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“Ashwood said he could heal you if you allowed him to help,” Oscar said, giving him a stern look and thankfully breaking him out of his thoughts. “Why haven’t you allowed him?”
Bellamy shook his head, which only caused a dizzy spell. “I don’t want him anywhere near me.” Ever again.
“But it would save you, and then you could—”
“Could what?” Bellamy bit out. “Have to constantly look over my shoulder, wonder if he or his kind will take me again? No, I’d rather…I’d rather…”
Oscar gasped. “Don’t say it.”
Bellamy sagged against the mattress, his gut churning. “I need to leave the premises now. Before he returns.”
“He did not instruct me to—” Oscar motioned with his hands, growing flustered.
“It doesn’t matter if Ashwood instructed you or not,” Bellamy replied with renewed determination. “I should be able to walk out of this room, out of this place, whenever I desire. Unless you’re keeping me here against my will?”
“No, of course not.” Perspiration broke across Oscar’s forehead. “I…I…can call you someone. It’s just that you’re quite ill, and I don’t know if you can walk, let alone make it to—”
“Then you can help me,” he pleaded, forcing his torso upward, but a wave of nausea overcame him. His forearm resting on the pillow, he swallowed down the warm bile in the back of his throat, his muscles cramping, his insides twisting, his skin burning like he was on fire from the blue rash all over his torso.
He attempted to place his feet toward the edge of the bed, and just as he was about to fall forward, Oscar caught his descent and gripped his shoulders. “Perhaps a little broth to give you more strength, and then you can try again?”
He turned his head to avoid breathing on the man. “I don’t want to get you sick. I’d hoped to place my neckcloth against my mouth in the carriage.”
“It’s all right,” Oscar said in a softer timbre. “Madam Langley has given me preventive measures, just in case.”
“The elixir?” he asked, wishing with all his might that the concoction would’ve worked on him like it did the others.
Oscar nodded, propped up his pillow, and helped him lie against it.
In fact, Bellamy felt sicker now than he had when Ashwood had been in the room. Did it have something to do with being fated? Did it add an extra bolster to a person’s constitution, or was it simply the adrenaline and shock of seeing him again? That seemed more likely.
Bellamy knew Ashwood was out there somewhere, far away from where he now lie, and he felt the hollowness of his absence like a punch to his gut. It was like his heart was shattering all over again, which was shocking in itself. He hadn’t expected to feel such a profound connection to the man again. Regardless, he wanted nothing to do with it, and it was another reason why he needed to leave now while he had the chance.
And Oscar had obviously seen the desperation in his eyes because his expression was sober as he sat down near him. “Ready?” He held the bowl in one hand and brought the spoon to his lips.
Bellamy sipped the warm liquid, but not without effort. He felt his muscles relaxing, almost liquefying as he ingested more. He realized that all of it was too much. First Ashwood, then Oscar, and now trying to rouse himself enough to leave the bed to go to a carriage.
“That’s enough,” he whispered. “I’m only going to rest for a few minutes, and then we shall try again.”
He sank back against the mattress and closed his eyes, already slipping away from consciousness.
Chapter 5
When Bellamy next became aware of his surroundings, he was being fed warm, delicious broth again, and he felt the nourishment sink beneath his skin and into his bones as if it had healing properties of its own. His eyes were barely slits, and as the liquid hit the back of his throat, he moaned. The hand cradling his skull tightened briefly, making his skin tingle and his stomach constrict.
He felt more clarity in that moment than in days past.
“What is this? Magical soup?” he murmured to Oscar, trying for humor.
“You’ve been living above an apothecary for far too long,” someone responded. It wasn’t Oscar, and Bellamy froze. He was not being fed by the man he remembered last in the room with him, but by Ashwood.
Had Oscar been a figment of his imagination? A fever dream? The disappointment hit him squarely in the chest that he’d been close to escaping this room and this man he once lived for, whose scent was so unmistakably potent now, he didn’t know how he’d missed it. Maybe even more so after he’d been off feeding or running wild—whatever wolves did in the woods.
Though he knew perfectly well, at least from his dreams. That feeling of unbridled freedom was not something he’d easily forget.
