Black Dagger Brotherhood 11 - Lover at Last

minute, would you?”
    Blay thought about the bed, but when Sax stiffened as he headed in that direction, he settled for the chaise longue. Helping the male off his feet, he awkwardly stepped back.
    In the silence that followed, violent anger hit him from out of nowhere.
    Now his hands shook for a different reason.
    “So,” Saxton said hoarsely. “How was your night?”
    “What the hell happened down there?”
    Saxton loosened his tie. Unbuttoned his collar. Took yet another deep breath. “Family tiff, as it were.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Saxton shifted exhausted eyes over. “Must we do this?”
    “What happened—”
    “I think you and he need to talk. And once you do, I won’t have to worry about being jumped like a felon again.”
    Blay frowned. “He and I have nothing to say to each other—”
    “With all due respect, the ligature marks around my neck would suggest otherwise.”

    “How we doin’ there, big guy?”
    As Rhage’s voice registered in Qhuinn’s ear, it was clear the Brother was checking to see if the drama was well and truly over. Not necessary. The instant Blay had told him to cut the crap, Qhuinn’s body had obeyed, sure as if the guy held the remote to his TV.
    Other people were milling around, looking him over, obviously also waiting to see if he showed any inclination to race up after Saxton and resume the death-grip routine.
    “You good?” Rhage prompted.
    “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”
    The iron bars across his chest loosened and gradually dropped. Then a big hand clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Fritz hates dead bodies in the front hall.”
    “But there’s not a lot of blood with strangulation,” somebody pointed out. “Clean-up would have been easy.”
    “Just a floor polish afterward,” another guy chimed in.
    There was a heavy pause at that point.
    “I’m gonna go upstairs.” As the hairy eyeballs started again, Qhuinn shook his head. “Not for a repeat. I swear on my…”
    Well, he didn’t have a mother, a father, a brother, a sister…or a young—although hopefully, that last one was a “yet” kind of thing.
    “I just won’t, ’kay?”
    He didn’t wait for any further commentary. No offense, but a plane crash and a homicide attempt on one of his few remaining relations was enough for the night.
    With a curse, he started for the second floor—and remembered he still needed to do a drive-by with Layla.
    Hanging a right at the top of the stairs, he went down to the guest room the Chosen had moved into and knocked on the door softly. “Layla?”
    In spite of the fact that they were going to have a young together, he didn’t feel comfortable just barging in without an invitation.
    Round two with the knuckles was a little louder. So was his voice. “Layla?”
    She must be sleeping.
    Backing off, he went for his own room, walking past Wrath’s office with its closed doors, and then going down the hall of statues. As he went by Blay’s door, he couldn’t help but stop and stare at the damn thing.
    Jesus Christ, he’d nearly killed Saxton.
    Still felt like following through.
    He’d always known his cousin was a slut—and he hated being right about that. What the fuck was Sax thinking? The guy had the ultimate in his bed every goddamn day, and yet somehow, some randomin a bar or a club or the frickin’ Caldwell Municipal Library was better than that? Or even necessary?
    Faithless son of a bitch.
    As his hands cranked into fists and he entertained the idea of kicking his way into that room just to pound Saxton’s face into soup, he nearly couldn’t control the impulse.
    Let him go, now.
    From out of nowhere, Blay’s voice reverberated through his head once again, and sure enough, the violence was unplugged. Literally, between one moment and the next, he went from wild bull to neutral.
    Weird.
    Shaking his head, he walked over to his bedroom, went in, and shut the door.
    After willing on the lights, he just stood there, feet glued to the floor, arms hanging like limp ropes, head lolling on the top of his spine. All about the going nowhere.
    For no apparent reason, he thought of one of Fritz’s beloved Dysons, the thing rolled into a service closet, left in the dark until somebody took it out for use.
    Great. He’d been reduced to the level of a vacuum cleaner.
    Eventually he cursed, and ordered himself to carry on with getting undressed and going to bed. The night had been a ballbuster from the moment the sun had gone down, and