Z stopped at the glass entrance of the pool area. Those four words were causing a rift in reality for the male they’d been spoken to.

But Z’s demon was not back. He’d been through this before. His rational side knew this.

And yet . . .

The decision was made before he was aware of coming to any kind of crossroads of choice. His feet were clearly committed to a new course of action, however, turning his body away from the pool’s enclosure and taking him to the office, through the office, into the supply closet.

He fought the direction he was headed. He didn’t want to go into the mansion’s cellar, to that corner far, far in the back, to the cardboard box that he had brought down there—

As Z stepped out into the tunnel, he happened to take a deep breath, and that was when he smelled something that made no damned sense.

Looking to the right, to the darkened void at the far end, he frowned and took another deep inhale.

Fresh air? What the hell?

Given the number of things that had gone haywire tonight, he pivoted and headed in that direction. As he continued along, motion-activated ceiling lights illuminated his way, his footfalls echoing around. God knew there was pelnty of distance to travel. The tunnel connected four things: the Pit, which was one terminal; the mansion and the training center in the middle; and at the far, far opposite end, there was a hidden escape hatch that dumped out on the mountain a quarter of a mile away.

No one should have gone in or out of it.

So why was the scent of the storm, of the night, of evergreens, in this part of the Brotherhood’s complex?

As he got close to the steel hatch, the lineup of emergency weapons, survival packs, and outerwear put in an appearance, everything ready to get grabbed in the event of a dramatic departure. And on the other side of the triple-locked portal? There was a shallow cave with a blacked-out Chevy Tahoe and several snowmobiles, the vehicles sheltered from the elements and camo’d from prying eyes and trespassing.

Glancing around, he frowned.

Nothing was out of place.

No damp footsteps were drying on the concrete floor.

No empty pegs were in the collection of equipment. No scent of gasoline, either.

Weird. But maybe V had decided to check everything. Considering how things were going tonight, who could blame him for the paranoia?

The classroom was the last one in the training center’s lineup, and as Blay pushed through its door and turned on the light, he looked to the place where he’d once sat as a student with John Matthew and Qhuinn. Back in their pretrans days, when they’d been in the Brotherhood’s training program here, they had stuck together. Part of it had been protecting John Matthew from Lash. More of it had been the simpler, enduring ties of friendship.

As Qhuinn followed him inside, the male had a curious expression on his face. Like everyone else, they’d waited outside Balz’s examination room and had been relieved to get confirming good news—and not just about the patient, although that was the most important thing. Tohr had also announced to everybody that even though the storm was in full rock and roll, all of the shutters up at the mansion were locked down, the tree in the library had been removed, and there was plywood covering the French doors the evergreen had broken open.

So considering the way things had started out?

Qhuinn went over to the blackboard—no dry-erase for the Brothers, none of that fancy new stuff—and picked up a piece of chalk. The heart outline he drew was yellow, the color of a lined legal pad. In the center, he wrote: “Q+B = 4EVA”

As he put the chalk back, he clapped his palms clean. “So I’m twelve, okay? Sue me.”

“I think you’re romantic.”

“Do I hit on you too much?” Qhuinn pivoted around. “I mean, am I—”

Blay answered that question by taking the bottom of his cashmere sweater and lifting it up and over his head. Then came the button-down shirt, the one that he’d chosen because it was blue and coral checked and complemented the blue sweater.

Qhuinn froze where his stood. Then his eyes flared.

“I locked the door,” Blay said. “And no, I don’t think you hit on me too much—” He put his palms out to stop his mate. Then he pointed forward. “Oh, no you don’t. I want you to sit there. Where the teacher would.”

With a sloppy shuffle, Qhuinn planted himself behind the empty desk—and did a piss-poor impression of a professor. Instead of looking like he was in charge, he linked his fingers together, put his hands primly in front of himself, and sat, spine rigid, like a good little boy praying he got a cookie for behaving nicely.

Splaying out his arms, Blay slowly turned in front of his mate. He was not an exhibitionist by any sense of the word, but he liked how the sight of his body made his lover feel.

For example, the groaning? Coming from behind that desk?

Best sound in the world.

Approaching Qhuinn, he put his left boot on the desk lip, angling his hips so that across the wood top, the bulge behind his fly was very obvious. He took his time with the de-lacing, and enjoyed the way Qhuinn’s eyes roamed around his bare shoulders and chest, his abs and his erection. And then it was the other side, again with the de-looping, the pulling free, the shucking out.

