It was a blur, a total blur—
“Qhuinn?” Blay whispered. “You there?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” With a much louder voice, he said, “I do!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd, and Blay leaned in again. “We already did that.”
“We did?” Qhuinn flushed. “Then let’s get to it with the blades!”
They passed the young back to Xcor and Layla, and then they went to the two black mats that had been laid out in front of the table.
“You have chosen two to assist you,” Wrath said in the Old Language. “I would ask them to step forward at this time.”
John Matthew and Zsadist broke ranks and walked around the table. Both were smiling as they each picked up one of the black daggers.
Qhuinn and Blay sank down onto their knees. As they planted their palms on the mats, they were facing each other.
And yup, Qhuinn was very aware of the shit-eating grin on his face. God, he wanted this so badly.
“Blaylock, son of Rocke, I ask you, what is the name of your hellren?” Wrath said.
Blay’s eyes were so beautiful as he spoke. “He is Qhuinn. My beloved… is Qhuinn.”
“And Qhuinn, blooded sire of Rhampage and Lyric, what is the name of your hellren?”
Qhuinn had to clear a sudden lump in his throat. “He is Blaylock. My one and only love is Blaylock.”
John Matthew stepped up to Blay. Z did the same for Qhuinn.
Qhuinn and Blay held each other’s stare without wincing as the carving happened, the letters of their names inscribed in the flesh across the tops of their shoulders. And then Tohrment poured the salt, first on Blay and then on Qhuinn.
Not once, for even a moment, did either of them look away.
As their names became permanent in their skin.
And their hearts, already paired forever, swel
led with love.
* * *
“Oh, thank you, Father,” Blay said as he embraced his dad. “And Mahmen, I’m so glad you’re here!”
As Lyric threw her arms around him, she squeezed the air out of his lungs. “As if we would ever have missed this! Finally! Now, where are my grandbabies?”
“Over there, by the Christmas tree in the library.”
Lyric hooked her hellren’s elbow. “Let’s go! I have to hold my young. And I think I want one of those.”
Rocke blanched. “A young?”
“No, silly. A Christmas tree. They’re awfully pretty, and when the kids come, I want them to feel at home.”
As Rocke rolled his eyes and kissed his mate, he winked at Blay. “Whatever you want, darling.”
“That’s the right answer, my love,” Lyric said as they walked off through the crowd. “You are such a smart male.”
All around the foyer, people were talking with animation, drinking spirits, eating—