J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [641]
As Fritz raced to answer the summons, Tohr sat up straighter, which was pathetic, considering the shape his body was in. Torso height was not going to magically improve the fact that he weighed little more than the chair his nonexistent butt was parked in.
Qhuinn was the first to stride in, the kid dressed in black, the gunmetal piercings that ran up his left ear and marked his lower lip catching the light. Blaylock was next, dressed all Mr. Preppy in his high-necked cashmere sweater and his slacks. As the pair headed for the stairs, the expressions on them were as different as their clothes. Qhuinn had evidently had a really good night, going by the I-got-laid-and-then-some grin on his piehole. Blay, on the other hand, looked like he’d been to the dentist, his mouth set grimly, his eyes down on the mosaic floor.
Maybe John wasn’t coming back. But where would he stay—
When John came into the foyer, Tohr couldn’t help it: He rose from his seat, catching himself on the high back of the chair as he wobbled.
John’s face had no expression on it at all. His hair was tousled, but not by the wind, and there was a series of scratches on the side of his neck, the kind made by a female’s nails. The scent coming off him was of Jack Daniel’s, multiple perfumes, and sex.
He looked about a hundred years older than when he’d been sitting by Tohr’s bed doing The Thinker mere nights ago. This was not a kid. This was a full-grown male working off a hard edge in the time-tested ways most guys did.
Tohr sank back into the chair, expecting to be ignored, but when John reached the bottom step, he put his boot up and turned his head as if he knew someone was watching him. His expression didn’t change at all as he met Tohr’s stare. He just lifted his hand in a half-assed way and kept on going.
“I was worried you weren’t coming home,” Tohr said loudly.
Qhuinn and Blay halted. Rhage and Lassiter shut up. Mary’s and Rhoda’s voices filled the void.
John barely paused as he signed, This isn’t home. It’s a house. And I need a place to stay.
John didn’t wait for a response, and the set of his shoulders suggested he wasn’t interested in one. Clearly, Tohr could have talked until his tongue was worn to a stump about how the people here cared about John, but nothing would register.
As the three of them disappeared up the stairs, Tohr finished his milk shake, took the tall glass into the kitchen, and got the thing into the dishwasher without a doggen asking him if he wanted anything else to eat or drink. Beth, however, was stirring a pot of stew and looking as if she were hoping to slip him a bowl so he didn’t stick around.
The trip up to the second floor was long and hard, but not because he was feeling weak physically. He’d fucked John up but good, and now he was reaping that crop of all the shutout he’d been laying, wasn’t he. Damn it—
The crash and holler that came through the study’s closed doors sounded like someone had been attacked, and Tohr’s body, frail though it was, responded on instinct, hitting the door hard and throwing it open.
Wrath was crouched behind the desk, arms out in front of him, the computer and phone and paperwork scattered as if he’d pushed them away, his chair on its side. The wraparounds the king always wore were in one of his hands, his eyes staring straight ahead.
“My lord—”
“Are the lights on.” Wrath was breathing hard. “Are the fucking lights on.”
Tohr rushed around and grabbed onto one of his king’s arms. “Out in the hall, yeah. And there’s the fire. What’s—”
Wrath’s powerful body started to shake so badly, Tohr had to jack the Brother up. Which required more muscle than he had. Fuck, they were both going down if he didn’t get help. Locking his mouth on his front teeth, he whistled loud and long and then got back with the job of trying not to lose hold of his king.
Rhage and Lassiter were the first to come running, and they burst through the door. “What the hell—”
“Turn the lights on,” Wrath hollered again.