His brother, Luchas. Naturally, the firstborn son had had to be involved in it as the representation of the bloodline. It was the way of things, and Qhuinn had never held the participation against his brother. In their family of origin, neither of them had had any freedom of choice. No one in the aristocracy did, and maybe that was why as a group they were all such fucking assholes.
Not that there were many left after the raids.
As a shiver of unease teased the nape of Qhuinn’s neck, he stroked his daughter’s blond hair… and the sense of warning got worse instead of better.
Back when he had been lying on that stretch of pavement, after the beating had stopped, his weak breath rattling up and down the collapsed trail of his esophagus, he had seen the door unto the Fade. It had come to him, as he had heard it would when the time for death arrived—and he had reached out for the knob because legend held that if you opened the door and stepped through, all your suffering ended and you enjoyed an eternity with those you loved.
Frankly, he’d been shocked that his defect hadn’t relegated him to Dhunhd.
Except he hadn’t turned that knob.
On the flat plane of the white portal, he had seen the face of a young. Lyric. Who at the time had not only been unborn, but was no possibility at all as far as he was concerned. Yet his beloved daughter had appeared before him, her pale-green eyes looking out at him and sending a clear and certain message that as much as he thought it was his moment to transition unto eternity, in fact, it was not his time.
There had been many consequences to the vision, not the least of which was, hello, he was still alive. But an unintended corollary was the fact that until Lyric was born, he’d relied on that vision as a safety vest, a talisman in his reckless engagement and risk-taking in the field: Because until she was safely delivered upon the birthing bed, he was guaranteed life. After all, if he kicked it? She couldn’t exist.
Now, though, it dawned on him that his purpose in creating her had been fulfilled.
No more grace period for danger and death. Sure, in the vision, he had seen her green eyes change to reflect his own mismatched gaze, but that didn’t mean he could guarantee he’d be around to see the shift happen. And as for what happened tonight? He’d been chilling in that tow truck, not expecting any complications from humans, frustrated that he wasn’t on the front lines.
One stab wound later, he was in the OR.
“—okay? Qhuinn?”
Qhuinn looked up. The other two adults in the room were silent in that way that people got when they were expecting the guy in the hospital bed in front of them to throw a clot and expire on the spot with a round of seizures. He wasn’t even sure which one was asking him if he was all right.
“Just perfect.” He gave Lyric’s hand a squeeze with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m absolutely perfect. Come on, with these little guys in my life? And you two plus Xcor? How could I not be?”
The relief that came over the faces that he held so dear made him feel guilty. But sharing the fact that his get-out-of-jail-free card had been stamped didn’t seem like a kind or necessary thing to do.
Shit. He would have been way more nervous going into surgery, or even out on that snowy street, if he’d done the math on it all.
He kind of wished he could undo the realization.
Then again, being more careful just made sense, didn’t it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sound of the shower running was a soft lilt through the otherwise silent bedroom suite, and as Z shut the door to his mated chamber, he closed his eyes and breathed in deep. Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap. But more than that bouquet of cleanliness was the underlying scent that pulled it all together.
His shellan. Bella. Mated unto the Black Dagger Brother Zsadist, son of Ahgony, beloved mahmen to Nalla, firstborn of a union that was based on true, abiding love.
When he opened his lids again, the water had been turned off, and there was flapping, a towel being drawn across a naked body with vigor, like the mahmen in question was in a hurry.
He walked forward, shedding his jacket, his chest holster with his daggers, and his guns that rode his hips. He put the hardware of his job inside the walk-in closet on a high shelf, out of sight and out of reach of the young. But never out of mind, not for him, not for his mate.
“Zsadist?”
Oh, that voice. The one that he heard every day and night and never grew tired of. The one that roused him from sleep and aroused him anywhere he was and soothed him and made him smile and did a million other things, small and large, with whatever syllables it served.
“Hi.” He came to the open double doors of the bathroom and looked across all the white marble. “Good shower?”
Bella wrapped herself up in a towel the size of a tarp. The fact it barely fit around his shoulders when he used it made him think of how small she was in comparison to him—and he liked the weight difference, although not because he cared about thin or fat. It meant he could protect her. Kill for her. Feed her and their young with his bare hands if he had to.
Caring for
his mate and Nalla was the highest purpose he served, higher even than saving the lives of his brothers and his King.
“Yes, it was a very good shower.” She bent down and wrapped her wet hair up in a separate towel. Flipping the end up as she straightened, she picked her moisturizer off the counter. “I got covered with paint in the playroom.”