Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 17

I wake feeling blissfully well-rested and relaxed.

Whatever Ambrose had done to me, I couldn't object. Well, except to the fact that he'd kissed me—twice now—without my consent.

Not that I'd found it unpleasant, really, but I did like to have a say in the matter of when—or if—another person's mouth got to know mine.

Especially when that person was some kind of half-dragon creature that seemed all too capable of manipulating my feelings and my mind.

With this thought I rise, shake off the last of my pleasant lassitude, shower and dress with quick efficiency, and head downstairs.

There's no sign of Ambrose, but Dougal greets me at the bottom of the stairs with the enthusiastic desperation of a dog who's been patiently waiting for someone to wake up and let him outside. I do, and note that the roses I'd trimmed look healthier already. I've half started planning some other work I might do when I remember I'm leaving.

I shut the door and then stand in the hall, caught in a sort of eddy of indecision. I should go back upstairs, pack my things, and leave before Ambrose wakes up and has a chance to convince me otherwise.

On the other hand, I feel I owe him something.

Julian and I had fucked up, for sure, but things could have been a lot worse. If Ambrose hadn't been there, we might've both been poisoned and the painting still gone. Instead, Julian was fine, and we knew a lot more than we did before—if only because Ambrose had chosen to share what he'd known all along.

I'm also not quite ready to face Dane. I'll have to—he needs to know about the poison, because it means the thief is willing and able to kill—but the thought of telling him just how close a call we had makes me go cold with dread.

I stand there in the silence so long, lost in thought, I'm startled by my own stomach, rumbling with hunger. I haven't eaten since lunch the day before, I realize, and I'm starving. Maybe I'll be able to think more clearly after breakfast.

In the kitchen, I throw some sausages and potatoes in a pan, and I'm contemplating how many eggs to fry when a loud crash from the hallway makes me drop the spatula and burn my hand. Heart in my mouth, I grab a kitchen knife, creep to the doorway, and peek around the corner into the hall.

Instead of an intruder, or a ghost, or whatever I'd imagined, Ambrose sits on the floor with his back against the wall, and beside him is an overturned sidetable and the remnants of a broken vase.

"Doct—Ambrose—" I correct. "What happened? Are you alright?"

He looks up at me with a bleary expression, like a man with a bad hangover.

"Sorry... little wolf. I fell," he mumbles.

"Fell?"

I look closer and see that his long reddish hair is loose and tangled, his brow and shirt damp with sweat, and his face has an awful, blueish-white cast. Even his lips are pale. "What the—? Are you ill?"

He lifts his eyes to mine with something of an effort and the corner of his mouth quirks up. "Don' worry, little wolf," he slurs. "'S jus' the las' a' the poison wearin' off."

Righting the table, I set the knife on it and then kneel at his side.

"I thought you said it wouldn't hurt you?" I ask, knowing I sound desperate and a little scared.

He shakes his head. "I said it doesn' harm me. Fuckin' hurts though," he mutters, and grimaces.

"Is there anything I can do?"