God, he was so tired.

And lonely.

“Would you like seconds?” Lyric asked as she put the dough back into its bowl and covered it with a damp dish towel.

Blay looked down at his clean plate. “Yes, Mahmen. Please.”

After Qhuinn worked out down in the training center, he took a shower in the facility’s locker room and then changed into surgical scrubs because he’d forgotten to bring an extra set of clothes with him. As he stepped back out into the corridor, he had a thought that he should go up to the big house. Blay was off for the evening, and maybe they could try and find each other.

Or, more likely, he would just stay lost.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was a gray fog between him and everybody else, including his mate and his kids. Even when someone was standing in front of him, they were merely an outline of themselves, and their voice, no matter how familiar, was a whisper off in the distance. It was the strangest phenomenon, and the disassociation reminded him of when he’d gone up to the Fade, the landscape all indistinct, no one else around him.

Then again, he felt like he’d died last week, too.

Turning to the right, he looked down toward the office and tried to imagine himself walking into the mansion. As his temples started to pound, he shook his head and went in the opposite direction. When he got to his brother’s door, he pushed his way in and—

“What are you doing here?” he said as he stopped short.

Over in the armchair, sitting there like he owned the place . . . was Zsadist. As usual, the brother was dressed in leathers and a muscle shirt, his powerful arms on display, his hair freshly buzzed, his long legs crossed at the knees.

His eyes were glowing yellow, not black like when he was going to go off at someone. But they were narrow and they were focused on Qhuinn with a hard edge.

“Come in,” he ordered. “And shut the door.”

“This is my brother’s room. Don’t tell me what to do in it.”

“Your brother’s dead. So this is not his room anymore.”

“What did you say.” Qhuinn felt a hot flush go through him. “What the fuck did you say—”

“Get in here, and shut the fucking door. Unless you want everyone in the goddamn training center to hear what I’m about to say to you.”

Qhuinn’s body stepped forward before he was aware of entering. And he shoved the door closed—

“Shut up.” Zsadist’s eyes never wavered and he didn’t blink. “Your brother is dead and that is a tragedy. But you’re not bringing him back with this withdrawal shit.”

“Excuse me—”

“You’re not talking. I am. You respond when I’m done. And before you get all hot and bothered, you think I want to be sitting here, going through this with you? Yeah, you can miss me with that.”

“So get up and leave.” Qhuinn tossed a casual hand. “In fact, please do us both a favor and quit it before you start. I don’t need the public service.”

“Yeah, you do.”

It was at that point that Qhuinn realized there was something in the brother’s hand . . . a toy airplane, one with red and white markings and a spinning prop on its nose. And in response to Qhuinn taking notice, Z flicked the propeller with his fingertip and the blades went for a ride, blurring out for a moment before slowing down so that the two fins became distinct again.

The shit was so random it temporarily distracted him.

“I’ve been where you are right now,” Z stated, “and not for a couple of nights or a month. Or even a year. Try a hundred years.”

Qhuinn opened his mouth to fuck that off—except then he noted the slave bands that were tattooed on Z’s wrists and around his neck . . . and the scar that ran down the brother’s face.

Z raised one eyebrow. Like he was challenging Qhuinn to say something about whose burden had been greater. And yeah, being imprisoned, sexually abused, and used as a blood source for a century? You could argue that was a trump card.

“This is not a competition about pain,” Z said. “And I’m not downplaying your loss.”

“Sounds like you’re doing both, actually.”

“Who the fuck else has a chance to get through to you other than me? Huh? Anybody but me, you’d either snow or walk out on. My past doesn’t allow you to do that, so I’m here and you’re going to listen to me.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Qhuinn eyed the door—and knew he wasn’t leaving. And he hated that the brother was right about that.

When he looked back, Z shrugged. “Why do you think the only therapist I’ve ever had is one who’s been through terminal cancer. Like I said, I’ve been where you are, so I know what’s going to get through to you.”

With a curse, Qhuinn rubbed his head. “Look, I’m not going to argue with you that I’m struggling. But it’s been seven nights. Seven. You think maybe you could give me a little more leeway, here? Like a month, maybe?”

