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* * *
By the time Sorin let Bertram out of bed, it was threatening noon. Bertram took some time to clean him up and swapped out their sex-soaked sheets for fresh linens before dressing in his workman’s best and running his hands through his hair to tame it.
“Where are you going?” Sorin asked. He’d yet to move from his side of the bed, where he’d made himself comfortable in his pillow nest, peeping at Bertram from over the top of the highest one.
“Not far.” Bertram nodded toward the window. “I thought I’d check on the repair work I did on the roof, and perhaps see what I can do about the collapsed chimney. I’m no stonemason, but I’m hopeful the work will be intuitive enough I’ll be able to get it done on my own. We’ll need it fixed before winter so we can keep our lair warm for the eggs.”
Color bloomed on Sorin’s cheeks, and he shifted on the bed slightly, resting a hand on his stomach.
“In any case,” Bertram went on to say, “should the repair work prove to be beyond my capabilities, I’d best find that out now—securing a contractor willing to come out so far will prove difficult, and the sooner I begin the hunt, the better. It is my responsibility to ensure our lair is in proper working order before we have a clutch to care for.”
“We raised our first clutch in a cold, drafty castle,” Sorin interjected. “I know it’s not as easy as flipping a switch and turning off your brain, but please don’t put too much pressure on yourself. If we managed back then, we’ll manage now. The chimney on this side of the manor is in working order—that’s all we’ll need to keep the eggs warm.”
“Still…”
Sorin rolled his eyes, but there was such happiness on his face that Bertram couldn’t begrudge him his teasing.
“Well, if it makes you feel better,” Sorin said, “you can go stomp around on the roof and poke at the chimney and do whatever makes you feel like you’re providing for me as a mate. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a nap and spend my day being comfy. Half a week of nonstop sex apparently takes it out of a guy. Who knew?”
Bertram paused at the doorway and looked back at him and the tiny nest he’d made for himself—a precursor for what was still to come. There was no gold in sight, not a pearl or a diamond or a colorful jewel, but there didn’t need to be. There were other things Bertram had to treasure—things that mattered far more than what could be kept in a hoard.
“Enjoy your day in bed,” he said, smiling at his most precious treasure of all. “When I’m done with the roof, I’ll come in and cook us dinner. You needn’t lift a finger. Not today.”
* * *
The fix for the chimney—thankfully—seemed within Bertram’s capabilities. He poked around on the roof for quite a while, assessing the work that would need to be done, until hunger drove him back to the ground. As he stepped off the final rung of the ladder and onto the earth below, the front door opened, and Sorin stepped outside. He was dressed in one of Bertram’s shirts, which fit him almost like a tunic, and had with him an empty water bucket he carried to the well.
Upon seeing him, Bertram forgot about his stomach.
Mine, rumbled his dragon, and Bertram agreed.
“I thought you were on the roof,” Sorin said, arching an eyebrow, as Bertram approached. He’d yet to hook the bucket to the pulley, and as Bertram closed in, he abandoned the pursuit entirely, setting the bucket on the ground by his feet. “How’s it looking up there?”
“Not great, but not terrible.” Bertram slid his hands into his back pockets and let his eyes linger on Sorin, enjoying the sight of him in his shirt. “I think I’ll be able to fix it without assistance, provided I can source the appropriate materials in time.”
“And where, exactly, are you going to source those materials from?” Sorin asked playfully, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised. “We’re an hour’s drive from civilization, and by that, I mean a church, a gas station, and three hundred sheep. I don’t think you’re going to have much luck finding a place that sells historical construction materials.”
Bertram shrugged. “Then I’ll just dig up the garden. The original stones had to have gone somewhere. Stands to reason they’d be buried nearby.”
Sorin’s lips quirked with laughter that never quite came to be. His expression went stony very suddenly, and he stood up pin straight, eyes wide, alert and eerily still. “Do you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“There’s a whirring sound.”
Bertram lifted his head and listened, and sure enough, he heard it—a faint, distant whirring. As he listened, it grew louder, and while it was impossible to distinguish its source, there was no mistaking that the sound was unnatural.
It was coming from something man-made.
Sorin seemed to reach the same conclusion, and came out from behind the well in a hurry, standing on his toes to look inland, out across the grassy hills. There was nothing to see—not yet—but as they looked on, the sound grew louder, and louder, until it became recognizable, and as the truth of the matter set in, a cold horror shot down Bertram’s spine.
He came to stand a protective step ahead of Sorin, shielding him from view as a fleet of all-terrain vehicles appeared on the horizon.
It was over. The council had found them.
They would be captured, and they would be killed.
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