Moon Spell

Bellamy shivered. He loved when Ashwood talked like this. It made him feel hopeful. And not so alone. “What will we do?”

“Anything we set our minds to,” Ashwood replied steadily. “What would your mother dream for you?”

His mother had always been overly cautious, and he’d chalked it up to her living on her own with a child. She was tight-lipped about her upbringing and told Bellamy she would reveal more before he came of age, which sometimes frustrated him. He knew she had little left of her family, most of whom had died of consumption when he was a babe, including his father, and that she’d been left to raise him alone.

“Anything that kept me safe and happy,” Bellamy finally replied.

“That sounds lovely.”

Bellamy had confided in Ashwood about how his mother had been killed by a wolf, and Ashwood’s reaction had alarmed him. He’d been furious and saddened, as if the horrifying act had happened to his own kin. When Bellamy had told him he feared and loathed wolves, Ashwood had held him and suggested that perhaps they were not all bad—likely to ease his mind. But Bellamy refused to believe him, not after what he’d witnessed that day.

“How will we get away from Gladstone? He’ll say we owe him.” He needed any hope Ashwood could offer him. Needed it so badly.

“We owe him nothing. We’ve already given him too much. I’m finished giving so many pieces of myself away,” he scoffed, and Bellamy had to wonder what recollection had brought forth those words. Maybe someday, when they were safe—together—he would know more, but for now, he needed to have some faith. “Don’t worry,” Ashwood said. “I have a plan.”

Bellamy sighed as they nuzzled in close, his fingers automatically burrowing in Ashwood’s fine hair. It soothed him, brought him comfort. Being near Ashwood just felt right.

“We belong together, you and me,” Ashwood said as if reading his thoughts, his fingers tracing the freckles dotting his cheeks. Bellamy used to despise his auburn hair and sensitive skin, but Ashwood made him feel pleasing, at least to his eye. And that was all that mattered to Bellamy.

“How do you know?” Bellamy murmured.

“Can’t you feel it?” Ashwood asked with a furtive brushing of lips before drawing back. “The current running between us?”

“I feel it,” Bellamy replied, his skin on fire, his heart aching, wishing they could have more time alone. Someday. They had plans, and it was all he had left in the world to bolster him.

Heads resting together, they fell asleep, and Bellamy shifted restlessly, sweat trickling down his back as he dreamed again of the gray wolf with black eyes attacking his mother. He’d felt terrified and helpless as he watched in abject horror from the alleyway near the room they rented.

“If anything ever happens to me,” his mother had once said, “you must save yourself. Find a safe place. Run and hide.”

And run he had.

One Month Later

“When I retreat into the alleyway, follow in the same direction. I found a place where we might be alone for a spell,” Ashwood said that morning before they were ushered onto the street by a couple of Gladstone’s henchmen, who would check on them periodically, but mostly at predictable times. Gladstone himself wasn’t around, likely off to do whatever men like him did—they were only one portion of his operation, after all—so Ashwood choosing this day sounded practical. Still, Bellamy was nervous.

Soon enough, they were left to their own devices. He met Ashwood’s gaze across the way, and a moment later, Ashwood was padding off toward a narrow close between two shops. Bellamy’s heart thundered in his ears. He was afraid to get caught, but not as afraid of missing this rare moment alone with Ashwood. He slinked away from his perch, hoping he would remain undetected, then crossed the street to follow him.

He found him waiting against the stone wall. Ashwood reached for his hand and tugged him toward a broken window, where they had to stand on crates to get through. They landed in the storage room of the haberdashery. The place overflowed with hats, neckcloths, and waistcoats, and they couldn’t resist being silly for a few precious moments, pretending to be gentlemen of society.

Ashwood looked so delectable in a silk waistcoat and top hat that Bellamy groaned, then trembled, his need for Ashwood becoming more obvious.

“It’s okay.” Ashwood rubbed at his arms, which unbalanced the bowler hat Bellamy was trying on. “We can leave now if you want.”

“No!” His stomach throbbed in anticipation. “I’m just excited—well, nervous too. But I want to be here, like this, with you.”

Ashwood blew out a breath. “I just want to kiss you, freely, without worrying that anyone is spying on us.”

They’d kissed before, late at night, but only a caress here and there that sometimes lingered. This time, no one would disturb them. He hoped. He glanced over his shoulder just in case, but he didn’t hear a thing, and normally he was hyperaware of noises, especially in the middle of the night. Lately, he seemed to jump at any sound as if his hearing had somehow sharpened. But now, he could barely catch the murmur of the crowd on the street through the broken window.