“No!” Grimbold growled and smoke escaped his nostrils. His dragon was not pleased. He made himself settle. “The boy is my responsibility and I never shirk a duty, but I'd hardly say the boy was mine. Not permanently, certainly. I’m not in the market for a mate. I’m far too old, and I’ve had my clutch.”
Everard raised his eyebrow. “Semantics, but I digress. Physically, there seems little wrong with the omega. Now, at least.”
“Explain.” They reached the kitchen, where Carsons was polishing the silver and Angela was baking something.
“May I have a cookie?” Darwin asked again.
Angela looked up. “What sort?” she asked, as if naked children in her employer’s in her kitchen were an everyday occurrence.
The boy wrinkled his nose in thought. “Pink.”
Everard groaned. “It's his favorite color, I'm afraid.”
Angela smiled. “I have some strawberry scones. Would that do?”
Darwin nodded enthusiastically and hurried over to Angela, who produced a simple t-shirt of all things from the large pocket of her apron and saw to it that Darwin was made decent before they went to inspect her confections.
“Explain what you meant when you said Walter's health was fine now.”
Everard raised both brows this time. “I was under the impression the boy's name is Swallow, Wally for short. Not Walter.”
Grimbold made a face. “Dreadful name. I had to change it.”
“Mm,” was Everard's noncommittal response. “Well, as to his health, Wally is fine at the moment, if a bit malnourished. He is covered in scars, however.”
“Covered?” Grimbold felt both fiery hot and icy cold at the same time. In the darkness of Walter’s bedroom, he hadn’t noticed any anomalies—but then again, he’d been doing his best not to look. Walter’s body was not Grimbold’s property, and if, in the future, he wished to reveal it to Grimbold, that was his decision to make.
“There are old contusions, whip marks, a bad break in his right leg that happened several years ago, another in his left arm—that one was a spiral fracture—several burns, and claw marks. Some were quite deep.”
Kill. Rend. Destroy.
Grimbold forced his dragon down, although it was difficult. “How did this happen? How was it allowed to happen?”
Everard shrugged. “The clans oversaw their cloisters as they saw fit. You know that better than most, Father.”
Acidic guilt churned in his stomach. “This wasn't supposed to happen. It was never supposed to happen. They were our children.”
“I’m sorry. If this is too difficult for you, my offer stands. Harry would love having Wally stay with us.”
“No. Walter is… well, he's not going anywhere. Not yet.”
Not ever,his dragon thought, and Grimbold was inclined to agree. He desired the boy, wanted him like he'd wanted little else in centuries. He wouldn’t force the boy, but if Walter came to be more comfortable with him, perhaps… Or perhaps he was being foolish. The boy had been traumatized by dragons. The last thing Grimbold wanted to do was compound that abuse.
“No,” Everard said, uncharacteristically solemn. “I see that. Father, there's not much I can do for your omega. His scars are all healed, at least physically. His vomiting last night seems to be more from nerves than any infection or ailment. I wish I could heal him, but I cannot. It is beyond what my powers can do.”
Grimbold nodded. “Thank you for coming to see Walter and doing what you could.”
“Any time. I'm glad Geoff brought the boy to you,” he added with a grin. “We all are.”
“Why? You were just offering to take him from me.”
Everard laughed. “Because you need to fuss over someone, and my brothers and I are all happy it's not us for a change.”
Grimbold gave his son a stern glare. “I'll stop fussing when my children are all settled and happy.”
“So never, because Hugh is a hopeless case. Good thing you've got your tidbit to tide you over.”
Grimbold frowned and Everard, that shameless whelp, just laughed at him again.
