Page 2 of Lover Forbidden (The Black Dagger Brotherhood #23)

Thirty-one years, eleven months, and twenty-nine days ago…

Explain to me how it’s your birthday and you’re doing all the cooking?”

As the Black Dagger Brother Qhuinn, mated of Blaylock, son of Rocke, tossed that rhetorical across his in-laws’ kitchen table, he reached to his blind side for his daughter.

When a heavy, squirming bundle landed in his hands, he knew he’d gotten his mini-me, dark-haired son instead.

Either was good with him, but man, you could tell the difference without looking.

Like expecting a can of soda and getting a bowling ball.

“I tried to help my shellan .” Next to him, his father-in-law, Rocke, glanced over with his characteristic genial smile. “But she has her standards.”

The older male shifted around toward the center island, his attention lingering on the female who was taking a pan of homemade lasagna out of the wall oven.

Gone was the retired accountant’s earnest seriousness; in its place, that even-featured face melted into something worthy of a fairy tale.

Sure, Rocke, with his pocket protector, mild manner, and earnest affect, wasn’t the Don Juan type—certainly not at this well-past- middle-aged era in his life, and maybe not ever—but as his mate noticed him looking, the answering blush on her cheeks said she still liked his eyes on her.

“I do have standards, it’s true,” the elder Lyric said as she put the pan on the counter and smoothed her apron. “That’s why I mated you.”

Rocke’s button-down shirt stretched over his chest as he took a nice big inhale with masculine pride. “You did me such a favor when you agreed to be mine.”

“Hardly.” She started running a knife through the pan at right angles. “I was the lucky one.”

Shaking his head, Rocke smiled again. “No, I was the lucky one. Still am.”

The exchange was a reminder that HEA in real life didn’t require a perpetual setting sun and the couple from that ancient Cialis ad holding hands in their non sequitur outdoor bathtubs.

What you actually needed were two people who still gave a shit about what the other guy had to say after the passage of time—and not just days and nights. Not months. Not even years.

Decades.

Or, in the case of vampires, centuries.

Qhuinn looked in the opposite direction.

At the end of the table, his Blay was flanked by two high chairs, like he was the king of babies everywhere.

In the crook of his arm, the young Lyric—the one who wasn’t cooking her own birthday dinner—was nestled in a pink blanket, happy as a clam after her bottle.

The male’s bright blue eyes lifted sure as if his name had been whispered, and Qhuinn’s body just stopped whatever it was doing—including the whole breathing thing.

At least he managed to keep hold of their son.

Even after all these years, his hellren had the ability to put the brakes on the world.

Red-haired, broad-shouldered, and with a voice that was smooth as a good grenache, Blay was the sort of person who anchored a room.

Never showy, always thoughtful, quick with a smile and a compliment, the guy was not just a male of worth, he was the sun around which all things gravitated and by which they were warmed and sustained.

At least in Qhuinn’s universe. And for everybody else at this table: His parents had always adored their son, something Qhuinn hadn’t gotten and was so glad his mate had.

Hell, they loved him so much that when the kid had shown up on their doorstep with a scrawny pretrans who had an impeccable pedigree, but an untenable genetic defect, they’d welcomed Qhuinn and his mismatched eyes into their home and hearts, no questions asked.

“Here we are.” Lyric swooped in. “Your favorite, dear.”

The feast for the senses and the belly set down in front of him was indeed a thing of beauty: five layers of lasagna noodles, tuck-pointed with meat sauce, mozzarella, and cottage cheese—the latter instead of ricotta because he couldn’t handle the ricotta.

He was a tough male, a fighter for the species, a killer who never backed down. But he had the taste buds of a four-year-old.

“This is… amazing.” Except then he frowned at all the other platters and casserole dishes on the table. “Although we already have the roast and the mashed potatoes and the—”

“I made this just for you.” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You missed family dinner last weekend because you were out in the field, and I heard you were disappointed.”

Qhuinn put a hand over his heart. “You know, if I weren’t happily mated to your son—”

“Now, wait a minute,” Rocke spoke up. “She’s mine—”

“—I’d marry this lasagna.”

They all laughed. For sure it was a dad joke, but then again, he was a dad. And so was Blay. And so was Rocke. Funny how things had changed.

He still had all his piercings, though.

And he hadn’t traded his Hummer for a minivan—

“I think someone wants you,” Blay said with a smile.

