Page 21 of Feral

“It’s quite a lovely hobby, if I say so myself.” Killian smirks, leaning back against his chair. “Though Vesper usually prefers brooding in the dark. You’re a breath of fresh air, Bellamy. Honestly, before Gregory started throwing his tantrums in town, we barely saw Vesper leave his study.”

Bellamy’s expression softens slightly at the mention of his ex, but instead of shrinking into quiet fear, a distant, nostalgic look settles into his eyes. He looks into the crackling fire, wrapping his arms around his slim waist.

“Before Gregory… life was different. Peaceful, I guess,” Bellamy says softly, his voice carrying a quiet, reflective weight that draws my full, undivided attention. “I lived in a little apartment near the bay. I painted. I spent my weekends wandering local flea markets and thrift stores with friends. I didn’t care about politics or high-society dinners. I just liked quiet mornings and warm light.”

I step closer to the hearth, keeping my movement silent, listening to every syllable falling from his lips.

“What happened to the painting?” I ask gently, my low voice cutting through the quiet room.

Bellamy glances at me, his green eyes catching the supernatural flames of the fire. “Gregory’s an asshole. He hated the mess. Hated my art. So he threw my canvases away. He told me it was time to grow up and look the part of a politician’s partner.”

Rage flares to life, but I keep my face still, refusing to interrupt him.

“The only thing that kept me sane back then was my best friend, Oakley,” Bellamy continues, a small, genuine smile touching the corner of his lips before fading into something bittersweet. “God, I miss him. Oakley was the only person who saw right through Gregory’s charming act from day one. He tried to pull me out. When Gregory started locking the doors and monitoring my calls, Oakley tried to break in and get me out.”

Bellamy lets out a soft, ragged exhale, looking down at his boots. “When I fled that night… I couldn’t even call him. I couldn’t risk Gregory tracking my phone and hurting him. I haven’t spoken to Oakley in three months. It gets… too quiet here. Sometimes I feel so damn lonely it aches in my chest.”

The admission hangs heavy in the warm air of the conservatory.

Killian’s playful smirk vanishes, replaced by a look of quiet, genuine sympathy. “Isolation is a cruel weapon, Bellamy. But you are safe here. Gregory’s men can’t reach past these wards.”

“I know,” Bellamy whispers. “It’s just… hard to remember who you were before being locked away from the world.”

I take two steps forward, closing the distance between us until I am standing right beside him near the fire, my tall frame casting a protective shadow over his shoulders.

“You haven’t lost yourself, Bellamy,” I say. “And as long as you are under my roof, you will never have to shrink yourself to fit inside another man’s box again.”

Bellamy holds my gaze, his pulse fluttering rapidly at the base of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away. A fragile, unspoken thread of trust stretches between us in the firelight.

Killian stands up slowly, picking up his dark coat from the chair. “I should take my leave,” he says smoothly, offering Bellamy a gentle nod. “It was an absolute honor, Bellamy. Vesper, keep me updated.”

“Always,” I reply, my eyes never leaving Bellamy.

Late that night, the estate falls completely silent save for the steady, freezing rain lashing against the high windows. Killian has gone back to town. The manor drapes itself in dark shadows.

I step silently into Bellamy’s bedroom, dissolving out of the wall like liquid smoke.

Bellamy is fast asleep in the center of the massive mahogany bed, curled sideways under the velvet blankets. His long, wavy brown hair tumbles over the pillowcases, his face calm, smooth, and completely relaxed in the dim moonlight filtering through the arch window.

I move toward the side of the bed with phantom grace, keeping my footsteps soundless against the hardwood floor.

I lean over his sleeping form, resting one pale blue, claw-tipped hand against the dark wood of the headboard. In the dim light, I can see the soft rise and fall of his chest, smell the sweet, clean scent of his skin mixed with the soft wool of his sweater. “Why do I dream of you?” I whisper the truth out loud.

An irrational pressure builds behind my ribs. The urge to sink my fangs into his throat is so heavy, so blinding, it defies every piece of logic I possess. High demons are said to have fated mates, but I long ago severed myself from that ancient fairy tale when I bound my soul to the hound. Cryptids do not have mates. They have territories. So why does my soul fucking scream for him with such terrifying desperation? Why do my shadows dance for him? And why the hell does every instinct in my body say that I should claim him permanently?

Mate.

The word isn’t just a thought. It’s a growl from the shadowy figure to my left. It’s the first time in twenty years the Devil Dog has ever spoken a single word.

The sheer weight of it slams into my chest like a physical blow. I stumble backward, my boots scraping hard against the hardwood floor, my hand flying up to clutch frantically at my sternum where my demon core anchors my soul. My breath catches in my throat. My crimson eyes widen in absolute, staggering disbelief.

Mate. He’s my fucking mate.

The realization rattles me to the fucking core. I’m bound to a cryptid. I’m a high demon living in exile. I was never supposed to have a mate. Yet the universe, in all its twisted irony, placed me in front of the one person who will be my undoing.

For several long, silent seconds, I stand frozen, catching my breath as the shock wave settles through my body.

Slowly, I step forward again, my movements heavy and deliberate, until I am standing beside the mattress once more. I raise my right hand, letting a thin wisp of silver-blue magic bleed from my fingertips into the cool night air above Bellamy’s chest.