Lover at Last (Black Dagger Brotherhood #11) - J.R. Ward Page 0,216

in your honor.

And spending the night watching Blay and Saxton together? Not going to happen.

Except now that he was here, he didn’t think he was up to any kind of conversation.

“What happened with the house?” Luchas asked.

“Ah…nothing. I mean, after…what happened went down, no one claimed it, and I had no rights to it. When it reverted to Wrath, he gave it back to me—but listen, it’s yours. I haven’t been inside of it since I got kicked out.”

“I don’t want it.”

Okaaaaaaaaaaay, another big surprise. Growing up, his brother had talked nonstop of everything he’d wanted to accomplish when he was older: the schooling, the social prominence, taking over where their father left off.

Him saying no was like someone turning down a throne—unfathomable.

“Have you ever been tortured?” Luchas murmured.

His childhood came to mind. Then the Honor Guard. But he sure as shit wasn’t going to bust the guy’s balls. “I been knocked around some.”

“I’ll bet. What happened afterward?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get used to normal again?”

Qhuinn flexed his sore hands, looking at his own fingers that were all perfectly functional and intact in spite of the aches. His brother wasn’t going to be able to count to ten anymore: Healing was one thing, regeneration another entirely.

“There is no normal anymore,” he heard himself say. “You kind of…just keep going, because that’s all you got. The hardest thing is being with other people—it’s like they’re on a different wavelength, but only you know it. They talk about their lives and what’s wrong with them, and you kind of, like, just let them go. It’s a whole different language, and you’ve got to remember that you can only respond in their mother tongue. It’s really hard to relate.”

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” Luchas said slowly. “That’s right.”

Qhuinn scrubbed his face again. “I never expected to have anything in common with you.”

But they did. As Luchas looked over, those perfectly matched eyes met Qhuinn’s fucked-up ones, and the connection was there: They had both been through hell, and that lockstep was more powerful than the common DNA they shared.

It was so weird.

And funny, he guessed tonight was the night for him to find family everywhere.

Except the one place he wanted it.

As silence prevailed, with nothing but the steady beeping of the machinery by the bedside to break up the quiet, Qhuinn stayed for a long while. He and his brother didn’t talk much, and that was okay. That was what he wanted. He wasn’t ready to open up to the guy about Layla or the young, and he supposed it was telling that Luchas didn’t ask if he was mated. And he sure as hell wasn’t bringing up the Blay thing.

It was good to sit with his brother, though. There was something about the people you grew up around, the ones you’d seen throughout your childhood, the folks you couldn’t remember not knowing. Even if the past was a complicated mess, as you aged, you were just glad the sons of bitches were still on the planet.

It gave you the illusion that life wasn’t as fragile as it actually was—and on occasion, that was the only thing that got you through the night.

“I’d better go so you can rest,” he said, rubbing his knees, waking up his legs.

Luchas turned his head on that hospital pillow. “Odd dress for you, isn’t it?”

Qhuinn glanced down at the black robe. “Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on.”

“Looks ceremonial.”

“You need anything?” Qhuinn stood up. “Food?”

“I’m doing well enough. But thank you.”

“Well, you let me know, okay.”

“You are a very decent fellow, Qhuinn, you know that?”

Qhuinn’s heart stopped, and then beat hard. That was the phrase that their father had always used to describe gentlemales…it was the A-plus of compliments, the top of the pile, the equivalent of a bear hug and a high five from a normal guy.

“Thanks, man,” he said roughly. “You, too.”

“How can you say that?” Luchas cleared his throat. “How in the name of the Virgin Scribe can you say that?”

Qhuinn exhaled hard. “You want the bottom line? Well, I’ll give you it. You were the favorite. I was the curse—we were on opposite ends of the scale in that household. But neither one of us had a chance. You were no more free than I was. You had no choice about your future—it was predetermined at birth, and in a way, my eyes? They were my get-out-of-jail, because it meant he didn’t care about me. Did he fuck me over?