Always Mine

Disclaimer:I do not own the fandom of the Black Dagger Brotherhood. I make no money on this work of fiction. I have no connection to JR Ward, who is the owner and author of all original Black Dagger Brotherhood works. This was written purely for fun because I love playing with the boys and they bring me so much joy. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The plot of this story and any of its original characters are the property of this author. No copyright infringement is intended.

I've played a little with canon, such a removing at least one character, but I plead artistic license plus the fact that some good things can't happen under certain circumstances and that would just spoil the fun.

CHAPTER 1

He felt the pain grab his chest, steel bands tightening around his ribcage like quick drying cement. Crushing, weighting him down till his lungs were pressed flat. He fought but the air wasn't getting in and he felt his life bleeding away like light at the end of the day.

He reached out, barely able to lift his arms through the weakness seeping through him. And it took three tries before he could get his voice strong enough to push through the darkness settling over him.

"Please," it was a low croak. "Don't leave me. Please! I can't do this anymore. I need you."

The figure in front of him stopped walking. He stood frozen in place and with a huge sigh, dropped his head forward. The still figure's chest hitched once as if he were catching a stray sob and his hands clenched at his sides. The anguish pulsing off him in waves, he drew himself to his full height and started turning slowly. But before he could complete his turn, though, before he could come face to face with the male pleading behind him, darkness washed over him and he disappeared as if he'd never been.

"NO!" Qhuinn finally dragged in a painful gasp of air and shrieked it away. "I'm nothing without you. Please come back!"

His back arched off the bed, his fingers twisting in the sheets, as he came awake instantly. The raw pain tore through him like... well, like... fangs. As he dragged great, gulping breaths deep into his burning lungs he felt his fangs punch into his mouth; long, slick and sharp, promising a relief he knew was false.

If he thought ripping open any veins he could reach with those razor sharp incisors would do him any good, would bleed away this pain along with the hell that was his life, he'd have done it in a heartbeat. But it didn't work that way. And despite the agony he felt every time he looked at his best friend, he was too much of a coward to give up that life.

After all, this was where Blaylock was and if Qhuinn checked out he'd never see his friend again. Never touch that smooth, hard body in an accidental brush as he passed by. Never draw in the warm, spicy scent of Blay's skin, his blood, whenever Qhuinn thought he could get away with it.

And that just wasn't an option.

Qhuinn threw back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, grunting softly at the pain sweeping through his body. The run-ins they'd had last night with the lessers had instilled their own level of hurt but the agony that had rolled over him in his nightmare had all but finished him off. He rubbed his chest over the lingering ache, still fighting to draw a full breath, and pushed off the bed.

Feeling like an old man, he dragged himself into the bathroom and cranked on the shower. He used the toilet as the water heated up then dragged himself into the stall with a noticeable lack of energy. He braced his palms against the tiles, his head dropped forward, and let the hot water beat down on his head and shoulders. As soon as he closed his eyes, the dream rushed back at him. This time he took control of it and willed it to the finish he wanted.

The figure in front of him turned and started back toward him. And as he stepped out of the shadows and the light hit his face full on, Qhuinn gasped at the beauty of the male smiling at him.

Blaylock's bare skin was smooth porcelain, pale and creamy. His blue eyes blazed like a hot, sultry summer sky. The warm red of his hair glittered in the light and fell over his forehead in a lush wave, curling gently at the nape of his neck. It invited the thrust of fingers, winding deep in the silky weight, holding tight, pulling close.

A strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones and the thick column of his neck sliding down to the wide sweep of muscled shoulders and back stopped his beauty from being pretty. This was a pure masculine beauty; rugged, tough, yet still breathtaking.

Qhuinn felt his chest lock as he tried to draw breath into lungs that wouldn't move. Blaylock was magnificent. His broad chest and thick arms were hard, the muscles sleek but well defined. Qhuinn's gaze stroked down over Blay's ridged six pack and the narrow hips, over the perfectly formed and beautiful cock hanging heavy between his spread legs and nestled against rounded tight balls, before tracking hotly down the hard columns of his thighs.

