Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

to sink in, the new equilibrium establishing itself only after some period of your brain sloshing back and forth against the walls of your head.
    He was still in the slosh zone.
    “Have you ever felt as though hours were more properly measured in years?” Saxton said.
    “Or maybe decades. Yes. Absolutely.” Blay glanced over again. “I was actually just thinking that very same thing.”
    “Such a morbid pair we are.”
    “Maybe we should wear black.”
    “Armbands?” Saxton prompted.
    “Whole deal, head to toe.”
    “Whatever shall I do with my flare for color?” Saxton flicked at his orange Hermès kerchief. “Then again, one can accessorize anything.”
    “Certainly explains the theory behind dental grilles.”
    “Pink plastic flamingos.”
    “The Hello Kitty franchise.”
    All at once, they both burst into laughter. It wasn’t even that funny, but the humor wasn’t the point. Breaking the ice was. Getting back to a new kind of normal was. Learning to relate in a different way was.
    As things settled into chuckles, Blay put his arm around the male’s shoulders and gave him a quick hug. And it was nice that Saxton leaned in for a brief moment, accepting what was offered. It wasn’t that Blay thought that just because they’d sat down together, shared a meal, and had a laugh, all of a sudden everything was going to be smoothsailing. Not at all. It was awkward to think Saxton had been with someone else, and utterly incredible to know he’d done the same—especially given who it had been.
    You didn’t downshift from being lovers for nearly a year to doing the pally-pally thing in the matter of a day or two.
    You could, however, start forging a new path.
    And put one foot after the other on it.
    Saxton was always going to have a place in his heart. The relationship they’d shared had been the first one he’d had—not just with a male, but with anyone. And there had been a lot of good times, things he would carry with him as memories that were worth the brain space.
    “Have you seen the back gardens?” Saxton asked as he offered the bread.
    Blay broke off a piece and then passed the butter plate over as Saxton took a section for himself.
    “They’re bad, aren’t they.”
    “Remind me never to attempt to weed with a Cessna.”
    “You don’t garden.”
    “Well, if I ever do, then.” Saxton poured some wine in his glass. “Vino?”
    “Please.”
    And that was how it went. All the way from the stew through to the peach cobbler that miraculously appeared before them thanks to Fritz’s perfect timing. When the last bite had been taken and the final napkin swipe made, Blay leaned back against the built-in bench’s cushions and took a deep breath.
    Which was about so much more than just a filled stomach.
    “Well,” Saxton said, as he laid down his napkin beside his dessert plate, “I do believe I’m finally going to take that bath I talked about nights ago.”
    Blay opened his mouth to point out that the salts the male preferred were still in his bathroom. He’d seen them in the cupboard when he’d taken his backup shaving cream out at nightfall.
    Except…he wasn’t sure he should mention it. What if Saxton thought he was asking the male to come and bathe in his suite? Was it too much of a reminder of how things had changed—and why? What if—
    “I have this new oil treatment I’m dying to try,” Saxton said as he slid out his side of the bench. “It finally arrived from overseas in today’s mail. I’ve been waiting for ages.”
    “Sounds awesome.”
    “I’m looking forward to it.” Saxton resettled his jacket on his shoulders, pulled his cuffs into place, and then lifted his hand in a wave, striding out without any sign of complication or strain on his face.
    Which was helpful, actually.
    Folding his own napkin up, he placed it beside his plate, and as he scooted free of the table, he stretched his arms over his head and bent backward, his spine cracking in a good way.
    The tension in him returned as soon as he stepped into the foyer again.
    What the hell was going on with Layla?
    Damn it, it wasn’t like he could call Qhuinn. The drama wasn’t his own, or anything he was connected to: When it came to that pregnancy, he was no different from the others in the house who had also seen and heard the show and were no doubt just as worried as he was—but had no right to emergent updates.
    Too bad his now-full gut didn’t buy that. The thought of Qhuinn losing the young