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Drystan winced, his hands knotting the hem of his tunic as he fidgeted. “My punishment is your silence.”
The baron let out a mirthless chuckle as he cupped himself and emerged from the water, swiping up his own discarded tunic. “Then, I shall keep with the torment.”
Drystan’s hands balled into fists as he lurched forward. “Please. You are my only friend. It is not my intent to remain at odds with you.”
“And it is not my intent to remain friends with one who would betray me. One who would break for such meager punishment.” He slipped his tunic over his wet torso and reached for his breeches next, yanking one leg over his damp skin.
“Forgive me, but I am not like you, My Lord. Whatever fondness and tolerance you seem to have for pain is not one we share.”
“No. You are not like me, at all, I suppose.” Gaze cast downward, he fastened the laces of his leather breeches and yanked on his boots. “Because were that you, I would not have uttered so much as a breath.” The baron lifted his gaze to find Drystan’s brows pinched together, his eyes brimming with torment. “I was your friend. But friends, we are no more.” He strode past Drystan, leaving the other boy there by the river.
Once far enough into the woods, the baron hid behind the thick trunk of a nearby tree, watching for the moment when the other boy would tire of standing there and leave. An exceptionally long time passed while his cousin seemed to stare off toward the water, before Drystan gave a glance around, and the baron ducked back when his eyes scanned over the trees. Not a moment later, a flash of movement at Drystan’s back drew the baron’s eyes toward the unfurling of two brown wings that spanned either side of his cousin.
A beat of shock tore through the baron, his eyes fixed on the wings, which appeared smaller than either his, or Soreth’s. Could they even carry his lanky body into the air? His question was met with quiet grunts and growls of frustration, as Drystan hopped, seemingly desperate to take flight.
Given the baron’s certainty that they shared the same father, he’d suspected that Drystan likely harbored similar traits as himself, though he would not dare question the boy. Not after what had happened in the undercroft. Instead, he watched with amusement, as Drystan struggled to get off the ground, and after another few tries, he let out a bellow of anger that echoed through the trees. Birds scattered overhead, momentarily distracting the baron, and when his gaze landed on Drystan again, the wings had tucked themselves back into his flesh.
The sight left a bitter taste in his mouth, not so much the secrecy of what he’d seen, but the hypocrisy and denial. What conversations they could have shared, if only his cousin had not proven to be a conspirator to Bishop Venable. They could have been the best of friends, but the baron had never felt more distant to his cousin than right then.
When Drystan finally set on the path back toward the manor, the baron headed in the opposite direction, deeper into the woods. It was not long before he neared an abandoned homestead, one thought to be haunted by the family who had been brutally murdered by what rumor had described as a pack of wolves, given the state of their remains.
Of course, he had never believed such nonsense.
It had seemed the perfect place to hide his new pets, seeing as the baron was certain his father would have had them destroyed back at the manor. Twice a day, he made a point to visit them, bringing them scraps of food and water. For the most part, they slept, but sometimes he’d come upon the cabin hearing them growl in play, or howl in loneliness. Those were the times he feared someone might find them and destroy them, as Soreth had done to their siblings.
As he approached the clearing where the cabin sat, however, the sound of giggling carried on the air, and frowning, he slowed his steps.
“My, aren’t you a frisky little beast!”
The melodic voice he recognized instantly prompted the baron to duck behind a thicket, and he followed the sound to the east side of the cabin, where the giggles grew louder and danced over the back of his neck like silk ribbons. There, sitting in the high weeds, he found the raven-haired girl, and at her feet, tromping the weed stalks, the three puppies pounced at each other in play.
Panic wound through his muscles, the uncertainty of whether, or not, the dogs might attack her still prodding the back of his mind. But as he watched them play and bark, it became clear the little mongrels meant her no harm.
Fenrir’s tiny tail wagged as he barked and nipped at the hem of her dress, but instead of growing angry with him, she chuckled and tapped at his tail, inciting a game of chase with it, as the puppy spun around in circles.
The baron snickered, his attention focused on the locks of hair that slid over her shoulders when she bent forward to pet Cerberus. She lifted his small body up into the air and planted a kiss atop his head, and the baron wondered what it would feel like to be the object of her affection. To have her look upon him in that adoring way that made him want to grab her face and bite her perfect heart-shaped lips. Tension wound inside of him, and he licked his own lips imagining such a thing.
After watching them play a bit longer, he whistled for the dogs while still tucked behind the brush. The girl jumped to her feet, eyes scanning the surrounding trees.
All three dogs trotted away from her, toward where he knelt to keep out of her line of view. Gaze to the ground, he contemplated what to do next.
Should I make myself known to her?It would’ve been rude, otherwise.
What would he say, though? Only those with perverse intentions spied on young girls that way, even if she was only slightly younger than himself. However, the woods were a perfect opportunity, without prying eyes and the pressure of formality, and he most certainly wanted the opportunity to talk to her.
To hear his name on her lips and watch her bow in deference, once she learned his stature.
When he lifted his gaze toward the house again, though, the girl had disappeared.
31
JERICHO
“Do not come any closer.” Palm crushing the tree bark, I remained bent over myself, clutching my groin with my other hand.
“Look at me, Jericho,” the brunette spoke in a stolen voice that sent a shudder through me--the perfect pitch and tone belonging to Farryn. “Tell me you do not want what you see.”
“I do not–” A stab of pain struck low in my gut, the ache traveling straight to my balls.
