Which had been ingested on the Monty Python Thin Mint Theory. So yes, it was entirely possible that he was going to explode all over this beautiful kitchen, with its maple paneling and its wooden floor and the copper pans that hung as decoration over that island.

“More French toast?” Lyric asked him with a smile.

When she held the platter out to him, his gag reflex hit the playback button and he nearly refunded all that nice food she’d cooked right onto the leftovers.

“I think I’ll take a breather before seconds.”

Or was that more like eighths?

“You certainly packed it away, son,” Blay’s dad said as he, too, sat back. “Been a while since you had a good meal? What’s Fritz feeding you guys over there, kale and tofu?”

“Oh, you know.” Actually, it’s been a little hard to eat given that my mate has essentially moved out. “Busy, busy.”

“You work too hard,” Lyric said as she repositioned her namesake in her arms. “Doesn’t he? Your father works way too hard.”

Little Lyric let out a coo that was timed perfectly—if the kid’s aim was to melt her grandmother.

“She looks so much like Layla.” Lyric glanced at her hellren. “Doesn’t she? She’s going to be so beautiful when she grows up.”

Rocke nodded and toasted both Qhuinn and Blay with his mug. “Good thing you boys know your way around a gun.”

Blay spoke up. “She’s going to learn her own self-defense. So she can take care of herself and—”

As he stopped abruptly and looked out the windows, Qhuinn murmured, “That’s right. And you’re going to teach her. Aren’t you, Blay?”

When the male didn’t reply, Lyric looked at Qhuinn. “I’m hogging your daughter, aren’t I? You haven’t held her all night.”

The female went to turn the young around, and as Qhuinn saw those features that were a spitting image of her mahmen, he recoiled—and recovered fast.

“Actually, I’m good. But thanks.”

He made a show of leaning away and talking to Rhamp, who was in Blay’s dad’s arms. “And we’re going to teach you to fight, too. Ain’t that right, big guy?”

“Are you really going to put him into the war?” Lyric said. “I mean, perhaps he could find another way in this world—”

“He’s the son of a Brother,” Blay cut in as he stood up. “So he’s going to be what his father is.”

The male picked up his plate and his mahmen’s and headed for the sink.

“Oh, here, Qhuinn take her,” the female said.

Qhuinn shook his head. “Would you mind putting her into her carrier? I’m going to help with the dishes.”

“And you,” Blay’s dad murmured to his mom, “need to get off that foot. Up to bed. Come on.”

“I need to tidy up.”

“No,” Blay said firmly. “You cook, I clean, remember?”

“Listen to your son, Lyric.”

As another of the couple’s genteel, respectful arguments started, Qhuinn set about desperately trying to catch Blay’s stare while they moved platters and plates, pitchers and mugs over to the island.

Blay was having none of it. In fact, the guy seemed livid for some reason—though he hid it well as his parents got ready to pair off and get Lyric settled in bed.

As Blay’s mom gave Qhuinn a hug, he more than returned the favor. “I’ll come again soon.”

“You better. And bring my grandbabies, thank you very much.”

Blay’s dad swept her up into his arms. “I’ll be down to help in a minute, boys.”

“Or,” Lyric said, “you can watch a little television with your mate.”

“This mess needs to—”

“They’re grown males. They’ll take care of it just fine. Come on, there’s a show on the next mass extinction I’ve wanted to watch with you.”

“Just what I’ve been looking for,” Blay’s dad said with dry affection.

As the two went off for the stairs, Qhuinn could have sworn Lyric gave him the nod of, I’ve got this. You take your time—

“You want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Qhuinn recoiled and stopped in the process of heading back to the table to pick up the napkins. “I’m sorry?”

Blay leaned against the sink and crossed his arms over his chest. “You haven’t looked at her all night. You won’t touch her. What the hell is going on?”

Shaking his head, Qhuinn said, “I’m sorry, I’m not following—”

Blay jabbed his finger at the carriers. “Lyric.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

As Blay glared at him, Qhuinn felt his exhaustion return tenfold. “Look, I’m not—”

“I know I’m not her parent, but—”

“Oh, God, not that again.” He let his head fall back on his spine and stared at the paneled ceiling. “Please, not again—”

“—I’m not going to stand here and let you ignore her just because she looks like Layla and you can’t stand the Chosen. I’m not going to have it, Qhuinn. It’s not fair to your daughter.”

It was on the tip of Qhuinn’s tongue to tell the guy that he didn’t understand, but yeah, no. He wasn’t going that route.

Blay jabbed a finger across the way. “She’s a good baby, and as long as you don’t fuck up the next twenty-five years or so, she’s going to turn into a spectacular female. And I don’t care if I’m not on their birthing charts and have no right to them—”

“No offense, but enough with that. It doesn’t hold water anymore.”

As Blay’s eyes narrowed like he was getting good and ready to blow a gasket, Qhuinn reached into the diaper bag and put a sheaf of papers on the granite countertop.

Sliding them across at the guy, he said, “I’ve taken care of all that.”

“What?”

Exhaling long and slow, Qhuinn dragged himself over to the table and dumped his weight in a chair. Fiddling with a crumpled napkin, he nodded at the documents.

“Just read ’em.”

Blay was clearly in the mood to argue, but something must have reached him, some kind of vibe, or maybe it was Qhuinn’s expression.

“Why?” the guy demanded.

“You’ll see.”

As the other male picked up the papers and unfolded them, Qhuinn tracked each and every nuance of that handsome, familiar face, the twitches of the brow, the tightening—and then loosening—of the mouth and jaw, the utter shock and disbelief that replaced the anger.

“What have you done?” Blay asked when he eventually looked up.

“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.”

As Blay went on a reread, Qhuinn stared at the pair of carriers, at the babies in them, at the two sets of eyes that were starting to droop.

“I can’t let you do this,” Blay said finally. “Too late. That’s the King’s seal at the bottom.”

Blay came across to the table and seemed to fall into the chair his mother had been sitting in. “This is …”

“You have my parental rights. You’re now their father legally.”

“Qhuinn, you don’t have to do this.”

“The hell I don’t. I’m putting my money where my mouth is.” He pointed at the paperwork. “I declared myself incompetent and unfit—and what do you know, when you discharge a firearm in your kids’ bedroom, that’s an easy argument to win. And Saxton did the case law research. We took it to Wrath and he approved it.”

Not readily, of course. But at the end of the night, what could the King do? Especially when Qhuinn explained the point of it all.

“I can’t believe …” Blay shook his head again. “What does Layla have to say about this?”

“Nothing. It’s got nothing to do with her.”

“She’s their mahmen.”

“And now you’re their father. Tell her if you want, or not. I don’t care.” As Blay frowned, Qhuinn tossed aside the napkin and sat forward. “Look, I’m their sire forevermore. My blood is in their veins. Nothing and no one will ever change that. I’m not giving away the fact that I sired them or the reality that I will always be in their lives. What I am doing is giving you a legal say-so. When I lost my damn mind in that damn bedroom? That was emotion.” He pointed at the documents again. “That is reality.”