Page 17 of B is for Beast of Dean

Alice

Night fell over the forest. I sat beside Heath's bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest by the light of the fire. He had been sleeping for hours now, his breathing labored but steady.

I had checked his bandages once since treating the wound, relieved to see that the bleeding had finally stopped. The bullet wound was clean. The shot had passed through his side without striking anything vital, but he had lost so much blood that I feared for his strength. The gash on his forehead was less serious but had bled freely.

Exhaustion pulled at me, but I could not bring myself to rest. What if his condition worsened? What if infection set in? I knew how quickly a wound could take a turn for the worse.

Besides, where would I sleep? Heath's cottage contained only one bed, and I could hardly... I shook my head, banishing such thoughts. The cottage felt different at night, more intimate somehow. The shadows cast by the fireplace danced across the rough walls, and the silence was broken only by the crackling fire and Heath's quiet breathing. I found myself studying his face in the flickering light, seeing details I had missed before.

In sleep, the sharp edges of his unusual features seemed softer. His tusks, pearly white against the coarse black hair on his face, were striking, almost elegant. His pointed ears looked soft and satiny, twitching slightly when the fireplace crackled. The thick hair that covered his arms and chest looked surprisingly silky in the firelight. He was still unmistakably Other, still the creature that villagers whispered about in fear, but lying there injured and vulnerable, he was simply a man who needed care.

A man I was growing to care about far more than I should.

I rose quietly and moved to the shelf where Heath kept his few books. My father's volume of Tennyson sat among them. I took it down carefully and returned to my seat beside the bed.

"Shall I read to you?" I asked softly, though Heath showed no sign of waking. "Father always said poetry was good medicine for the soul."

I lit an oil lamp and opened the book to a poem at random and began to read aloud, my voice barely above a whisper in the quiet cottage:

"Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me."

The words seemed fitting somehow, given the day's events. How many thoughts arose in me that I could not utter? How many feelings I could not name, could not acknowledge even to myself?

Heath stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering but not opening. I continued reading, letting the familiar cadence of Tennyson's verse fill the space between us. Page after page, poem after poem, my voice growing softer as the night deepened.

When I reached "Ulysses", my father's favorite, I paused, remembering how Heath had asked about my preferences when I first gave him the book. Had thatbeen only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime had passed since our innocent conversation by the stone wall.

"I am a part of all that I have met," I read, the words taking on new meaning in the lamplight. "Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades forever and forever when I move."

Heath's breathing changed, becoming less steady, and I looked up in concern. He moved restlessly against the pillow.

"Heath?" I set the book aside and touched his forehead. He was warm—too warm.

Fever. I had been dreading this possibility, but hoping the clean wound and careful bandaging might prevent it. I fetched cool water and clean cloths, gently bathing his face and chest to bring down his temperature.

"Please don't leave me," I whispered, surprised by the desperation in my voice. "I've only just found you."

The words hung in the air, more honest than I had intended. Only just found him? But we barely knew each other. We had shared half a dozen conversations, a few moments of tentative friendship. Why did the thought of losing him feel like losing a piece of myself?

I continued bathing his heated skin with cool water, murmuring soft reassurances that he could nothear. The fever broke near dawn, his temperature returning to normal, and his breathing becoming easier. I nearly wept with relief.

As pale morning light began to filter through the window, I found myself studying Heath's sleeping face again. When had this happened? When had I stopped seeing the Beast of Dean and started seeing simply Heath? A gentle, intelligent man who had shown me more kindness than I had known in years.

What was this feeling that had driven me to risk everything to find him? This fierce protectiveness, this desperate need to keep him safe, this warmth that spread through my chest whenever he looked at me?

It was more than friendship. More thangratitude for his saving my life. But what exactly was it? I had never felt anything like it before, this bone-deep certainty that I belonged here beside him.

The thought should have frightened me. I barely knew this man, yet I had abandoned all sense of propriety and safety to care for him. What did that say about me? What did it mean?

I could not sort through the tangle of emotions in my chest. All I knew was that the thought of losing Heath, of never seeing those beautiful eyes again, had been unbearable. And sitting here now, watching himbreathe peacefully after nearly losing him, felt more right than anything I had ever done.

Whatever this pull I felt toward him, I could not deny its power. Whether it was wise or foolish, proper or scandalous, it was real. And it was changing everything.

Heath's eyes opened slowly, focusing on my face with a clarity that told me the fever had truly broken.

"Alice," he said softly, his voice rough with sleep and lingering weakness. "You stayed."

"Where else would I go?" I asked, the words coming out more tender than I had intended.