Sure enough, Lyric was reaching for him, so they traded bundled young.

Good timing. She was easier to do the one-arm, eating-hold with, and Rhamp was okay getting put in his high chair and given a teething ring to gnaw on.

With that settled, the adults passed serving pieces around and filled plates, and between the bites and sips that followed, the conversation was heart-wrenchingly normal: No one’s tragic death was ruminated upon.

No new bad, Lash-related news for the Lessening Society was reported.

No seismic shifts on the Other Side were dissected.

Instead, they chatted about the human Christmas season and the recent snowstorm.

The ice dam upstairs in the guest bedroom that everybody told Rocke not to even think about getting the ladder out for.

There was also a discussion about how pretty the full moon had been the night before, and then came the most important open question following the presentation of the sainted lasagna:

“What kind of cake is for dessert?” Blay asked.

“Carrot,” the elder Lyric said.

As a cheer went up, Qhuinn toasted her with his beer. “Your cream cheese icing is a food group as far as I’m concerned.”

More laughter. More chatter…

It was all very nice. Too nice, in a way.

He paused with his fork. He’d been to this house out in the countryside around Caldwell’s suburban necklace of developments countless times… had sat in this chair, always this chair, since the first meal he’d had right after they’d helped Blay’s parents get moved in.

There was an expectation—never spoken by him or anybody else—that Family Dinner, a.k.a. Sunday’s Last Meal, would continue forever.

But that wasn’t the way it worked for mortals, was it.

Wrath’s death two years ago had taught him that. Taught everybody that.

As he felt a familiar ache coming on, he stared down at his daughter’s face.

She was so like her mahmen , Layla, with tiny, perfect features, big pale eyes, and a dusting of blond hair.

He’d heard that human children grew out of this proper baby/toddler stage after just twelve months, but he was glad vampires took much, much longer.

He loved this bundle-of-joy shit, he really did, and given that it was impossible to imagine what their Lyric was going to be like when she was older, when she didn’t need him or any of the other parents in her life, the fact that he could still cradle her against the bulk of his biceps like this made him feel as if time was frozen.

Sure, that was nothing but a delusion. It beat worrying that any one of them could be gone in an instant, though.

Maybe by a bomb, set by the enemy… at the door to a house, regularly visited.

He tried not to think about how Wrath had been murdered—

As he forced himself to focus on Lyric again, he had to tell himself to quit checking her irises.

There were so many reasons not to worry about whether they were going to be mismatched like his own, but as with tracking his son’s occasional dark moods, he couldn’t help it.

He’d had that vision, when he’d been at the door unto the Fade…

a daughter with one blue eye and one green.

Right now, she was showing no signs of his heterochromatism, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it to stay that way.

But that was just his own PTSD talking, wasn’t it.

“How’s my girl?” he murmured.

She offered him a little stretch and a big gummy smile in return, and as that happiness wafted up at him like a warm breeze, it got hard to breathe.

He couldn’t imagine ever shaming her for whatever color her eyes ended up being, or hiding her from other people, or shutting her out of the family.

He’d been just like her once, born into the world needing gentleness and love. And protection.

Not what he’d gotten, but that was aristocrats for you.

Fortunately, neither of his kids needed to worry about being cast out. Hell, if anybody ever tried to hurt either one of them, he would go bare-knuckled, bloodbath—

“You okay, son?” Rocke asked softly.

Qhuinn jerked his head up. The others had paused in various eating positions, the elder Lyric in the process of lifting her glass of water, Rocke in mid-bread-tear, Blay putting his fork into his mashed potatoes. They were staring at him with their eyebrows at full mast—

Oh. He was growling, his fangs tingling as they descended.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he forced a tight smile. And then he felt like he had to tack on some kind of explanation. “Do you sometimes wonder what you would do to protect your children?”

There was a heartbeat of silence.

After which all three adults answered grimly: “No.”

He glanced around at each of them, the hellren he’d bonded with, the father he’d never had, the mahmen he’d always wanted… and then also these kids who he now couldn’t live without. He thought also about the other two parents who were part of the deal, Layla, the twins’ mahmen , and her male, Xcor.

His life was so complete, so perfect, that it seemed as beautiful and unique as a snowflake falling from the sky.

And just as goddamned fragile.

Qhuinn looked back down at his daughter. Moving her closer to his heart, he stroked her soft cheek.

Shaking his head, he said in a low, nasty voice, “Neither do I.”