Lover Reborn

How had this happened? Who had done this to him?

Given the number of gauze-wrapped limbs out in the hallway, it was obvious the lessers had sent a brutal force out into the streets of Caldwell upon the eve. And Qhuinn had certainly taken on the toughest, meanest member of the enemy forces. He was like that. Unflinching, always willing to put himself on the line… to the point where she worried about that vengeful streak of his.

It was such a fine distinction between courage and deadly recklessness.

When he was finished, she closed her wounds and pulled up a chair, sitting beside him with her palm against his once more.

It was a relief to watch the miraculous transformation of the injuries on his face. At this rate, they would soon be nothing but surface wounds, barely noticeable upon the morrow’s arrival.

Whatever damage he had internally would likewise be discharged.

He was going to survive.

Sitting with him in silence, she thought about the pair of them, and the friendship that had sprouted from that misplaced adoration of hers. If anything happened to him, she would mourn him as a brother of her own blood, and there was naught that she would not do for him—further, she had the keen sense that the same was true on his side as well.

Indeed, he had done so much for her. He had taught her to drive and to fight with her fists, to shoot a gun and operate all manner of computer equipment. He had shown her movies and exposed her to music, bought her clothes that were other than the traditional white robe of the Chosen, took time to answer her questions about this side and make her laugh when she needed to.

She had learned so much from him. Owed him so much.

So it seemed… ungrateful… to feel dissatisfied with her lot. But of late she had experienced a strange irony: The more she was exposed to, the emptier her life felt. And yet as much as he urged her in opposite directions, she still looked upon her service to the Brotherhood as the most important thing she could do with her time—

As Qhuinn tried to reposition himself, he cursed from discomfort, and she reached out to calm him, stroking back his stringy hair. Only one eye of his worked, and it shifted over to her, the light behind the blue color exhausted and grateful.

A smile stretched her lips and she brushed his busted-up cheek with the very tips of her fingers. Strange, this platonic closeness they shared—it was an island, a sanctuary, and she valued it so much more than whatever heat she had once felt for him.

The vital link also made her aware of how much he suffered, watching his beloved Blay with Saxton.

His pain was ever present, coating him as his very flesh did and binding him in the same way, defining his contours and straightaways.

It made her resent Blay at times, even though it was not her place to judge: If there was one thing she had learned, it was that the hearts of others were known only to themselves—and Blay was, at his core, a male of worth—

The door opened behind her, and over her shoulder the male in her thoughts appeared as if summoned by her ruminations.

Blaylock was not uninjured himself, but he was far better off than the male on the bed—at least on the outside. Internally was a matter altogether different: still fully armed, he appeared far, far older than his years. Especially as he took in his fellow soldier.

He stopped short just inside the room. “I wanted to know how you… he… is doing.”

Layla refocused on Qhuinn. His working eye was locked on the redheaded male, and the regard he paid the other no longer pained her—well, not in the sense that she wanted it for herself.

She wished for Qhuinn this soldier. She truly did.

“Come in,” she said. “Please—we’re done here.”

Blay was slow in approaching, and his hands went to random buckles—on his holster, on his belt, on the leather strapping around his upper thigh.

His composure was retained, however. At least until he spoke. Then his voice quavered. “You dumb son of a bitch.”

Layla’s brows sunk into a glare, even though Qhuinn hardly needed someone like her to defend him. “I beg your pardon.”

“According to John, he went out of that house into the Band of Bastards. Alone.”

“Band of Bastards?”

“The ones who tried to assassinate Wrath tonight. This dumb son of a bitch took it upon himself to go out right into the middle of them, all alone, like he was some kind of superhero—it was a miracle he didn’t get himself killed.”

She immediately transferred her glare to the bed. Clearly, the Lessening Society had a new division, and the idea that he had exposed himself in such a way made her want to yell at him. “You… dumb son of a bitch.”

Qhuinn coughed a little. Then a little more.

With a stab of fear, she jumped up. “I shall get the doctors—”

Except Qhuinn was laughing. Not choking to death.

He laughed stiffly at first and then with growing expression, until the bed shook from the hilarity that only he saw.

“I find no levity in this,” she snapped.

“Nor I,” Blay cut in. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Qhuinn just continued to laugh, enjoying himself over the Scribe Virgin only knew what.

Layla glanced over at Blay. “I find myself rather wanting to hit him.”

“It’d be redundant at this point. Wait until he’s better, then have at him. Matter of fact, I’ll hold him down for you.”

“Right… thing… to do…” Qhuinn groaned out.

“I agree.” Layla put her hands on her hips. “Blay is absolutely right—I shall punch you later. And you taught me exactly where one needs to strike a male.”

“Nice,” Blay muttered.

After they all fell silent, the intense way the males stared at each other made her heart light up. Mayhap they could find an accord now?

“I shall go forth and check the others,” she said quickly. “To see if anyone else requires feeding—”

Qhuinn reached out and snagged her hand. “You?”

“No, I’m fine. You were more than generous enough last week. I feel very strong.” She bent down and kissed his forehead. “You just rest. I’ll check on you later.”

On her way past Blay, she said softly, “You two talk. I’ll tell everyone to leave you be.”

As the Chosen departed, Blay could only stare in disbelief at the back of her perfectly coiffed head.

When he’d walked into the room, the connection between Qhuinn and that female had socked him in the gut: all that eye contact, that hand-holding, the way she curved her elegant body toward him… the way that she and she alone sustained him.

And yet… it appeared as if she wanted him to be by himself with Qhuinn.

It made no sense. If anyone was incented to keep the pair of them apart, it was her.

Refocusing on the male, he thought, God, those injuries were hard to look at, even though they were in the process of healing.

“Who did you go up against?” he asked roughly. “And don’t bother arguing—I spoke to John as soon as I got home. I know what you did.”

Qhuinn lifted a swollen hand and made an X.

“Xcor…?” As the guy nodded, he grimaced like the movement made his head hurt. “Don’t—yeah, don’t force yourself.”

Qhuinn waved the concern off in his classic, nothing-doing kind of way. On a rasp, he said, “S’okay.”

“What made you go out there against him?”

“Wrath… was hit… knew Xcor’s ego—he’d have to be…” Big breath, one that rattled on its way out. “… the guy to prevent the king from leaving. Bastard had to… had to be incapacitated… or Wrath would never…”