He was utterly unhinged, his tirade filling the house, calling all kinds of people into the doorways of other rooms. But like he fucking cared? And meanwhile, Lassiter just lay where he had sprawled, oddly colored eyes showing no emotion at all.
Qhuinn surged against whoever was holding him. “He deserved your help! He deserved to be saved—”
“Let him go.”
The angel’s voice, soft and low, cut through his hollering, and he abruptly became aware that there was silver blood all over the floor, all over his own fists… all over the male’s face from the split lip, the busted nose, that cut over his eyebrow.
The angel had not fought back.
He hadn’t even tried to protect himself.
“Let him go!” Lassiter yelled.
The constriction was released, and Qhuinn fell forward. Unable to catch his balance, he landed hard on all fours.
And still, Lassiter just looked at him, that silver blood flowing like melted sterling.
“You’re pathetic,” Qhuinn spat. “You’re not worth the effort to kill you. I hope you can live with what a fucking failure you are as the successor to the Scribe Virgin. You’re nothing but a goddamn lazy joke.”
Scrambling to his feet, he stumbled, pushed off someone’s hands—he didn’t know whose. He was alone as he went up the stairs.
That much he was clear on.
Good thing, too.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As Qhuinn stormed up the grand staircase, Blay stood at the base of the carpeted steps and watched his mate retreat. He wanted to go after him, but it was very clear that he was not welcome. He’d been shoved away.
He didn’t know what to do.
So he turned to Lassiter, who was still lying on the foyer’s floor and bleeding silver. Others had gathered around the angel, including V, who had actual medical training—but the bodies parted as Blay went over and lowered himself down.
“He didn’t mean any of that,” he said as he helped the angel sit up. “Truly, he didn’t. I have no clue what he was talking about.”
“Help me to my feet?” Lassiter asked as he wiped his face with his forearm.
Blay grunted at the weight of the male. It was as if gravity had a special interest in the angel, his body heavier than even his prodigious muscles suggested, his bones clearly made of solid gold or something.
“I don’t need medical help.” Lassiter shook his head as V stepped forward. “A little sun and I’ll be fine.”
“At least let’s clean you up,” Blay interjected. “Come this way.”
Blay took the angel’s arm and led Lassiter around to the left of the staircase. Tucked under the steps, the formal powder room was like a jewel box, with rare stone inlays and twinkling crystal fixtures, everything so lush and lovely. And talk about karats. The sink was gold, and so were the filigreed faucets and the tiny little lamps with the hand-tooled silk shades—which were like birthday candles for a tsar.
Pushing Lassiter down onto the silk-covered bench, Blay snagged a monogrammed hand towel. As he wetted a corner, he had a thought that it was a good thing Lassiter bled silver. The fine terry cloth was a pale gray.
Red blood would have ruined it.
“I’m really sorry,” he said as he leaned into the angel’s busted face.
Lassiter hissed at the contact. Then cleared his throat. “There is nothing to apologize for.”
“He’s still just…” Blay blinked and saw Luchas’s face in the snow. “I’m just really sorry. About everything.”
“As am I.”
Back to the sink. Running more warm water. Rinsing the hand towel out.