Moon Spell

He was feeling quite sorry for himself when the door opened and Ashwood entered with a new tray. Would he ever stop trying? Bellamy couldn’t help admiring his tenacity. “I cannot bear to see you suffer. And I cannot let you die alone, no matter how much you hate me.”

He’d admit that had affected him. The bastard.

“It’s no use,” Bellamy said around a hacking cough that made his chest ache. “I’m getting worse.”

Ashwood’s eyes softened as he placed the tray on the side table. “Then I implore you to allow me to help you.”

Bellamy shut his eyes briefly, unable to see the pity in his features. He gripped the edge of the seat. “Why won’t you understand that you’ve already destroyed my dignity, and I will not allow you to do it again. Nor would I want to be indebted to you for anything.”

“You will never be indebted. If anything, I am to you, and I would give my life if it meant…” He growled in frustration then squared his jaw. “It seems you will not budge, and therefore my plan will not come to fruition. I shall help you return to Moon Flower if that’s what you most desire.”

Bellamy sagged with relief, but then considered the logistics, just as he had with Oscar. “How did you get me here to begin with?”

“It wasn’t easy, and we were nearly detected.” He motioned toward the street. Beyond it, Bellamy could see the fields and the forest. “So it would be better if you had more strength to make the journey.”

“And how, pray tell, would I accomplish that?” he scoffed.

“Staying upright, for one. Then eating something more solid to give you temporary strength. Allowing me to sit near you so we can trade energy, which will also help, momentarily at least.”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps you are only trying to take advantage of me again.”

“No, Bell, Bellamy…I would never wish for any more pain to come to you.” His eyes were wide and searching. “If your desire is to return to your friends—”

“My family,” he countered.

“Your family…then I will get you there. You must be able to sit in a carriage, and this will help.” When he arranged the steaming bowl on the tray, the smell wafted toward him, and his stomach growled in response. “See, you are hungry, and perhaps it would also help to give you a bit of a wash. At the very least, it will feel refreshing.”

He didn’t think he could handle Ashwood’s ministrations, but the idea of cool water against his skin was too tempting to refuse. He wished he’d thought of it during Oscar’s visit. And speaking of the man, he certainly hoped he’d left concerned enough to check on him again, especially if Ashwood didn’t follow through on his promise to return him.

“You will not get the sickness from me?” Bellamy asked, mostly to ignore the fact that Ashwood’s warm, sure hand was already reaching for him, under the auspices of arranging the pillows.

“Wolves can heal themselves and other wolves if they so choose. It’s one of our more admirable traits.” A shiver ran up Bellamy’s spine, undoubtedly from the feel of Ashwood’s strong fingers against his shoulder. “And I want to help you heal from this terrible sickness.”

“If wolves can heal themselves,” he asked, ignoring Ashwood’s proclamation, “how long do they actually live?”

“I notice you don’t include yourself when speaking of our kind, and I can understand why after everything you’ve been through.” He dragged over a wooden chair from the corner of the room and arranged himself on it, then lifted the bowl. “A wolf’s life is longer than a human’s, but eventually we also become frail and our healing abilities fade.”

“Suppose that makes sense,” Bellamy said right before the spoon met his lips. He took a hearty sip.

He knew he appeared as horrible as he felt, but he only saw concern in Ashwood’s gaze. He wished he could trust his intuition when it came to him, but given their history…

Ashwood watched him closely, waiting for him to swallow the food down before continuing to feed him. It was unnerving, really.

“Apparently,” Ashwood said, “the eldest wolf in existence lived close to twenty and a hundred years old.”

“You must be joking.” He sneered. “Who wants to live that long? How positively miserable.”

Ashwood chuckled, and he hated that he enjoyed hearing it. In fact, they used to laugh quite a bit during their evenings together in the warehouse as they shared their days as well as their dreams—sometimes to the consternation of the others attempting to get some shut-eye.

“You’ve always had a more disparaging worldview than me,” Ashwood remarked, amused crinkles around his eyes. “Oh, how I’ve missed that droll witticism.”

Bellamy sobered. He didn’t want to miss anything about their time together, nor have it brought to his attention.