Three corpses hang from the horizontal upper bar, not by their necks but by their wrists. Bellamy’s stomach seizes. One is almost skeletal, bare rags of clothing and flesh clinging to its bones. Some of the bones are missing.
The other two bodies are fresh. Bloated to bursting and crawling with flies.
Bellamy shudders.
“Problem? Oh.” Petunia doesn’t sound shocked or disgusted. Like this is normal. “They don’t execute people where you’re from?”
“Rarely,” Bellamy says. “It’s private, and it’s quick.”
He wants to look away, but he can’t. As if he owes it to these three corpses—these three people—to witness their remains. Their fates. Hanging from the wrists. Bellamy’s stomach turns. He doesn’t know how long that would take, but it can’t have been quick.
“There’s no crows,” Petunia says contemplatively. “Funny. There should be crows.”
Bellamy pulls Rakos’s coat closer against the cold. In the crisp autumn sky above, the only movement is the shape of a lone hawk, wheeling in circles.
An hour later, a loud knock jars Bellamy from his daze. He leans over the bench to find Rakos trotting alongside the wagon, a grin on his face that vanishes as soon as he makes eye contact with Bellamy. “Jump down. Did you miss me?”
Jumping from the wagon is difficult on his numb, shaky legs, and he staggers on landing, right into Rakos’s embrace. He clings to Rakos, inhaling, until he steadies himself—but still doesn’t let go.
Rakos doesn’t let go either. His grip moves hesitantly from Bellamy’s arms to his shoulders. A hand in his hair, one stroking gently down his back. Like they’re bound into purely physical communication.
“Yes,” Bellamy murmurs into Rakos’s broad chest.
“Yes?”
Bellamy’s hands tighten in Rakos’s coat. “Yes, I missed you.”
And it’s terrifying, how comforting he finds Rakos’s embrace.
?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Julien
Julien Sandry, second prince of Silaise, is knuckle-deep in his lover’s ass when someone pounds on the door. “Seriously?” he mutters, continuing to probe for—there.
Whisper jerks beneath him, biting his pretty pink lip on a moan. Julien will never tire of that shocked ecstasy on his face—the way he always looks so surprised to feel so good. The way his deep violet eyes widen and glaze over. How expressive his every quiet sound is. Julien loves the contrast between Whisper’s sweet submission and deadly competence.
Whisper’s sunshine-gold hair is mussed soft on Julien’s pillow, right where he belongs. After a stressful week, they’re overdue for a morning all to themselves.
But the pounding on the door continues, and Whisper untangles his hands from Julien’s hair. Pushes him away. “You should get the door, or I will.”
“You will not,” Julien retorts, withdrawing his fingers. He’s still mostly dressed, while Whisper’s clothes are… somewhere. And nobody else gets to see Whisper flushed and undressed and glowing like this.
Julien wipes his salve-slick hand clean on the bedspread, then yanks his loose silk shirt off and tosses it at Whisper’s face. “Cover up. I’ll be right back.”
Clad only in trousers and hypocrisy, Julien pads through his bedroom and sitting room. He passes discarded clothing on the floor and the remnants of breakfast on the table on his way to the door separating his private sanctuary from the rest of Greenhaven Castle.
“Who is it?” Julien calls out.
“Open up, Jules,” Audric answers.
A twinge of anxiety mars Julien’s annoyance. He disregards it, yanking open the door with a glare. “I told my oathguard, this is an emergency-only morning. No intrusions.”
Across the threshold stands his older brother. They’re of a height, with similar builds and dark brown hair. But Audric always looks so serious—today even more than usual. He doesn’t blink at Julien’s half-dressed state or the scratch-marks decorating Julien’s shoulders.
“This is an emergency,” Audric says.
