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When he opened his eyes fully and glanced at Ashwood, he felt a sharp stitch in his chest and could barely breathe. For Ashwood’s part, it seemed he was having the same trouble. His green eyes had unmistakable golden filaments threading through the irises, something Bellamy had never noticed before, and certainly not when they’d been with Gladstone. And now, as the spoon hovered near his lips, he wondered if it could be the effect of the moon.
He tried to shift a bit, his muscles aching from holding himself so stiffly. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“I’m feeding you, of course…like you agreed,” Ashwood said warily. “I asked you if you’d like more broth as soon as you stirred. True, your response was more a mumble, but it was assent, nonetheless. And it’s done wonders because your color has unquestionably improved.”
“I never would’ve agreed to have you feed me.” Bellamy gritted his teeth. “Let alone touch me.” He hated that he was still so responsive to him, his heart pattering its own melody for Ashwood. He wanted to jerk away yet revel in it all the same. He’d never felt this way from another man’s hands on him, and he feared he never would again. Or perhaps he should be grateful.
“I’m sorry you don’t remember.” Ashwood lowered the spoon, placed the bowl on the tray, then helped him get better settled against the pillow. “I would’ve never…I’m only trying to help. Your body needed sustenance.”
“Like yours did?”
“Well…yes.” He dipped his head in a self-deprecating way Bellamy had rarely witnessed in him. The boy who had big dreams, or so he said, and pretended he had everything under control. Who could lure him to an empty alleyway with the flick of a finger and have Bellamy completely besotted just by batting his pretty eyelashes.
Looking at him now, at his bright blond hair and green eyes, it was hard to believe Ashwood had been out there somewhere last night, hunting as his wolf self. He didn’t seem any different, other than the gold in his irises. He certainly didn’t look feral or have any blood hanging from his fangs.
Fangs? Did Ashwood have them? Did Bellamy, for that matter? His tongue slid across his gums before he reminded himself that he’d never allowed himself to get that far in the transformation process. But how else was Ashwood supposed to hunt and kill? He shivered. Did it resemble the actions of the wolf that killed his mother? He stared unabashedly, unable to imagine Ashwood becoming anything other than who he was. But he knew better, had seen him with his own eyes. His wolf form haunted his dreams.
“How does that work exactly?” he asked to distract himself from the visual. “Where do you go?”
“Into the woods. It’s best to remain as hidden as possible in the dark thicket of trees, guided only by the brilliance of the moon.”
He could picture it so plainly and was surprised when he felt that tug again in his gut.
“And what happens if you don’t…feed.” The word got trapped in his throat. “Are you dangerous?”
“Only if you allow yourself to be,” he said, regret in his tone.
“Like the wolf that killed my mother?”
He nodded, somber. “Though that was not about seeking sustenance. We do not crave humans. Only the experience of hunting, running, and following our instincts.”
“What do you hunt, then?”
“Small animals. I could show you if you would only allow—”
Bellamy screwed up his face in disgust. “I will never do such a thing.”
“No, of course not.” He sighed. “My apologies.”
“Oscar said you had to travel farther away to avoid detection?” He hesitated. “Unless I was only dreaming that Oscar was here.”
“You weren’t dreaming. I knew the full moon was approaching, and he’d offered to help in any way.” He glanced out the window. “Tracking and hunting is a calling, of sorts. Much like this soup is doing for you, it sustains our strength and reminds us of our true selves.”
Bellamy didn’t need any reminders—he only had to shut his eyes and enter his dreams. “Human food will not do?”
“Well…it is rather palatable, and it helps sustain the human part of us,” he explained.
“That sounds…fantastical. Or magical, or something I don’t quite understand, and I’m glad for it.” He turned his gaze away, pretending he was not as captivated by the conversation as he truly was. In fact, he felt positively unsettled by it.
“The only thing magical is our being close to one another again,” Ashwood replied. “It helps with healing, in its own way. You’ve been suffering, but so have I. When your mate is not with you, due to death or heartbreak or distance, you are weakened as well.”
Bellamy couldn’t contain his gasp. He’d never considered such a thing. The raw power—and draw—of fated mates. Undoubtedly, he’d seen it on display between beloved couples at Moon Flower, but he hadn’t considered how it might play out with their kind. “Does every wolf have a mate?”
