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The expression on Ashwood’s face turned incredulous, but then Bellamy could see relief in his eyes. Followed by wariness. “You’re not going to like it, but it’s the only way.”
It didn’t matter. Bellamy would endure whatever it was if it meant getting to Kipling.
Chapter 9
“Go on then,” Bellamy said, exhaustion taking hold after he’d expended so much energy. “I’m waiting to hear how much I’m not going to like whatever is required of you to do. Could it be any worse than what I’m feeling now from the sickness?”
“It won’t be any worse…” Ashwood winced and looked away, which probably meant it absolutely would be.
It occurred to Bellamy that Ashwood seemed easy to read now, and he wished he would’ve given himself away this well during the months they’d spent together. Perhaps Bellamy wouldn’t have grown so attached or built up an entire well of hope inside himself. Or perhaps it was his own naivete, and he didn’t want to see it. But that didn’t seem to fit either.
“But first,” Ashwood said, “can I ask what made you change your mind?”
The look on his face was so full of hope, Bellamy had to look elsewhere. “I realized that perhaps I have something to live for after all, even if it’s you I have to rely on to help get me better. But that would be the extent of it, Ashwood. Don’t expect me to—”
“It’s all right. I understand.” The dejection in his eyes was nearly unbearable. “I cannot help but feel immense relief that I can do this one thing for you.”
And honestly, Bellamy should’ve been grateful, should’ve thanked him for this gift, but he was still skeptical and angry and needed to see it through first. He undoubtedly would never shake the feeling of Ashwood’s deep betrayal, and the sooner they got this over with the better. He was bolstered, however, by the new fire spreading through him when he thought about Kipling, wondering if it really was possible to exact retribution.
“Let me ask you this,” Bellamy said, glancing toward the sky. “What if Kipling discovered you weren’t, in fact, dead?”
“He would come after me, of course. It’s why I’ve remained in the shadows and traveled farther to feed.”
“What if you sought him out, showed me where he spends his time?” he let slip before he was ready. He was feeling almost as wild and feverish about the idea as from the sickness ravishing him.
He heard the small gasp in the back of Ashwood’s throat. “So that’s the reason you’re suddenly bent on getting well? Because you want revenge?”
“Perhaps. Is that so wrong?” His face heated. “After what he did to my mother? How he ruined my life?”
“No, especially if that burning desire will keep you alive. I’d rather suffer knowing you are somewhere in the world without me than be shattered from grief, knowing you are no longer of this world.”
Bellamy braced himself. He hadn’t expected the flood of emotions Ashwood’s declaration brought forth. His chest twisted like a windstorm as he imagined the anguish he would inflict on Ashwood. Would it compare with the grief Bellamy had sustained from his betrayal?
“Although, going after Kipling is a death wish all its own,” Ashwood said. “But one step at a time. First, let’s get you well.”
“Just one caveat,” Bellamy said, raising his hand.
Ashwood’s eyebrows knitted together. “All right.”
“After all is said and done, you promise to finally let me go,” Bellamy said, and Ashwood inhaled a sharp breath before nodding, albeit reluctantly.
If Bellamy wished Ashwood to truly suffer for his deception, Bellamy could go off and actually live the kind of life he’d always dreamed of. That would make Ashwood rue the day he’d ever lied to him. It would torment Bellamy too, but eventually this gnawing feeling in his chest would have to leave him—he hoped—and perhaps he might find some measure of happiness again elsewhere.
He refocused on Ashwood. “I need to hear you say it.”
“You’re afraid I’ll double-cross you. Kipling hurt me too. Took me at a young age and turned me into…this…though I don’t regret it, not like you do.”
Bellamy wished he could find some reckoning with his being a wolf, someday. Perhaps learning about his family, his history, would help. No one better to start with than Kipling—and Kipling would have to remain alive enough to confess some things.
Ashwood said, “Once you’re healed, I’ll leave you to live your life however you see fit.”
“And if I’m wrong about you?”
“Then you’re free to kill me,” he said in a such a matter-of-fact tone it made Bellamy shiver. As if he were already resigned to his mortality. Perhaps he was not looking forward to being alive another hundred years. Who would?
“And how, pray tell, would I do that?” he asked, amused despite himself. Given how ill he was, barely able to lift his head or his arms, he could scarcely cause damage to a mosquito, let alone a person. He ignored the thought that it would be the same conundrum with Kipling. He would just have to find another way.