“The longer you stay where you are,” Z declared in a low voice, “the harder it is to come back. I still fight every night to stay connected, stay here—” He pointed to the floor. “Stay present. What brought me back was love, but my situation was different than yours. I had nothing to lose and nobody but my twin in my life. You, on the other hand, have everything to lose—a mate who loves you, young who need you, people who require your contribution to a concerted effort. So you have to start coping, whatever that looks like to you.”

Qhuinn rolled his eyes and shrugged. “Sure. I’ll get right on that. No problem—”

“I’m not diminishing your loss. It’s about coping with it—because, FYI, the shit never goes away.”

“I am coping.”

“Fine, you want to play footsie with the words? You’re coping badly.”

Qhuinn jabbed his thumb toward the bed. “I haven’t followed in his footsteps. I haven’t killed myself. So give me some credit, why doncha.”

“If that’s your standard, you’ve got a ways to go before ‘functioning well’ is anywhere near your zip code.” Z spun the toy’s prop again, a little hissing noise rising up from the plane’s tip. “Let’s go through the checklist, shall we? You’re not at meals, you’re working out too much, and you have bags under your eyes you could pack for an over-day in, so you’re clearly not sleeping.”

Qhuinn shook his head. “Fuck you, I’ve been to Last Meal at least three times.”

“Out of fourteen meals served in the dining room. Congratulations.” As Qhuinn opened his mouth, that eyebrow rose again. “Do you really want to debate the facts? We can waste some time with that, but it’s just going to prolong the ass kicking.”

Crossing his arms, Qhuinn stared off at the wall. “Say your piece. And then I’m leaving.”

“Figure out how to cope.” Z shrugged. “That’s the message. That’s it. Figure out what works for you and do it. But you can’t keep going, night after night, day after day, stuck in neutral. The work is going to have to be done, and—” As Qhuinn cranked open his mouth again, Z cut him off. “Nope, I finish, then you go. The work is going to have to be done, and you need to do it not just for yourself, but for your kids and that mate of yours, too. It’s not just for you. You do it for them as well.”

Qhuinn waited, expecting more.

“Figure out how to cope,” Z repeated. “That’s it.”

“Oh, sure. That’s it.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy. Trust me. I went through hell while I was held as a blood slave. And then I went through hell all over again when I started talking about what had been done to me. But at least the second trip through got me to a better place.”

To avoid those clear yellow eyes, Qhuinn walked around, pacing back and forth from the bed to the door. Then he took a trip through the bathroom for shits and giggles.

And still the brother sat there in that chair.

“Why,” Qhuinn asked as he came out again. “Why are you doing this to me.”

He hated the capitulation in his voice. But like he could change it? Like he could change any part of this?

“You mean aside from my impeccable credentials when it comes to being fucked in the head?” Z twirled the prop again and swooshed the plane around in circles. “Don’t you remember our little ride together on FUBAR Airlines? If you hadn’t flown me out of that abandoned lesser induction site in that piece of shit we found in the hangar? I’d have died. So I owe you.”

Qhuinn closed his eyes and remembered that death flight. And what else had happened that night when they’d searched those cabins. “That was when I found Luchas.”

“I know. Which is the other reason I’m sitting here in his chair.”

“You said he was dead. That none of this was his anymore.”

“I said the room isn’t his. This chair is.”

“Splitting hairs.”

“Don’t deflect.”

The two of them stared at each other for the longest time. And stupidly, Qhuinn kept waiting for the brother to back down, look away, maybe apologize for his tone, even if his content was on point. When none of that happened, Qhuinn didn’t want to be the one who flagged out first.

So they just stared.

In the end . . . well, big surprise, he was the one who cracked. He lowered his eyes, but to make it look like it was just because he’d decided to sit on his brother’s bed, he went over . . . and sat at the foot of his brother’s bed.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said with a defeat he hated.

“So just do something, anything.”

“Isn’t that the name of a movie?”

“You should ask Rhage that question, not me.”

There was a long period of silence. “Can I be honest?” Qhuinn asked.

“With me? Always.”