Page 67 of Bittersweet & Strange

I don’t think about anything except how cold the snow was when I was lying in it and how easy it would have been to close my eyes and stop fighting.

I wish he had left me there.

27

Rhys

It takes hours for my anger to cool. Instead of sitting in the leather chair in my room, I lower myself onto the floor in front of it. It’s the same place I sat as a child when my mother read to me until the fire burned low, and it’s where I sat while Boone told me stories too.

I stare into the flames dancing over the burning logs and admit that he was right about one thing. I would never give him the satisfaction of hearing me say it, but my reluctance to understand his desperation to reach his father stems from my inability to understand how anyone could love their father enough to risk dying for him.

Soleil must sense something is wrong because she wanders over and rubs herself against my leg, something she rarely does. I look down as she winds around me, then settles nearby. She had no difficulty seeking affection from Boone from the moment she met him. She climbed into his lap and purred contentedly while he stroked her, perfectly at ease with him from the start.

Given the opportunity, perhaps she’d leave me too.

I return my attention to the fire and consider the same questions I’ve been avoiding since I locked Boone inside his room again. Do I give him another chance and trust that this time he’ll keep his word? Do I let him go under the assumption that he’ll return to me? Or do I go with him and make certain he does? The alternative is keeping him exactly where he is. Behind a locked door, I know he’s safe. I know where he is, and he remains mine to do whatever I want with.

None of the choices satisfy me.

There is something else I have to consider. Twice every year, I travel into the village to replenish the things I cannot produce here. Flour and sugar. Salt, coffee, lamp oil, spices, yeast, and other necessities that either cannot be grown on the mountain or are easier to purchase than make myself. I preserve what I can, grow what the greenhouses allow and hunt for meat, but the castle still cannot provide everything.

I go when there is a break in the weather, when the snow calms and the sun warms enough to make the journey manageable. And that moment is rapidly approaching.

No one in the village knows who I am.

When I go, I dress plainly and present myself as a traveling peddler passing through. I purchase what I need from several merchants and return to the mountain without giving anyone reason to remember my face. I don’t look forward to those journeys, nor do I dread them. They’re simply something that must be done. Another piece of the life I’ve constructed for myself.

I could bring Boone.

The thought comes easily, but I immediately dislike it.

I could take him into the village and allow him to see his father. I could make certain the old man is alive and has everything he needs, then bring Boone back here with me. He swore he would return. Until his escape, I had no reason to believe his word meant nothing.

But what happens once we arrive?

If Boone makes a scene or refuses to leave, the entire village could become involved without giving me enough time to stop it. He could tell someone what I’ve done. His neighbors know him. His father certainly knows him. If enough people begin asking questions about the stranger who brought Boone home after his disappearance, eventually someone may discover exactly who I am.

Rhys Villeneuve.

The son of their Beast.

I’m not certain I can risk that.

My thoughts return to Boone lying under me earlier, and the memory leaves me uneasy. I felt the exact moment he stopped fighting. His wrists went slack in my hands. His anger disappeared. When he said okay, there was no challenge behind it, no desperation and none of the stubbornness I’ve come to expect from him.

I got through to him.

I’m certain of it.

Yet the longer I sit here, the less the thought feels like a victory.

I could saddle Bramble tonight. I could lead the horse directly to Boone’s door and place the reins into his hands. I could leave every castle door standing wide open, then stand aside and give him every opportunity to leave.

I don’t think he would.

The certainty of that should satisfy me. This is what I wanted from the beginning. I wanted Boone to stop fighting me, stop looking toward the doors, stop thinking about the village and the life he had without me. I wanted him to accept that he belongs here, that he belongs with me, and I have spent months forcing him toward that acceptance every time he resisted it.

Now I may finally have it.