There had even been a break for another meal in the middle, and a cup of satisfaction cocoa, as his mahmen always called it, at the end.

He had wanted to stay the day, especially after Qhuinn had not responded to his text about where he was going. But Wrath had called a meeting, and however brokenhearted Blay was, his duty to his King was a responsibility he was honor- and duty-bound to carry out.

Hitting the grand staircase, he was fifteen minutes early, so there was time to put his coat away and gather his thoughts. He didn’t have to worry about running into Qhuinn. The male would be downstairs in Luchas’s room. That was where he always went after he worked out, and for the last four nights, he had stayed there until well after Last Meal.

Blay had tried not to take the withdrawal personally. And failed.

At the top of the stairs, he looked through the open doors of Wrath’s study. The Brothers were already gathering, and he lifted his hand in greeting. Several nodded in his direction, and he flashed them a pair of fingers, the universal language for: I’ll be back in two minutes.

Maybe Qhuinn would join them all tonight.

Maybe Santa Claus was real.

Heading down the Hall of Statues, Blay stripped off his parka and then zipped up both of the side pockets so his gloves didn’t fall out. As he opened the door to his room, the familiar scent that greeted him was fresh, not faded . . . and the male who was sitting on the edge of the bed was not a ghost.

Blay stopped dead.

“Hi,” the figment, who certainly seemed to be Qhuinn, said. In the correct voice.

Blay stepped in and closed the door. “Hi.”

“I, ah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Keeping a recoil of surprise to himself was a difficult camo job. “You should have called. Or texted. I would have come right away.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt your visit. How are the ’rents?”

For some reason, the fact that Qhuinn was using the casual term he always did felt like some kind of positive portent. Which was nuts.

“They’re good. They send their love—and their condolences.”

“I appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked at his hands. “Listen, I just want to apologize—”

“Please don’t move out—”

They both stopped. And said “What?” at the same time.

“Look,” Blay rushed in, “I’m trying to give you the space you require. I really just . . . want to be whatever you need at this tough time. But please, don’t give up on me. Don’t give up on us.”

And don’t hate me for my role in your brother’s death, he tacked on to himself.

When there was only silence coming back at him, Blay cleared his throat and hugged his parka to his chest. “I’ll . . . I mean, I can leave, if you want me to, and go back to my parents—”

Qhuinn burst up from the bed and came over. And the next thing Blay knew, they were holding on to each other, the first physical contact in what felt like forever.

“I’ve missed you,” Qhuinn said roughly.

Blay squeezed his eyes closed. “I’ve been here all along.”

“I know. I’ve been the one who was gone.”

They stayed where they were for a while. Maybe it was long as a year. And then Qhuinn stepped back. For a moment, tension coiled up Blay’s spine, making him stand even straighter. But come on, you didn’t tell someone you’ve missed them and then say you’re leaving.

Right?

Oh, and fuck that meeting in Wrath’s study. The Brotherhood could come and drag him out of here kicking and screaming if they wanted to: Under any circumstances other than that hog-tied hypothetical, he wasn’t moving from the room.

“Come here,” Qhuinn said.

As Blay felt his hand get taken, he was content to be led anywhere—just as long as Qhuinn wanted him to stick around. And yes, that was pathetic. But he was feeling like this whole unexpected meet-andgreet was like having a bump on your arm and going to see the doctor about it—only to discover that the person in the white coat with the medical degree actually wasn’t all that worried it was cancer.

His brain had sure been convinced the freckle was stage-seventy terminal.

They sat down together, and then Qhuinn reached over and picked something off the bedside table—

It was the letter.

From Luchas.

Next to which were the socks Blay had worn the night the remains had been found, the ones that had been left wet when Lassiter had warmed his frostbitten feet and dried his ruined loafers, a pair of afterthoughts that had ultimately been forgotten.

“I found those in my brother’s room,” Qhuinn said.

Blay put his hands up. “As I told you, I didn’t touch anything. Not one thing. I saw the letter and left.”

“I know.” Qhuinn picked up the envelope, holding it in his palms as if it were in danger of shattering. “I talked to Manny earlier tonight. He said you told him no one but me was to go into that room.”