As tall as Qhuinn, at six feet four, both males towered over the average male of the race. But for Qhuinn, it meant he could look deep into his best friend's eyes easily. And he wanted to do that. He wanted to see the same feelings burning deep in those bright blue eyes that he felt burning in his own mismatched ones.

And that was where the daydream abruptly ended, drifting up into the room with the steam rising from the shower. Despite the hot water beating on Qhuinn's back, a harsh shiver ran through him. Because no matter how strong the feelings were that burned inside him, he knew he'd never be able to turn them loose on Blaylock.

Because the glymera didn't approve of homosexuality.

In truth, surprisingly, the glymera didn't disapprove of homosexuality as long as it was a sideline to a perfectly acceptable heterosexual relationship. You could be as gay as you wanted as long as it was very discreet and outside of a proper marriage bed. After all, appearances were what laced up the glymera world and their world was so tightly laced that batting your eyelashes outside of a bedroom was nearly a hanging offense, even when done toward your perfectly acceptable heterosexual mate.

Qhuinn had been raised in a family where the acceptance and values of the glymera meant more than the well-being and happiness of any individual within that family. The glymera, that aristocratic, social core of the vampire race that determined the worth of everybody by how far down their noses they had to look at you. The farther down the stare you were, the less you were worth.

And Qhuinn was already a write-off because of the genetic defect of being born with mismatched eyes, a defect that didn't correct itself when he went through his transition, as hoped.

He knew he'd been only tolerated as everyone waited for that day, secretly hoping for some big cosmic correction, and when it didn't happen he had also known it would only be a matter of time before someone, his father, most likely, decided there was no longer any point in keeping him around. Whether his father made that decision on his own or under pressure from the glymera wouldn't matter. The end result would be the same.

Despite being treated as completely unworthy of even drawing breath, Qhuinn still prayed for acceptance within his family. He believed he needed to find a female of worth, someone he could mate with so then he could become a beloved son, accepted with pride and love as his brother and sister were. And for that he still needed the approval of the glymera.

As Qhuinn dressed for the coming night's patrol he couldn't push away his rampaging thoughts. And the pain twisted deep in his chest as he realized that as long as the glymera's approval held that much weight for him, the wall between him and Blay would never come down.

"Damn, that was brutal," Butch growled harshly as he staggered into the billiards room and headed straight for the bar.

Despite already having been healed by Vishous in the field after sucking down several lessers in his role as The Dhestroyer, Butch was still unsteady on his feet. Vishous shot him a concerned look, taking in the still slightly gray cast to the cop's face.

Butch splashed a generous amount of Lagavulin into a squat, cut crystal glass and raised it in a shaky toast toward his roommate. "Relax, bro, I'm fine thanks to your ever fabulous healing."

He swallowed a large mouthful as Vishous stepped close to him.

"You still look rough, cop." Despite his attempt at being casual, solid about it, his deep-seated worry over the half vampire roughened his voice into a harsh growl.

Butch's eyes sharpened as he caught the emotion boiling in those diamond white orbs holding him captive and without thinking, he reached out and hooked his hand around V's neck. His fingers pressed into the hard muscles as he tightened his grip and he stepped another inch closer, the air barely separating them heating up.

"You always take good care of me, Vishous, the best. I'm fine," he murmured, almost a whisper.

"See you stay that way," V growled and stepped right into Butch.

His mouth came down on the cop's, his tongue sweeping across his lips, tasting the bite of the Scotch. Butch reacted instinctively, opening his mouth to the vampire's demand, and in a quick, hard sweep V took his mouth, his tongue.

Butch sucked in a shivery gasp but Vishous was already moving away, throwing back his glass of Grey Goose. When Butch finally clamped a lid on the sudden lust boiling through his blood he shot a fast look over the room. The only one who appeared to have caught the play was Qhuinn and at the dark pain twisting his face, Butch knew immediately what was going through the young vampire's mind.

A sudden clamoring noise coming from the entryway had heads snapping around. Butch, Vishous, Qhuinn and John were the first teams back in and they all ran to the entryway to see which group was showing up now. And the sharp voices echoing around the newcomers gave them a heads up that whoever it was wasn't bringing good news with them.

