“I don’t know if I can do that, Blay.” Qhuinn put his palms up. “I’m not being an asshole here. I’m really not. It’s just … I know myself. And after she put them in danger like that, and lied for so long to cover it up? I can’t come back from that, not even for you.”

“I think you need to focus more on who Xcor is rather than on what she did.”

“I know who he is. That’s the issue.”

“Well, I just spoke with Tohr, who told me everything—”

Qhuinn threw up his hands and walked around. “Oh, come on—”

“And I really think you need to recast things.”

“I’m not going to forget what happened, Blay. I can’t.”

“No one’s asking you to do that.”

As Qhuinn paced around, he decided these conversations about that Bastard were turning things into fucking Groundhog Day. Without Bill Murray. So yes, it sucked.

“Look, I don’t want to debate you,” he said as he stopped and looked across the room at Blay.

“I don’t want that, either. And we’re not debating this because I’m not discussing it any further. You make it right with Layla, or I’m not coming back.”

“What the hell, Blay—how can you make you and me about her?”

“I’m making you and me about this family. The two of them”—he pointed to the bassinets—“and the three of us. We’re a family, but only if we stick together. Blood only means so much, and after the shit your parents pulled, you know this firsthand. If we can’t—if you can’t—forgive and love and move on, then you and I aren’t going to last, because I’m not going to sit by and pretend I’m okay with you resenting that poor daughter of yours just because she looks like her mahmen. Or waiting until I do something that you can’t get over. You challenged me to forgive you for what you did—and I have. Now I’m expecting you to do the same for Layla.”

Blay went back to the door. “I love you with everything I’ve got, and when you and Layla had those kids? You gave me a complete family. And I want my family back, the whole thing—and that includes Layla.”

“Blay, please—”

“That’s my condition. And I’m going to make it stick. See you out in the field.”

As Xcor got ready to leave the ranch just before midnight, he let his shellan check the fastenings on the bulletproof vest. She was very thorough, to the point where he had a feeling if she could have strapped herself to his chest, she would have.

Capturing her hands, he kissed her fingertips one by one.

“I am a lucky male, to be cared for thusly.”

Fates, he hated her distress. Would have done anything he could have to replace it with joy—especially as he feared that only more sorrow was before her. If he lived through tonight, if the Brotherhood held true to what Wrath wanted, they were still out of road for their journey.

“I fear I can’t let you leave,” she said through a wobbling smile. “I fear … I cannot bear you to go.”

As her voice broke, he closed his eyes. “I will be back home here soon enough.”

He kissed her so that they couldn’t talk about it anymore, and as she fiercely returned his embrace, he tried to remember every detail about the way she felt against him, and how her lips tasted, and what it was to have her scent in his nose.

When he finally inched back, he stared into her pale green eyes. His favorite color, as it turned out. Who knew he had one?

And then he stepped away and didn’t look back. He didn’t dare.

Going over to the slider, he could smell her tears, but again, he did not stop on his way. There was no stopping any of this now.

The door made no sound as he pulled it open and stepped through, and he was careful not to turn around as he closed it behind himself.

Progressing outside the glow of the porch’s security lights, he went around the far corner of the garage. There was an old shed there, one that was big enough for a riding mower, and tall enough for the handles of hoes and shovels.

As he opened the flimsy door, its hinges let out a squeak of protest.

Reaching into the darkness, he retrieved his scythe and flipped it onto his back, securing it with a simple rope tie that ran across his chest. He hadn’t wanted to bring it into the house with Layla there. It had just seemed wrong.

With the knives and the guns he already had on him, he was ready for war no matter who brought it, be it lesser or Brother.

As he closed his eyes and prepared to dematerialize off to meet his males, he prayed for two things.

One, that he made it back here to see Layla one more time before he left.

And two, that Wrath had as much control as he seemed to think he did over the Brotherhood.

Funny how the two were intimately connected.

SIXTY

As Tohr sat alone in the bedroom he shared with Autumn, he held a black dagger in his hands. The blade had been both fashioned and maintained by Vishous, the weapon constantly kept sharp, its handle perfectly fitted to Tohr’s grip, and Tohr’s grip alone.

It was unfathomable to think he would never wield it again.

When he had told his shellan what had happened, and why, she had been saddened. It was the first time, he realized, that he’d really let her down—and given that he was still only half a male because of all the Wellsie shit? That was really saying something.

At least the two of them had somewhere to go. Xhex was going to let them crash for the next couple of nights at that hunting cabin of hers—the one where he and Layla had had their showdown.

He was sooooo happy about returning there.

Turning the knife over, he angled the black blade so that the light from the bedside table hit the tiny nicks on the sharp edges. He’d been about to suggest V do a little polish job on the thing—it wasn’t as if Tohr would be allowed to. That brother worked so hard crafting the weapons that he got shirty if anyone tried to hone one themselves.

But guess all that was moot now—

Okay, why the hell was fucking Simon and Garfunkel going through his frickin’ head? Hellllllloooooo darrrrrknesssss myyyy olllllld friiiiiend—

“Fuck me.”

Hard to know what was worse. That god-awful sixties music refraining through his gray matter, or the fact that he’d been fired from the only job he’d ever done, ever wanted to do, ever been good at.

Although come on, how hard could it be to work a deep fryer? There was that to look forward to.

And meanwhile, his beautiful female was down in the basement with Fritz trying to find boxes for their shit—

The knock on his door was a welcome diversion. At this rate, he was going to end up on Prozac and M&M’s to deal with the depression he was rocking.

“Come in?” Maybe it was a doggen with a bunch of containers. “Hello? Come in?”

When there was no answer, he frowned and got up to go to the door. He had put his leathers and shitkickers on when he’d gotten dressed because that was just what he did. Maybe now he’d swap them out for a bunch of cardigans and loose grandpa khakis that pooled in the butt and stayed in place thanks to suspenders.

Yeah, ’cuz that was hot—

As he opened the door wide, words failed him.

Wrath was standing there, looking like the King he was, all dressed in black with those wraparounds on. Behind him, in a semi-circle, the Brotherhood, and Blay and John Matthew, were like a war waiting to happen, all those males armed and ready to fight.

“Hello, my old friend,” Wrath said as he offered his hand. “Want to come to the party?”

Tohr swallowed hard. “What, ah … um … I’m sorry?”

Wrath just shrugged. “Saxton is all up my ass about human resources policies and procedures. Apparently in these times, you gotta warn someone before you can ’em. You know, bring ’em in, offer them retraining, wipe their ass for them, you know, this type of thing. Before you fire them.”

Rhage piped up. “Also, let’s face it. You’re the most reasonable one in this group.”

“A full cock going off,” somebody chimed in. “Instead of a half cock like the rest of us.”

“Quarter cock in Rhage’s case—”