Scrambling through the drifts, Blay rushed over and landed on his knees. Qhuinn was sprawled on the ground, his long, heavy legs stretched out, his upper body in John’s lap.

The male just stared at him with those mismatched eyes, unmoving, unspeaking.

“Is he paralyzed?” Blay demanded, looking over at John.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Qhuinn replied dryly.

I think he’s got a concussion, John signed.

“I do not—”

He went flying off the hood of his car and hit this tree—

“I mostly missed the tree—”

And I’ve had to hold him down ever since.

“Which is pissing me off—

J.R. Ward

Tags: blay-qhuinn-john-humour

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