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“What do you mean?” he asked against his better judgment, too eager for information about everything, even now as sick and angry as he was. Though he felt more alert in Ashwood’s presence than he had in days and felt a burning desire to know…something. Anything he didn’t have to study in one of Madam Langley’s spell books or hear secondhand from a healer or witch.
“You were probably born of lupine blood, which means you’d follow in the footsteps of one family member or another,” he explained, and Bellamy felt like he was floating in a dream or in one of Galen’s fairy tales. “Were you never told of the possibility?” Ashwood asked, and Bellamy shook his head. “In the case of heredity, it’s hard to decipher whether one’s wolf will manifest at all, but it’s more feasible if one is a direct descendant. So perhaps that’s why the information wasn’t made available to you—in case it didn’t come to fulfillment.”
“In due time.” His mother’s words resonated now in more ways than one. His family had wolf blood, it was so obvious in retrospect, except there were too many pieces missing to the story, and he felt frustrated all over again by the lack of information.
“I was made a wolf, not born one,” Ashwood said, and the idea of it stole Bellamy’s breath, making him light-headed and dizzy. “Kipling bit me to make me part of his fledgling pack. I was an easy mark.”
He began pacing as if still rattled by the thought, and Bellamy had to admit he felt momentarily sorry for him. He ruthlessly pushed the sentimentality aside.
“I knew it was only a matter of time before I began feeling certain instincts unless I suppressed them.” He waved over his shoulder.
“Perhaps you would have if you were completely beleaguered by the notion like me.”
“Yes, perhaps,” Ashwood replied faintly.
Bellamy growled out of sheer bitterness. But the action strained his throat and brought forth a terrible coughing fit that rattled his chest as well as his brain, muddling his thoughts.
“You’re parched. Let me fetch you something,” Ashwood said, going to the sideboard and lifting the teapot off the tray he must’ve brought in with him. His hand was unsteady as he poured some tea into a cup, the liquid tipping over the side. It gave Bellamy a clue that Ashwood was feeling just as unnerved, perhaps from discussing his own history.
Ashwood stepped toward him with the steaming cup. “You’re exerting yourself too much.”
“Do not come near me,” Bellamy hissed, and Ashwood stopped moving immediately, knowing Bellamy meant it. And as much as Bellamy tried to steel himself against caring, he couldn’t bear to see the dejection in Ashwood’s eyes, so he turned away, still aching to touch him, soothe him, even after all this time.
Once his breathing settled, he set his gaze on Ashwood again, who was still standing motionless, with the cup in his hand, only a short distance away. Bellamy was thirsty and wanted to feel the tea’s warmth against his throat, but he was too nervous to have Ashwood approach. The truth was he was terrified for many reasons, including tempering his own response to Ashwood after not seeing him for so long. Small tremors racked his body as he was overcome, and not just by the effects of the sickness—the chills and fever, the unsightly rash all over his torso—which were more than enough.
“It’s obvious you’re feeling awful,” Ashwood said, snapping out of it and moving to place the tea back on the tray. “Perhaps it’s better if you rest—”
“Kipling…” Bellamy said, cutting him off, fearful he might drift into unconsciousness again. “You told me he was your previous keeper. Except…you were still under his control.”
“I…I have so much I’d like to explain if only you’d allow me to—”
“He’s the wolf that killed my mother.” Bellamy would never forget that gray fur, those bloody fangs. “The idea that you lied to me…for him…that murderer…” He wanted to howl into his pillow, the emotion still so raw.
“I didn’t know. You have to believe me.” Ashwood sounded quite wretched, like he’d never heard him before, but Bellamy could not—would not—allow himself to get drawn back under his spell. “Not until you told me how your mother died did I suspect more. I swear to you, Bellamy. Kipling only told me he knew of your mother.”
How would he have known of her? Had they crossed paths before?
“It doesn’t matter,” Bellamy replied, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. “You still followed through with deceiving me.”
“No! Well, yes.” He shuddered. “I tried…I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me? That’s your excuse?” His stomach felt shredded. “I don’t believe you.”
“There was a chance you’d turn into a wolf after I did, I knew that much. I’d planned for us to go away…to escape. And then I would explain everything.”
