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By the time they were back out on the street and walking toward the inn, it was already dusk. Bellamy had tucked the jewelry beneath his shirt, and he could feel it tingling against his skin as if it had its own healing properties.
“I cannot believe my mother was a wolf,” he said, gripping the ring through his shirt. “She must’ve been so frightened.”
“I can understand why she did it,” Ashwood said, a haunted look in his eyes. Right then, he wished with all his might his mother and Ashwood had been able to meet. For what purpose, he wasn’t sure. His mind was a mix of melancholy and disbelief, and it would take days to unravel his myriad of emotions.
“Do you think there was any part of her that wanted to be a wolf?” Bellamy asked.
“Perhaps. As you know, the call is very strong.”
He stopped suddenly and turned to Ashwood. “What happens to a wolf once they die?”
Ashwood frowned. “They turn to dust.”
Tears stung his eyes, and he bent forward, hands on his knees, feeling a visceral tug in his midsection. Ashwood’s hand on his shoulder offered him little succor.
“Ashwood, I need…”
They were getting closer to the center of the village, but now he twisted his body toward where he knew the wilderness began.
“Would you like to go back to the inn first?”
“No, I…can’t. I need…”
Ashwood’s hand squeezed his neck. “All right. Let’s go.”
Once under the shade of the pines, they undressed slowly, almost brazenly, gazes tethered together, their breaths soft puffs of air between them, their connection sharpened from the day’s events.
The shift was smoother this time, a nearly flawless transition as if Bellamy had willed it to be so, the itch and longing too powerful to stop it.
They ran until the moon was highest in the night sky, the dirt dense beneath his paws, his movements more and more fluid and sure. His hindquarters were sore, his breathing uneven, but he didn’t mind it. He didn’t want to shift back. Not yet. It was simpler as a wolf, the angst more subdued, the pain a duller ache, his grief retreating to an isolated place in his heart. And yet, he could’ve sworn he tasted her ashes on the wind.
Chapter 17
When they returned to the inn in the middle of the night, Bellamy felt physically exhausted, the wolf inside him temporarily sated, yet there was still this thread of tension running through him that he couldn’t explain.
Thankfully, the village was asleep, and the innkeeper had already given them the keys to their rooms. As they padded silently down the hallway, Bellamy noticed that Ashwood’s limp was more pronounced, perhaps from fatigue. They reluctantly said their good-nights, Bellamy getting the impression that Ashwood was also stalling, perhaps because they had more to say or because they hadn’t been apart in days. Once Bellamy closed his own door, he realized this was the first time he’d been alone with his thoughts in ages.
He immediately regretted it, wishing he had Ashwood there to help him process everything that happened that day. Too many sensations bombarded him at once after being at such a safe distance from his emotions in the forest.
He removed his shirt, planning to clean the dirt from his skin using a fresh ewer that’d been left on the sideboard. As he poured the water into the basin, he resisted the urge to go to Ashwood, which didn’t make much sense because he’d done everything in his power to avoid the man for nearly two years.
When he heard a quiet knock, his heart leaped. Perhaps Ashwood had the same idea. “Come in.”
Ashwood entered, holding the chain with his mother’s ring, and Bellamy gasped, his fingers searching his neck before he remembered he’d had to discard it in the forest, along with his clothing. “I’d forgotten.”
“You’re not used to it yet.” Ashwood placed it on the sideboard. “Soon enough you will be.”
He dipped his head, grateful for his thoughtfulness. Again. “Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome.”
Neither of them moved, simply watched each other in the center of the small room.
“Being with you in the forest…it was…” Ashwood sighed. “I’ve dreamed of moments like that.”
“Don’t.” Bellamy made a frustrated noise. “I cannot bear to hear such sentiment.”
“Why am I not allowed to remark about—”
“Because coming from you…the person I once…” The person I still love.
Bellamy felt something visceral arise inside him, and before he could properly understand it, he was backing Ashwood against the wall, his arms on either side of him, caging him in.
At first Ashwood appeared alarmed, perhaps thinking Bellamy might harm him, and he’d admit he’d desperately wanted to for a long time. But there was also that other sort of desperation growing inside him, the one that seemed like it would eat him alive if it was not unleashed. The kind that demanded he kiss Ashwood, and use him, and own him to his core. And he knew with primeval certainty that Ashwood would allow him to, which was precisely why he shouldn’t.
