Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11) - J.R. Ward Page 0,167

worked for Qhuinn.

“I want to be with you, too,” he said.

“I’ll come to your room after dawn.”

Qhuinn didn’t want to ask. Had to. “What about Saxton?”

“He’s gone on vacation.”

Reaaaaaaaaaaaaaally. “For how long?”

“Just a couple of days.”

Too bad. Any chance of an extension…for like a year or two? Maybe forever?

“Okay, it’s a—” Qhuinn stopped himself before he finished that with date.

There was no sense kidding himself. Saxton was away. Blay wanted to get laid. And Qhuinn was more than willing to supply the male with what he wanted.

That construct was not a date. But fuck it.

“Come to me,” he said in a growl. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

Blay nodded, like they’d made a pact, and then he was the one who left first, his body shifting with aggression as he walked by and went through the door.

Qhuinn watched the guy go. Stayed behind. Nearly shut himself in just so he could pull himself together.

Suddenly, he was fucked in the head, in spite of the promise that they’d be hooking up in a matter of hours: That expression on Blay’s face haunted him, to the point where his chest started to ache. Shit, maybe this current series of hookups was just a further evolution of the bad spots they’d been in before, a new facet of their collective unhappiness.

It had never dawned on him that they weren’t good for each other. That there wouldn’t be, in the future, some kind of meeting of the minds now that he’d opened himself after all these years.

Curling up a fist, he slammed it into the doorjamb, the imprint of the molding biting back into the heel of his hand.

As pain flared and then thumped, for some reason, he thought of punching that flatbed’s dashboard and screaming to get out. Felt like that had been a lifetime ago.

But he wasn’t turning back. If sex was what he could have, he was going to take it. Besides, what Blay had done for Layla?

Surely that meant something. The guy had cared enough to change the course of Qhuinn’s entire life.

Not that Blay hadn’t done that long ago.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Assail took form beside a babbling brook that remained ice-free thanks to its constant movement.

The house before him was one he had been to only one prior time, a brick Victorian with the period’s quintessential gingerbread motifs marking its porches and doorways. So quaint. So homey. Especially with those long four-paned windows made of leaded glass, and the curls of smoke lazying out of not one, but three of its four chimneys.

Which seemed to indicate its owner was back home for the night.

Fine timing, as it were: Dawn was coming soon, so it was logical to batten down one’s personal hatches for the sun. Secure one’s environment. Prepare for the hours that one needed to stay inside to protect oneself from harm.

Assail stalked across the pristine snow, leaving tracks with deep tread. No loafers for this job. No business suit, either.

No Range Rover for his burglar to follow.

Coming up the side lawn, he went over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of the very receiving room into which the master of the house had, not so very long ago, welcomed certain members of the Council…along with the Band of Bastards.

Assail had been numbered among the males at that meeting. At least until it had become clear that he had to remove himself or get drawn into precisely the kind of discourse and drama he was uninterested in.

At the glass, he looked inside.

Elan, son of Larex, was at his desk, a landline telephone up to his ear, a brandy snifter at his elbow, a cigarette smoldering in a cut-crystal ashtray beside him. As he leaned back in his leather club chair and crossed his legs at the knees, he appeared to be in a state of relaxation and self-satisfaction akin to that of postcoital bliss.

Assail made a fist, the black leather of his glove creaking ever so subtly.

And then he dematerialized into the very room, re-forming directly behind the male’s chair.

On one level, he couldn’t believe that Elan didn’t fortify his abode with greater security—a fine steel mesh over the windows and within the walls, for example. Then again, the aristocrat clearly suffered from a lack of appropriate risk assessment—as well as an arrogance that would grant him a greater sense of safety than he actually possessed.

“…and then Wrath shared a story about his father. I must confess, in person, the king is quite…ferocious. Although not enough to change my course, naturally.”

No, Assail was going