brother. It was a coping mechanism to keep him separate from her whenever he could. They were absolutely going to be hooking up again—likely soon. And he would go down on her for hours if that was what it took. But he couldn’t afford to lose himself in some fantasy that this was going anywhere permanent for them.

Two different worlds.

He just didn’t belong with her.

Manny leaned forward, put his hand on hers and stroked her arm. “Shh . . . I’m right here.”

As she turned her head toward him, her eyes were shut, and he had a feeling she was talking in her sleep. “Do not leave me, healer.”

“My name is Manny,” he whispered. “Manuel Manello . . . M.D.”

THIRTY

The whistle was hard and sharp, and as it bulleted around the mansion’s foyer, Qhuinn knew the shrill demand had been made by John Matthew.

Fuck knew he’d heard it enough over the last three years.

Stopping with one foot on the grand staircase’s bottom step, he mopped up his sweaty face with his balled-up shirt and then caught his balance on the massive carved banister. His head was as light and fluffy as a pillow after his workout—which was in direct contrast to the rest of him: His legs and ass felt like they weighed as much as this goddamned mansion—

When the whistle came again, he thought, Oh, right, someone was talking to him. Pivoting around, he got an eyeful of John Matthew standing in between the ornate jambs of the dining room doorway.

What the hell did you do to yourself, the guy signed before pointing at his own dome.

Well, check his shit out, Qhuinn thought. In the past, a question like that would have covered a fuck of a lot more than a change in hairstyle.

“It’s called a trim.”

You sure about that? I’m pretty sure it’s called a hot mess.

Qhuinn rubbed the fade he’d given himself. “It’s no big deal.”

At least you know toupees are an option. John’s blue eyes narrowed. And where is all your metal?

“In my gun closet.”

Not your weapons, the shit that was on your face.

Qhuinn just shook his head and turned to go, uninterested in discussing all the piercings he’d taken out. His brain was tangled and his body was exhausted, so stiff and sore from his daily runs—

That whistle came again and nearly had him tossing a fuck-off over his shoulder. He cut the crap, though, because it would save time: John never let up when he was in this kind of mood.

Glancing back, he growled, “What.”

You need to eat more. Whether it’s at meals or on your own. You’re turning into a skeleton—

“I’m fine—”