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Staring out over the battened-down flower beds and the spindly fruit trees that had yet to bloom, he felt the cool, smooth stone under his hands and the breeze in his still-damp hair and the tight pull of the muscles across the small of his back. The scent of freshly roasting lamb was floating up from the blowers on the roof over the kitchen and lights were glowing all over the house, the warm golden illumination pouring out onto the lawn and the patio on the lower level.

Pretty fucking ironic—to feel so hollow because Blay finally got fulfilled.

Nostalgia dropped its rose-tinted lens and through it he saw back to all those nights at Blay’s, the two of them sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, playing PS2, drinking beer, watching vids. There had been serious and important shit to talk about then, things like what was doing in training classes and what game was coming out over the human Christmas season and who was hotter, Angelina Jolie or anybody else in a skirt.

Angelina had always won. And Lash had always been an asshole. And Mortal Kombat had still ruled back then.

God, they hadn’t even had Guitar Hero World Tour out in those days.

The thing was, he and Blay had always seen eye-to-eye, and in Qhuinn’s world, where everyone hated his ass, having someone who understood him and accepted him as he was . . . It had been a shaft of tropical sunlight in the North fucking Pole.

Now, though . . . it was hard to comprehend how they’d started out so close. He and Blay were on two different paths. . . . Having once had everything in common, now they had nothing except the enemy—and even there, Qhuinn had to stick with John, so it wasn’t like he and Blay were partners.

Shit, the adult in him recognized that this was the way some things went. But the child in him mourned the loss more than—

There was a click and the breaking of a weather seal.

From out of a dark room that was not his own, Blay stepped onto the terrace. He was wearing a black silk dressing robe and was in bare feet, his hair wet from the shower.

There were bite marks on his neck.

He stopped as Qhuinn stood up from the balustrade.

“Oh . . . hey,” Blay said, and immediately glanced back as if making sure the door he’d come through was shut.

Saxton was in there, Qhuinn thought. Sleeping on sheets they’d messed up royally.

“I was just going back inside,” Qhuinn said, jabbing over his shoulder with his thumb. “It’s too cold to be out here for long.”

Blay crossed his arms over his chest and looked out over the view. “Yes. It’s chilly.”

After a moment, the guy stepped over toward the balustrade and the scent of his soap burrowed into Qhuinn’s nose.

Neither of them moved.

Before he left, Qhuinn cleared his throat and threw himself off a bridge: “Was it okay. Did he treat you right?”

God, his voice was hoarse.

Blay took a deep breath. Then nodded. “Yeah. It was good. It was . . . right.”

Qhuinn’s eyes shifted away from his buddy—and just happened to measure the distance down to the stone patio below. Hmm . . . doing a swan dive onto all that slate might just get the images of those two out of his head.

Of course, it would also turn his brain into scrambled eggs, but really, was that such a bad thing?

Saxton and Blay . . . Blay and Saxton . . .

Shit, he’d been quiet awhile. “I’m glad. I want you to be . . . happy.”

Blay didn’t comment on that, but instead murmured, “He was grateful, by the way. For what you did. Thought it was a little overkill, but . . . he said you always were secretly chivalrous.”

Oh, yeah. Totally. That shit was his middle name, riiiiiight.

Wonder what the guy would think if he knew Qhuinn wanted to drag him out of the house by all that gorgeous blond hair. Maybe stretch him flat on the pea gravel by the fountain and run him over with the Hummer a couple of times.

Actually, no, gravel wasn’t the right surface. Better to drive the Hummer right into the foyer and do it there. You wanted something really hard beneath the body—like you would if you were pounding a cutlet on a cutting board.

He’s your