"Blay!" Qhuinn yelled, crossing the foyer in four steps.

The young redhead was hanging between Rhage and Tohrment, his face bloodied, his head hanging loosely on his neck. His shirt hung in tatters across his chest and Qhuinn's breath locked in his lungs as he saw the gaping slash from his right shoulder down to his left hip. Then his eyes dropped, searching for the source of the blood dripping from the bottom of his leathers and a broken cry tore from him when he saw the deep stab in Blay's thigh visible through the torn pants.

Wrath's heavy steps thundered down the staircase behind them and Qhuinn was barely aware of the king's harsh curse.

"What the fuck next?" Wrath snarled, lifting Blay's head up gently. "Get him down to the PT room. Why didn't you take him directly to Havers'?"

"They were right on our asses," Tohr replied coldly. "We didn't want to risk leading them to the clinic if we couldn't lose them. Rhage called him from the car. He should be here any second."

He'd barely finished speaking when the bell rang. Fritz appeared almost instantly and everyone held their breaths as the old butler hurried to open the door.

"Doctor, welcome, please come in," Fritz urged the well-dressed male.

Qhuinn couldn't tear his gaze from his friend and barely heard the doctor excusing himself as he stepped in from of Qhuinn to give his patient a quick once-over.

"I'll need to operate," he spoke softly, his professional voice never wavering. "These wounds are deep and will need closing. And I'll have to replace the blood loss."

Qhuinn stood in shock, everything numb, as Blay was carried to the stairs leading down to the mansion's clinic. Most of the conversation slipped by him, the only words catching in his brain were... severe blood loss... transfusion to keep him alive till he could feed... need to work fast.

Those last words broke through the ice locking his body tight and he dragged in a deep, harsh gasp. My god, he could die! Blaylock was on the edge of death! No, no, this couldn't be happening. He couldn't lose him, especially without telling him --

Qhuinn looked up as a warm hand gripped his forearm tightly and he found himself staring into John's amazing blue eyes. He could see knowledge burning in that gaze; understanding of the anguish tearing Qhuinn apart.

Go, John's hands moved. Be with him.

Qhuinn took a step toward the staircase, stopping when John caught his arm again.

Tell him, Qhuinn. Before you can't.

Qhuinn's eyes locked on John's for long moments. He fought against the terror trying to drag down his body, hating the cold storm raging through him, tearing him in two directions. John was right. He loved Blaylock, had to tell him before Blay was taken from him and that door was closed.

But in that instant, again, as always when faced with that choice, images flooded his mind. Images that dragged him back through the hell of his past. Reminders of all the rejection, the abandonment, the pain of praying that he would finally be accepted, in his family and in the vampire race. But never would be without acceptance from the glymera.

Which would never come with Blaylock as his mate.

He knew the decision was plain to see. He could see it reflected on John's face, could see the regret burn in his friend's eyes and in that moment, he hated himself. With a roar of anger, of loss, he wrenched free and ran for the front door.

CHAPTER 2

"What do you mean he's gone!" Wrath bellowed.

John's hands flashed and Tohr turned to the king. "He's torn up over Blay's injuries."

"So instead of waiting around to see if his friend pulls through, he runs out, with no backup, to leave himself open to the same shit? How the fuck does that make any sense?" He slammed his fist on his desk and turned to John. "And where does he get off leaving your side, anyway? It's his fucking job to stay close to you."

Tohr watched John's hands once again and when he started speaking Wrath waved him off impatiently. "Yeah, yeah, I got enough of that. If you aren't safe here at home..." he trailed off.

"Shit, the sun's gonna be up in a couple of more hours. Tohr, you and Rhage go get him. Before he gets himself killed. Or fried. And smack some sense into him on the way back, while you're at it," he grumbled. "I've always said the fucking glymera was a miserable organization and causes more trouble than it's worth and whoever decided they should be able to determine who can love who should be staked out and gutted."

