Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
When Lyric goes out for the night, she’s not ready for a brush with death—and she’s really not ready for the male who comes out of nowhere and saves her. Her family, especially her father, Qhuinn, are so relieved she’s okay, but all she can think about is her mysterious savior.
Without telling anybody, she seeks out Devlin, and they are immediately drawn to one another. Her near-death experience has given her a fresh appreciation for life and the desire to live it to its fullest, but she has no idea that he’s hiding a secret—or that he could be the key to ending the war between the Black Dagger Brotherhood and the lessers forever
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
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—