“It’s your private family business.” Blay ran a hand through his hair and glanced around at all the neat-as-a-pin, vacuum-and-dusted. “I love the doggen here, they’re so wonderful—but sometimes they’re almost too good at their jobs. I thought it was important that everything be exactly the way it was left for you.”

“I really appreciate that.” Qhuinn looked over, his blue and green eyes luminous. “And I’ve decided to do the hard thing first, after all.”

“What?”

“I, ah, I wanted to open this with you. If that’s okay?”

As Blay’s throat tightened, he swallowed with difficulty. “Absolutely.”

He might as well learn the truth about his complicity at the same time Qhuinn did. But more than that . . . Qhuinn’s stare had dropped back down to the envelope, and it was clear he was terrified—and the fact that he was letting his fear show was so significant. The male didn’t share that shit with just anybody.

“It’s hard to explain why I’ve left this for as long as I have,” Qhuinn murmured as he stroked over the two words on the front. “But this is my last piece of business with Luchas. Whatever he wrote is our final . . . thing.”

Blay nodded, but stayed silent.

“Did I ever tell you about Seinfeld?” Qhuinn asked. “Or The Office?”

“The, ah, the TV shows, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Qhuinn took a deep breath. And then laughed a little. “Not The Sopranos, though. That I couldn’t resist.”

Blay put his parka aside and rubbed his eyes. “I’m so sorry, but I’m not following here?”

Qhuinn turned the letter over so that the flap that had been glued shut was face-up. “I have this weird thing about my favorite TV shows that have ended. I did it for Home Improvement, too, come to think about it. See, I refuse to watch the last season. It’s this weird thing. Like, back when we had DVDs? I always kept the last season in its wrapper.” His thumb went back and forth on the flap. “That way they’re never finished, you know? I can pretend in my mind that they go on forever, that they’re infinite—because the definition of infinity is no ending. And if I don’t watch the ending there hasn’t been one.” There was a pause and Qhuinn looked up. “That’s nuts, right?”

“Not at all.” Blay wanted to stroke the male’s back, but kept his hands clasped in front of him. “It makes all the sense in the world.”

“Now you’re just humoring me.”

“No, I’m really not.”

A ghost of a smile hit Qhuinn’s lips, but was quickly lost. “I feel the same way about whatever’s in here. As long as I don’t read it, my brother isn’t gone. Because that’s how it works with people, you know? The folks I live with, you, the kids, Layla and Xcor, everybody else in the household . . . I mean, I have countless unfinished conversations, and pool games that need to be played to even out scores, and meals that are up and coming, and nights out in the field. It’s all in the middle. We’re all in the middle because we’re all alive. And there’s power in the middle. There’s power and potential and this weird, illusory stability that feels so permanent, even though it isn’t because any one of us can die at any time. Yet because death happens so rarely, we get used to the middle. We take the middle for granted. We only see how beautiful, how magical . . . how tenuous it is . . . when the end comes.”

Qhuinn tapped the envelope in his palm. “When the end comes, the fog of habit lifts, and only then do we see how rare and special the landscape of the in-between is.”

After a moment of silence, the male laughed awkwardly. “I’m babbling, aren’t I.”

Blay shook his head. In a rough voice, he said, “No, you’re really not.”

They both took a deep breath. Maybe it was for the same reason, maybe for different reasons, but that was the nice thing about being with someone you loved. Often, you came to the same corner, even if it was from opposite directions.

“So . . .” Qhuinn tapped the envelope again. “What do you say we open this . . . together.”

As that mismatched stare lifted to Blay’s, he did what he had been wanting to do. He put his hand on his mate’s back and made a slow circle—that he hoped was as reassuring as he intended it to be.

Some seminal moments were anticipated: Births, matings . . . deaths, too. As well as anniversaries and festivals, graduations and fresh starts. Yet some of the most important moments in your life crept up on you, no less revelatory or significant for their lack of advance notice and fanfare.

This was one of the most significant moments in Qhuinn’s life: And he’d waited, maybe for hours, just so Blay could come home and share it with him.

Blay meant to hold the words in, as he still wasn’t sure where they stood. But the emotion in the center of his chest chose its method of expression—and it was a conventional one. Tried and true.

“I love you so much,” Blay said in a voice that cracked.