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Bellamy wouldn’t have thought it possible. Wolves that weren’t spiteful or vicious? He wished his mother were alive to help him through this, to tell him what she knew. It hurt so bad not being able to speak to her, to ask if she knew why Kipling might’ve wanted to kill her.
“Why not join them if, as you say, you’re alone, now that you’ve fled Kipling?” he challenged. “Wouldn’t the other wolves offer you protection?”
“I’ve considered it, but the truth is…I’m probably better on my own. I’m not sure I can trust my instincts any longer.”
Bellamy didn’t want to feel sorry for him, even though he’d felt the same. Though he, at least, had been able to trust people again at Moon Flower. And he was glad for it.
Ashwood stood up suddenly and began pacing the room. That was when Bellamy noticed it again: the slight lilt to his gait as if he was somewhat off-center.
“Besides, I was waiting for you. I found out you’d caught violet fever, and I wanted to help. If you died without me trying…” His shoulders deflated. “I thought I could save you.”
“To clear your conscience.”
“No. I told you, my intentions are pure. I meant everything I said.”
“That’s not what you told Kipling.” He couldn’t help it, the bitterness of that last night was seared into his brain.
“I couldn’t—there was no way we could get away if they thought—I needed the opportunity to explain everything. I still do.”
“You don’t deserve it. But here I am, your captive audience.”
“I know. I’ve made quite a mess of things. I’ll set it right and give you what you want even if it means…” A pained noise arose from him, and Bellamy couldn’t bear one more minute of it. So he changed the subject.
“Is Kipling searching for you?”
“They likely…think me dead.” He cast a glance out the window. “That’s how they left me.”
Bellamy gasped. “What happened?”
“They eventually found me after I fled.” He winced. “They beat me and left me to die alone in the woods…”
Bellamy tried to shake the visual of him lying hurt and bloody with no one around. If he was telling the truth, then he’d had no one to soothe him, to help him through the worst of it, and that made Bellamy feel terrible. At least he’d been able to find a sanctuary.
His thoughts about Ashwood were so…conflicted. He didn’t want to show him sympathy, even if he did end up believing him. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive him, and they’d have to live with that. But Bellamy had lived with so much worse, and apparently, so had Ashwood. Still, so many things didn’t make sense.
“I thought you said wolves could heal.”
“They can, unless the wounds are too severe.” That explained the slight limp Bellamy had noticed. “And instead of killing me straight away, they wanted me to suffer.”
So there was a way of killing a wolf outright? He was almost afraid to ask. Had he known that day with his mother… Well, not likely. What power could he possibly have had against a wolf? His mother had certainly stood no chance.
“I can tell you have leftover injuries, even from my deathbed. Such as that limp,” Bellamy said, and Ashwood’s eyes widened. “What did they do to you?”
Ashwood drew closer, his eyes wary. “My foot doesn’t ache when I shift, which is rather freeing, and all my scars disappear behind my fur and don’t bother me so much.”
His breath hitched. “What scars?”
“I can show you if you’d like.”
Bellamy tried to temper his outrage. “Please.”
Ashwood began removing his neckcloth and waistcoat, and Bellamy nearly stopped him. It would be painful to see him bare again, but he had a burning desire to know. When he unclasped his shirt and pulled it from his breeches, Bellamy’s throat grew dry. He was still the same striking boy, now turned man, which made him even more appealing. Bellamy wished it not to be true, but how could he deny it? His draw to him—his beloved, his fated—was palpable.
Ashwood’s gaze was intent on his task, and he didn’t make eye contact as he turned away and dropped the cotton material from his shoulders. Bellamy could see the tremble in his shoulders as if he were shy or perhaps embarrassed.
Bellamy winced when the damage to his skin was revealed. Raised slash marks that could only have been made by claws. Try as he might to hold it in, he gasped, and Ashwood hung his head, soft pants releasing from his mouth.
“There are more on my chest, and on my belly, one of the most vulnerable areas on a wolf, but I won’t subject you to those.” He drew his shirt up and across his shoulders.
Bellamy had the urge to go to him, to comfort him. What they’d done to him was awful. Somehow that cut worse than what Ashwood had done to him. He swallowed his ire, again imagining Ashwood lying alone in the forest, dying. They had that in common, at least. But Ashwood had survived, and Bellamy would likely not.
