Page 128 of Moonlit Nights & Northern Lights
19
Theodore
Devraj Bassi was alive.
Devraj Bassi was alive, and in our cottage.
More specifically, on our sofa. Asleep, on our sofa.
He’d collapsed the moment we crossed the cottage threshold. His legs simply gave out, seemingly now exhausted. We’d half carried, half dragged him to the sofa, his handcuffed wrists making the manoeuvre awkward.
Rory had tucked a tartan blanket around Dev’s shoulders. His breathing had already deepened into sleep before Rory even stepped back.
“We should take shifts watching him,” I suggested, though every muscle in my body ached for the warm press of sheets and Rory’s skin against mine.
“You sleep first.”
“No, you go. I’m not tired yet.”
Rory gave me a long, lingering look, and I caught an intense flash of his disappointment—sharp and immediate. The feeling echoed my own sense of being cheated out of having the night to ourselves, to once again tangle our limbs together while we slept. Alongside that came something entirely new: a strange, almost magnetic pull that made the idea of being separated from him—even by a single floor—feel fundamentally wrong. When Rory dragged his feet up the stairs like a petulant child, I had to actively resist the urge to follow him.
Hours passed. Dev snored softly, occasionally muttering incomprehensible words. My eyelids grew heavy despite the uncomfortable wooden chair I’d positioned myself in.
Every few minutes, I found myself unconsciously reaching out through our connection, checking on Rory upstairs. The first time it happened, I jerked back in surprise—I hadn’t meant to do it, the action as automatic as breathing. But there he was: a warm, sleepy contentment threading through my consciousness, his dreams apparently peaceful for once.
I was both fascinated and terrified by the strength of this wolf bond—I still couldn’t quite bring myself to call it amatebond. Christ, what would it be like when we returned to London? Surely I wouldn’t feel this constant awareness of him from across the city? Or, would the distance create some kind of persistent ache, like a phantom limb I couldn’t ignore?
And what about Rory? Would he come to resent this? He’d seemed relieved by my reaction earlier, but that was in the heat of the moment. Once we were back in familiar territory, once the novelty wore off and the reality of being permanently tethered to me set in…
When I could no longer trust myself to stay alert, I slipped upstairs and gently roused Rory.
“Your turn,” I whispered against his temple.
I set my phone alarm for five hours—not allowing myself any more than that. Yes, because I was desperate to hear what Dev had to say about his disappearance firsthand. But also because the thought of Dev and Rory alone together downstairs while I slept…
When the alarm blared, I wasted no time getting dressed, then padded downstairs in bare feet. I found Rory, dressed in an oversized T-shirt with bare legs, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor beside the sofa.
He stared intently at Dev’s face and when I touched his shoulder, he jumped as though I’d electrocuted him.
“You okay?”
Rory’s face broke into a small, sleepy smile that quickly fell. “Look. I think he’s waking up.”
Dev stirred with a soft moan, his eyelids fluttering open. “Can I please have these handcuffs removed now? Why am I a prisoner? I’m a bloody victim!”
Rory’s gaze flicked to mine.
“We’ll let you have one hand free,” I said. “The other stays cuffed to the banister.”
Dev moaned dramatically. “And how about some water? You know, a basic human right?”
Rory practically leapt to his feet, disappearing into the kitchen while I repositioned Dev at the base of the stairs. The metal clicked against the wooden banister as I secured his left wrist. I caught sight of the angry bite mark on his forearm—a perfect crescent of teeth marks.
“So,” Rory said the moment he returned, glass in hand, practically vibrating with excitement. “Tell us what happened. Where have you been? But start from the beginning. And tell us everything.”
Relief flooded through me—not my own, but Rory’s. Pure, overwhelming relief that Dev was alive and coherent, mixed with bright joy.
Dev took a ridiculously long drink of water, his eyes fixed on Rory over the rim of the glass. Specifically on Rory’s neck, where the faintest necklace of purple bruises marred his lovely skin.
