Page 111 of Reactant

Hunter nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you thinking?”

All he could think about was that he wanted Quinn to come back so that he could touch him, talk to him. Reassure himself that his detective was safe. Not unharmed, but safe was a good start. “She can’t go back there, and we don’t know if someone else might come for her. Until we clean this up…” He shrugged. She hadn’t been collateral, not like Sarah and her children or Trevor. She’d been a partial target. If they left her out in the open, it was just asking for someone else to use her as leverage, and that wasn’t something that Jericho was willing to risk. Not when it meant putting Quinn—or any of them—in danger again.

“For now, we can put her up at home,” Hunter said. “It’s the safest place for her, and it’ll buy us some time until we can work out a better solution.”

It was as good a plan as any, he supposed. “And h—”

“Why is it every time my detectives are knee deep in shit you two are at the centre of it?”

Jericho grinned as he clasped Riley Sinclair’s hand and tugged him into a one-armed hug. “Word travels fast.”

“You have no idea,” Riley replied. He gave Hunter the same treatment before crossing his arms over his chest. “Where’s Quinn?”

“Still getting X-rays,” Jericho said. “Could be a little while.”

“Good. That gives you time to tell me what the fuck happened and what is going on before I have to leave so he doesn’t know I was here.”

Peytonbypassedtheelevator,instead choosing to go for the stairs. For him, it was quicker, and it helped him burn off some of the excess energy that was like a buzz under his skin. He didn’t care if the stairwell was for emergencies only. Thiswasan emergency.

Every scenario that had gone through Peyton’s mind on his way there had been panic inducing: missing body parts, bleeding out, emergency surgery. Time of death. He knew that every single one of the thoughts were irrational. His years as a spec-ops soldier had given him visions of particularly graphic injuries that his imagination could pull from at any given moment. He was aware that these kinds of situations weren’t anything like that. That didn’t stop them from barraging him as he drove through the busy Sydney streets. He probably shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. It didn’t matter. He was here and in one piece, and he wasn’t going to wait one second longer than he had to, to get to Quinn.

Quinn wasn’t even in the bed when he arrived. He was sitting on top of the made bed, Jericho in a chair next to him. Jericho had said that he’d called Sebastian and Will as well, but they weren’t there yet.

There was nothing hooked up to Quinn, and other than a square white bandage on his forehead, he looked okay. Relatively.

He looked weary, like he needed ten years of sleep. But if Peyton hadn’t known that he’d been assaulted and almost killed by the very same man that was gunning for Sebastian, it wasn’t something he would have guessed.

Relief flooded Peyton, and he took hold of doorframe, using it to lean on. “You’re okay,” he said, his voice a little hoarser than he would have liked it.

“Just a headache and some disorientation,” Quinn said. “Doctor even said I could go home.”

“Really?” Peyton asked sceptically. He took a few cautious steps into the room, almost afraid that Quinn would disappear on the wind like a ghost. He’d had dreams like that too. “With a concussion?” Jericho had said concussion on the phone. Was it protocol to just let their patients go home after a knock like that?

“False,” Jericho said. “He advised Quinn to stay overnight for observation. Unfortunately, Quinn is stubborn, and they can’t stop him from signing discharge papers.”

“You can stop saying my name like that.”

“As long as he’s being watched and he promises to come back if anything gets worse, they’re begrudgingly allowing him to go home.”

It sounded like they’d had this argument already. Twice, probably.

Peyton tipped Quinn’s chin up with one finger, cataloguing his face. There was a light bruise on his cheek, and now that he was closer, there was a definite fog to Quinn’s grey silvery eyes.

“You’re supposed to be the good one,” Peyton murmured thickly. He stroked Quinn’s beard, the sharp bristles soothing him.

“Who told you that?” Quinn asked. He settled firm hands on Peyton’s hips, pulling him between his legs. Peyton got comfortable with his knees pressed to the mattress.

“You’re my rock, Quinn.” Peyton bent and kissed Quinn softly, their lips whispering against one another’s, soft caresses that made butterflies dance in his stomach. The last of the nightmare eroding him from the inside disappeared under the feel of Quinn beneath him. “I need you whole.” Another brush of lips. “Safe.” Another.

The journey to be there with him, to be able to hold and touch and love him, had been years of rocky back-and-forth and hurt feelings. He’d be damned if some asshole took his happy ever after from him just as he’d managed to grasp it. All the time in the world would never be enough, and they’d only just started. He wanted years with Quinn. With all of them.

He twisted, meeting Jericho’s fake blue gaze. Was Jericho part of that too? Peyton couldn’t deny that he was curious. That he wanted. Something in him justknewthat the others did too. Did Jericho? He was an enigma. Hard to read. He was good at being a chameleon. Will had told Peyton that he didn’t recognise him as the person he’d arrested. Like night and day. Slipping into a completely different persona, with nothing left of who he really was.

Was the man sitting there the real Jericho or another fake to fit in the space between them?

“Were you hurt?” Peyton asked. One of Quinn’s hands moved, resting against the small of Peyton’s back, warm and comforting.

“Would you kiss it better?” Jericho asked, smirking.

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