The tile floor was cold underneath his feet as he backed away. Then turned away.

Putting his hands to his fly, he made quick work of the button and the zipper. He hadn’t bothered with a belt because of the sweater—and because they’d been delayed in the shower—and he was glad he didn’t need to fuss around with buckles right now.

Although, actually, the anticipation was working for them both: Qhuinn’s bonding scent was flaring all kinds of dark spices—which made Blay wonder what people passing by out in the tunnel might think.

Then again, everybody had returned to the mansion after Doc Jane had sounded the all-clear on Balz’s recovery. And with the storm, who was going out into the parking lot anyway?

Blay’s fine wool pants were loose enough so that he could have just let them drop, but where was the fun in that? He went the inch-by-inch route, slowly letting Qhuinn see what he wanted. And it was clear that things were going exactly the way Blay was hoping because a pumping growl percolated through the classroom.

And then there was a gasping inhale.

Followed by panting.

Moving slowly, Blay stepped out of the slacks and glanced over his shoulder. Qhuinn had lost the linked-hands routine. Now he’d planted his palms and was leaning forward, his blue and green eyes fixated and hot, his fangs descended, his lips peeled back. He looked bloodthirsty—in a good way. In the best way.

Blay stretched himself, undulating his body from ass to nape, and then he turned around.

His own arousal stuck straight out from his pelvis, and he decided that it needed a little attention. Sweeping his hand down his pecs, he paused to play with one of his nipples and then continued down over the ridges of his abs.

“Touch it for me,” Qhuinn said in a guttural voice. “That’s right . . . stroke it—oh, fuck.”

“You like this?” Blay moved his palm up and down on his thick shaft. “You want this?”

“Yes . . .” Qhuinn started to get up, the chair squeaking. “I need—”

Blay turned back around and ran his free hand down his ass. “Or do you want this?”

“I want everything. All of it,” came the growled response.

With another arch, Blay bent over one of the tables. “Then why don’t you come and get it.”

Fuck the desk.

Qhuinn wasn’t going to waste time going around it; he went over the bitch, jumping up and pushing off into the air. He covered the five feet between where he had been and where he needed to be in one stride, and he managed to out his arousal on the way.

Blay was arched and looking over his shoulder, and he knew what was going to hit him: He grabbed on to the corners of the table and braced himself, his shoulder muscles flexing up, the ones that fanned out along his spine rippling under his smooth skin.

Spitting into his hand, Qhuinn did a pass on his erection, and then he went in, going deep. Beneath him, Blay’s head rose up and he called out, the desperate sound making every inch of Qhuinn’s skin prickle with awareness—except then his hearing was lost as the sensation of constriction and heat overrode everything.

The movement was instinctual and compulsive, the pumping rhythm stronger than he wanted it to be. There was no stopping it, though—

“Harder,” Blay groaned. “Hard-er . . .”

Qhuinn gripped the tight waist over Blay’s hip bones and sank his fingers into the taut flesh. “How much harder,” he grunted.

Blay’s arms butterflied as he held himself against the onslaught, the front of Qhuinn’s pelvis slapping into the back of that spectacular ass, the climax coming so soon—not that there was a reason to fight it—

The orgasm tackled Qhuinn from behind, shoving his torso over Blay’s back, his hips jerking and locking into place. The ejaculations were sharp points of pleasure, so acute they were sweetly painful.

And he didn’t stop. Reaching around, he pushed Blay’s hand out of the way and took over the stroking as he kept pumping, countering the forward penetration with the pull down on the shaft, the retraction of his cock with the palm moving out to the head. It required coordination.

But he’d had so much practice, hadn’t he.

Blay came next, hot jets covering Qhuinn’s hand and palm, everything slicking up. In both places. There was no stopping either of them, and Qhuinn loved being on this erotic plane with his male, the two of them riding the waves of pleasure, the intensity of the experience uniting them.

Until Qhuinn pulled out. And rolled his mate over.

Usually, Blay was an elegant, lithe mover. Not right now. He landed face-up in a boneless flop, his blue eyes glassy, his mouth parted in a pant, his color high from the exertion. Grabbing one of his mate’s thighs, Qhuinn curled up the knee and angled himself back in.

This time, he went slow.

“Look at me, Blay,” he whispered.