Which undoubtedly had been the writing instrument used by Luchas when he’d composed his last letter—which remained unopened, exactly where it had been left.
Qhuinn reached out and picked up one of the burgundy wads. Unfurling it, he saw that it was a sock, a cashmere-and-silk-blend sock.
He recognized whose it was, but he checked the tag that had been sewn inside anyway.
“Blaylock,” he said softly.
Blay returned to the mansion right before Last Meal. He’d ended up helping his mahmen in the basement for hours, rearranging plastic tubs of seasonal clothes, family mementos, and decorations. It had been pretty clear from the outset that there was a make-work component to the effort, but he’d been so grateful for the distraction and the parameters of the job. The project had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and it required not only physical effort, but just enough mental concentration that he couldn’t juggle the tasks at hand along with worrying about Qhuinn.
There had even been a break for another meal in the middle, and a cup of satisfaction cocoa, as his mahmen always called it, at the end.
He had wanted to stay the day, especially after Qhuinn had not responded to his text about where he was going. But Wrath had called a meeting, and however brokenhearted Blay was, his duty to his King was a responsibility he was honor- and duty-bound to carry out.
Hitting the grand staircase, he was fifteen minutes early, so there was time to put his coat away and gather his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about running into Qhuinn. The male would be downstairs in Luchas’s room. That was where he always went after he worked out, and for the last four nights, he had stayed there until well after Last Meal.
Blay had tried not to take the withdrawal personally. And failed.
At the top of the stairs, he looked through the open doors of Wrath’s study. The Brothers were already gathering, and he lifted his hand in greeting. Several nodded in his direction, and he flashed them a pair of fingers, the universal language for: I’ll be back in two minutes.
Maybe Qhuinn would join them all tonight.
Maybe Santa Claus was real.
Heading down the Hall of Statues, Blay stripped off his parka and then zipped up both of the side pockets so his gloves didn’t fall out. As he opened the door to his room, the familiar scent that greeted him was fresh, not faded . . . and the male who was sitting on the edge of the bed was not a ghost.
Blay stopped dead.
“Hi,” the figment, who certainly seemed to be Qhuinn, said. In the correct voice.
Blay stepped in and closed the door. “Hi.”
“I, ah, I’ve been waiting for you.”
Keeping a recoil of surprise to himself was a difficult camo job. “You should have called. Or texted. I would have come right away.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. How are the ’rents?”
For some reason, the fact that Qhuinn was using the casual term he always did felt like some kind of positive portent. Which was nuts.
“They’re good. They send their love—and their condolences.”
“I appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked at his hands. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”
“Please don’t move out—”
They both stopped. And said “What?” at the same time.
“Look,” Blay rushed in, “I’m trying to give you the space you require. I really just . . . want to be whatever you need at this tough time. But please, don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”
And don’t hate me for my role in your brother’s death, he tacked on to himself.
When there was only silence coming back at him, Blay cleared his throat and hugged his parka to his chest. “I’ll . . . I mean, I can leave, if you want me to, and go back to my parents—”
Qhuinn burst up from the bed and came over. And the next thing Blay knew, they were holding on to each other, the first physical contact in what felt like forever.
“I’ve missed you,” Qhuinn said roughly.
Blay squeezed his eyes closed. “I’ve been here all along.”
“I know. I’ve been the one who was gone.”
They stayed where they were for a while. Maybe it was long as a year. And then Qhuinn stepped back. For a moment, tension coiled up Blay’s spine, making him stand even straighter. But come on, you didn’t tell someone you’ve missed them and then say you’re leaving.
Right?
Oh, and fuck that meeting in Wrath’s study. The Brotherhood could come and drag him out of here kicking and screaming if they wanted to: Under any circumstances other than that hog-tied hypothetical, he wasn’t moving from the room.
“Come here,” Qhuinn said.
As Blay felt his hand get taken, he was content to be led anywhere—just as long as Qhuinn wanted him to stick around. And yes, that was pathetic. But he was feeling like this whole unexpected meet-andgreet was like having a bump on your arm and going to see the doctor about it—only to discover that the person in the white coat with the medical degree actually wasn’t all that worried it was cancer.
His brain had sure been convinced the freckle was stage-seventy terminal.
They sat down together, and then Qhuinn reached over and picked something off the bedside table—
It was the letter.
From Luchas.
Next to which were the socks Blay had worn the night the remains had been found, the ones that had been left wet when Lassiter had warmed his frostbitten feet and dried his ruined loafers, a pair of afterthoughts that had ultimately been forgotten.
“I found those in my brother’s room,” Qhuinn said.
Blay put his hands up. “As I told you, I didn’t touch anything. Not one thing. I saw the letter and left.”
“I know.” Qhuinn picked up the envelope, holding it in his palms as if it were in danger of shattering. “I talked to Manny earlier tonight. He said you told him no one but me was to go into that room.”
“It’s your private family business.” Blay ran a hand through his hair and glanced around at all the neat-as-a-pin, vacuum-and-dusted. “I love the doggen here, they’re so wonderful—but sometimes they’re almost too good at their jobs. I thought it was important that everything be exactly the way it was left for you.”
“I really appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked over, his blue and green eyes luminous. “And I’ve decided to do the hard thing first, after all.”
“What?”
“I, ah, I wanted to open this with you. If that’s okay?”
As Blay’s throat tightened, he swallowed with difficulty. “Absolutely.”
He might as well learn the truth about his complicity at the same time Qhuinn did. But more than that . . . Qhuinn’s stare had dropped back down to the envelope, and it was clear he was terrified—and the fact that he was letting his fear show was so significant. The male didn’t share that shit with just anybody.
“It’s hard to explain why I’ve left this for as long as I have,” Qhuinn murmured as he stroked over the two words on the front. “But this is my last piece of business with Luchas. Whatever he wrote is our final . . . thing.”
Blay nodded, but stayed silent.
“Did I ever tell you about Seinfeld?” Qhuinn asked. “Or The Office?”