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There was nowhere they hadn’t gone to be together, no distance too far, and no obstacle too great. So rather than wait for Bertram’s answer, Sorin pulled him down and kissed him, giving in to the passion they shared. Wherever they went, they would make it work, because they would be together. There would be no more tearful goodbyes, no more heartache, no more sacrifice—and as Sorin deepened the kiss, and Bertram’s cock twitched back to life inside of him, he knew that was all that mattered. The details could wait for later, because their happily ever after was happening right now.
* * *
Bertram was no liar.
He kept his word.
He liquidated his assets as quickly as he could, shuffling what profits he was able to turn into their secret accounts, and three weeks to the day later, he held Sorin’s hand on their way out of the hotel for the final time.
A black car waited for them by the curbside.
Bertram helped Sorin into it, took his place beside him, and shut the door.
The driver needed no instruction—once they were seated, he drove.
And just like that, they were gone, destined for a place no dragon but one had ever called home.
21
Sorin
On the rocky crags of the Shetland Islands, where the land cut jaggedly through the ocean in endless stretches of verdant green, there sat an old stone manor solely accessible by an overgrown dirt road. It was the only building within eyesight—in fact, it was the only building for miles and miles—and while at one point it had been beautiful, over time, it had fallen into a state of disrepair. The kind souls who’d once lived there were long gone, and when no one had come to take their place, nature had moved in.
Over time, it had changed the manor, carpeting its roof with moss that crept up along the stonework and decorated its windowsills. In every little nook and cranny where exposure had eaten away at the mortar, it had filled the space with greenery—a patch of hornwort here, a spattering of liverwort there—until it was not evident the walls had sustained any structural damage at all.
The same could not be said about the rest of the manor.
A storm—or some other natural disaster—had done in its eastern chimney, and while nature had done its part to hide the imperfection, it had not entirely succeeded. Where there should have been a chimney, there was now a small moss-covered outcrop that looked out of place compared to the twin chimney to the west. In addition, the wooden front door had rotted, and the boards barring up the manor’s glassless windows had fared little better—they had gone quite green.
On the inside, the manor was dark and dingy. It had no electricity, and with its windows boarded up, the darkness was so thick that it was nearly impossible to see. But sight wasn’t everything. The smells here told a story. Damp, musty, and smelling richly of earth, it was clear there was as much work to be done to reclaim the inside as there would be to repair the exterior.
But there was a crispness in the air here that made Sorin feel like all the work would be worth it.
It was the smell of Scotland.
It was the smell of home.
He set to work on the first day they arrived at the manor undoing what nature had done, focusing first on clearing out a place in the kitchen and the master bedroom so he and Bertram could safely eat and sleep before moving into other rooms, making his way strategically through the manor until the centuries of dust in it had been swept away and all the cobwebs had been cleared. He scrubbed the floors until they shone and tore out what rot he could, pitching it into the garden where nature would finish what it had started.
It was hard work, but thanks to his efforts, by the end of their first week in Scotland, the manor was made livable. By the end of the second, some of the rooms began to feel cozy. By the end of the third, Sorin was able to put down his broom and dustpan and move on to other ventures. The manor had been left furnished, and there were old—old—belongings to sort through.
In one wardrobe, a lady’s moth-eaten woolen shawls.
In a closet, a neatly arranged collection of a gentleman’s well-used canes.
Sorin lingered with them in silence. He stroked the damaged wool as if to soothe it, then—with his heart in his throat—moved those few belongings into places of honor in one of the spare bedrooms. One day, he thought, he would find a way to display them.
But today would not be that day.
Bit by bit, he sorted through old linens and other household sundries, discarding what was unsalvageable, and piling up the rest to launder on a future day. In the kitchen, he discovered familiar forks and knives in cupboard drawers and brought every yellowed plate and bowl to the sink for a proper wash—their first in hundreds of years. The kitchen had no running water, but there was a well out front that had yet to go dry, its water crystalline clear and icy.
When heated, it was perfect for scrubbing.
So, rag in hand, scrub he did.
He was midway through the stack of dishes when there came a noise from behind him—fingers drumming on the counter. The only indication that someone was in the room with him before there were arms around him and a hot mouth pressing into his hair.
“Bertram,” Sorin breathed, closing his eyes as sparks of pleasure shot through him. “What are you doing inside? I thought you’d be out working for a while longer.”
