And then both their heads snapped downward and Layla let out a gasp as John's fangs struck deep and he started to take what she offered. Evidently satisfied, Qhuinn returned to where he'd been sitting and refilled his glass. After he'd drunk half, he held it out toward Blay.
Best idea anyone had had in ages. Blay positioned himself against the high back of the wing chair, running one arm along the top of the thing as he took a deep sip, and then another, before passing the tequila back.
They stayed like that, sharing the drink while John fed from Layla. . . and sometime into the process of both nourishments, Blay became aware that he was putting his lips on the very rim Qhuinn was taking from.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the glass. Maybe it was the fact that from where he stood, with every breath Blay took he smelled Qhuinn's dark scent. . . .
He knew he had to leave.
He wanted to support John, but with each passing minute, he was leaning closer and closer and. . . closer to Qhuinn. To the point that as his hand hung over the chair, he was nearly stroking that thick black hair.
"I have to go," he said roughly, returning the glass one last time and heading for the door.
"You okay?" Qhuinn called out.
"Yup. Sleep well and take care, Layla. "
"Don't you need to feed?" Qhuinn demanded.
"Tomorrow. "
The Chosen said something lovely and pleasant, but there was no turning around. Nope. Couldn't turn around.
And please God, let him not run into anyone out in the hall.
He hadn't checked to see how bad it was, but he knew when he was aroused. . . and that was one thing that, no matter how polite a male was, he couldn't hide in tight leather.
Chapter Eighteen
Over on the Far Side, Payne paced around in her mother's fountain, her feet making circles in the pool that caught the falling water. As she splashed, she held her robing aloft and she listened to the colorful birds that sat in the white tree over in the corner. The little ones chirped and carried on, flitting from branch to branch, pecking at each other, fussing with their feathers.
How in the hell they found such limited activity worth waking up for she hadn't a clue.
In the sanctuary there was no conception of time, and yet she wished she had a pocket watch or a chiming clock to figure out how late the Blind King was. They had a standing sparring session every afternoon.
Well, afternoon for him. For her, stuck here on this side, everything was perpetually daytime.
She wondered exactly how long it had been since her mother had sprung her from that deep freeze and allowed her some freedom. No way to know. Wrath had started to show up regularly about. . . fifteen times ago and she'd been reanimated maybe. . . well, long before that. So maybe over six months?
The real question was how long she'd been kept under frosted lock and key--but it wasn't like she was going to ask her mother about that. They weren't talking at all. Until that "divine" female who'd birthed her was prepared to let her out of here, Payne didn't have anything to say.
For truth, the silent treatment didn't seem to be making a difference at all, but she hadn't expected it to. When your mother- mare was the creator of the race and answerable to no one, even the king. . .
It was rather easy to become trapped in your own life.
As her pace through the fountain intensified and her robing started to get soaked, she leaped out of the pool and jogged around, her fists up in front of her, the punches she threw out pumping the air.
Being the good, dutiful Chosen was not in her hardwiring, and that was the root of all of the problems between her and her mother. Oh, the waste. Oh, the disappointment.
Oh, do get over it, mother dear.
Those standards of behavior and belief were for someone else. And if the Scribe Virgin had been looking for another robed ghost to drift around like a silent draft through a temperate room, she should have picked another sire for her young.
The Bloodletter's vital makeup was in Payne, the traits of the father carrying through to the next generation--
Payne wheeled around and met Wrath's falling fist with a forearm block and a scissor kick to his liver. The king was quick to retaliate and the hammering elbow that returned at her was a concussion waiting to happen.
Fast duck had her barely out of the way. Another kick from her sent the king jumping back--though he was blind, he had an unerring ability to know precisely where she was in space.