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A smell he’d become intimately familiar with.
Ashwood. His mate. His beloved.
They had indeed gone toward the woods.
Fear seized his throat. Could he really do this? But he forced his legs to move and followed the scent, nevertheless, heading past the flour mill, through the wildflower fields, and then behind trees and brush, trying to remain undetected until he could assess how dire the situation might be for Ashwood.
When he came upon them in a clearing, he stayed behind the trunk of a large oak tree. Kipling and the three others in his pack had surrounded Ashwood, much like that day when Bellamy had first discovered Ashwood was a wolf. If Ashwood rejoined Kipling’s pack, that would make five, and it wasn’t lost on Bellamy that he and his mother would’ve made seven.
He shivered at the very idea, imagining how their lives might’ve been different, his appreciation overflowing for his mother shielding him all those years. But he also understood how important the numbers were to Kipling—the pack would look more menacing that way, would help show his prowess, or perhaps there would simply be more of them to do his bidding.
But even as small as their pack was, they were still a threat. And Bellamy was no match.
“You’ve been waiting for your mate to come to his senses this whole time”—Kipling’s taller frame towered over Ashwood, his dark beady eyes boring into him—“and in the end, he doesn’t want you anyway. He’s severed your bond.”
The others laughed and taunted him, and Bellamy wanted to lash out, but he remained hidden, not knowing if it was the right moment. Would it ever be? They’d undoubtedly become aware of his scent soon enough.
“He could reject me a hundred times, and I’d choose him anyway,” Ashwood replied, and Bellamy’s heart panged. “Meeting Bellamy changed my life. And not only because I found my mate. Even if he doesn’t want me, I’ll always be grateful to him.”
“For what, exactly?” Kipling asked. “What does he provide you that your pack cannot? Besides a good amount of fucking, of course.”
The others tittered at his taunting tone, but Bellamy focused in on Ashwood’s softened expression and words. “Hope. Love. He made me feel worthy.”
“How romantic,” Kipling mocked. “Such drivel.”
“It’s better than what you taught me.” Ashwood squared his jaw, stood his ground. “Deceit and treachery. I thought I’d found a family, one I could trust, and then you turned me into a wolf against my will.”
Bellamy noted how the others stayed quiet, probably because they’d been turned the exact same way.
“How is it any different from what you did to that boy? He trusted you too.”
Ashwood’s face fell, his expression one of pain, and Bellamy’s gut tightened. He batted away the doubt that always gripped him. How long would he allow his resentment to burn? Until everything inside him turned to dust? No, he needed to grab onto the substance of what truly mattered. Human or wolf, their connection mattered to his very bones.
“The difference between us is intention.” Ashwood raised his chin. “Though misguided, my plans—my dreams—were real and pure. Something absent from your soul, if you even have one.”
“Such nonsense.” Kipling laughed again and so did the others, but much less enthusiastically.
Bellamy thought of Galen right then and how he could read auras and guess people’s intentions. No doubt he’d say that Kipling’s was absent of light and full of grayness, just like the constable and the man who’d hurt him in the alleyway.
“You’ve turned soft,” Kipling said, pushing Ashwood into another pack member, who also put his hands on him and jostled him around. “We’ll need to toughen you up again.”
Kipling lifted his hand and struck Ashwood across the face, and Ashwood didn’t even react, only stood there and took his punishment.
That was the last straw. Bellamy stepped out of the brush. “Don’t fucken touch him!”
Chapter 25
“Bell, no!” Ashwood’s face contorted into a deep frown. “Don’t involve yourself in these matters.”
“Why won’t you fight back?” Bellamy asked through clenched teeth.
“It’s no use.” Ashwood looked more downtrodden than Bellamy had seen him in days.
“Isn’t this sweet?” Kipling mocked. “His mate coming to save him.”
The others laughed, and Bellamy bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood.
Kipling stepped toward him and bared his teeth. “You’ve turned Ashwood against me.”
Bellamy pointed an accusing finger. “You did that all on your own.”
Kipling lifted his arm, and Bellamy thought perhaps he would strike him as well. Bellamy would fight back, for Ashwood, even if they left him for dead. But instead, Kipling’s eyes widened, and he staggered backward, clutching his chest.
“What did you do to him?” one of the others accused as Kipling crumpled to the ground, his jaw slack, his eyes hollow.
Bellamy padded quickly toward Ashwood and whispered close to his ear. “He was given a lethal dose of Dragon’s Blood in his tea.”