John slowly followed Tohr and Rhage out of Wrath's office. He hurt for his friends. They had been the first to accept him when Tohr brought him here before his transition. A mute, an orphan, a scrawny stick of a child always hovering on the edge of physical pain and emotional anguish, John had been alone, cast out, viewed as a useless piece of humanity. Not knowing who or what he was, good only for fodder as those abandoned often are. And it never changed despite growing up, despite leaving childhood for young adulthood. John was either pushed to the edge of fading endurance as just another tool of someone's labor or as prey to the uncountable predators roaming the streets on the lookout for those forgotten.

Qhuinn and Blaylock had been the first to welcome him in this new world, this new life, unconditionally, with no judgment. They were the first to set the brakes on the out of control spin that had been his life and he'd never forget that.

His stomach churned, fear and helplessness twisting him into knots, and he clenched his fists over his inability to make things right for either of them now. He found himself agreeing wholeheartedly with the king. And thought about how he'd like to be the one doing the gutting.

The roaring in his ears was deafening him but he couldn't figure out how to shut it up. Didn't know where it was coming from. He staggered around a corner, his breath knocked out of him as he slammed into a dumpster. Dumpster? Ok, he was in an alley somewhere. But where? And why, for the Scribe Virgin's sake!

Qhuinn tried again to get his eyes opened enough to see where the hell he was and again, it was nearly impossible. Nothing was making any sense and the only thing he was fairly sure of was the burning need to get the hell out of the open, to get hidden. He hung on to the filthy receptacle, feeling along the edge of it and pushed his way into the narrow space behind it. The panic receded a little as he dropped his head back against the wall but it didn't seem to help dispel his confusion any. And the racket in his ears sounded like it was still at the same decibel level.

He pulled in several long, deep breaths, holding the last one in before letting it out slowly. And that seemed to do it. Well, a little. The roaring in his ears muted slowly and this time when Qhuinn rubbed his hands over his eyes, they opened.

His vision blurred as he blinked several times before realizing he was trying to see through the blood running from the deep gash in his left temple. He swiped an arm through the mess, trying to clean it away, and sucked in a sharp gasp as pain shot through his head again. Ok, no noise, not if he wanted to stay hidden from... whatever he couldn't remember. He focused on his breathing, riding out the knife that was stabbing holes in his skull to let that damn roaring back in again. Slowly, slowly, the pain receded and the surf in his skull faded back to a not too distant memory.

Qhuinn pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, careful to stay away from the wound in his temple. He inched his eyelids up slowly, grunting silently in satisfaction that nothing was blurry this time. He could still feel the warm blood trickling down his face but it seemed to be staying out of his eyes this go around. He let his mind drift, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing out here and why he was bleeding. As he tried to pick through his memories for one that fit, he instinctively checked himself out for any further damage.

He felt like he did after a serious workout with one of the Brothers. He had aches on top of his pains and knew there were bruises blooming all over him, judging by the feel of it, not to mention a serious burn sinking into his right side. And as he scanned down the length of his body, he saw patches of black... something soaked into his t-shirt and down one pant leg. What the hell? He fingered the almost oily substance and brought his hand up to his nose. He grimaced at the sickly-sweet smell. What the --

The fog in his brain disintegrated like mist in a wind and the answer slammed into him. Lessers! And just like that, it was all back.

Blaylock was hurt! Badly! And in his anguish and fear, Qhuinn had bolted from the mansion, looking for vengeance. For revenge. The need to hurt, to kill, to destroy those creatures who'd dared to injure, maybe fatally, the male who should be his mate but probably never would had overwhelmed his common sense, his reasoning. He'd run, knowing it was suicidal to do this alone but needing desperately to give to his beautiful male the only thing he was able to and knowing it would never be enough.

And not caring that he had to stay quiet, to stay hidden till he was sure the enemy wasn't tracking him, Qhuinn threw back his head. The anguish burning a hole through his heart -- his soul -- couldn't be contained and as he opened his mouth to scream it away, the knife-edge of pain lanced back through him. As the blackness sucked him down, he didn't know if he'd released his horror. And he didn't feel the hands catching at him, pulling him from behind the dumpster.