5. Love Again

5. Love Again

The bed — sturdy planks padded with a little batting and wrapped in well-worn calico — was surprisingly warm. Compared to stone floors, it was soft as air, and above all, there was no bone-deep chill. So even after waking, he did not want to leave this cocoon of blankets.

Aeroc rolled onto his side and pulled the thick coverlet closer. As his head tilted with the low pillow, his back — compressed all night — released from its burden, wringing from him a groan sharp enough to catch his breath. He drew his neatly stacked legs a little closer and bowed his head. It was a posture the other person who shared this room often assumed.

Through his slightly blurred vision, he could see clothes draped over the chair. Different ones from the set he had ruined before. These were just as small, and he could not sleep in them. Now his body had swelled further, making the tight shoulders impossible. He had torn through several changes trying to get them on, earning a few more red marks on his cheeks for his trouble. Eventually, not even slaps could resolve Kloff's frustration, and it found another outlet.

Since the first beating, Kloff had come to the cottage roughly once a week, and each visit — on whatever pretext — ended in blows. After that had repeated enough times that even being struck no longer drew a whimper, the forced sex began.

Since arriving at the cottage, regular meals of vegetables and bread had put some flesh back on his body, but he was still too dry to receive an alpha's cock without any preparation. The shock of violence left his body unable to produce enough slick, and the tearing was constant. The pain was so fierce he bit his lip until it bled. Sometimes he clawed at the bed or the cottage floor until splinters drove under his nails.

But it was better than being taken by a pack in the shed. This time it was one man, and only one entered at a time. Brutal though it was, at least he could take a faint satisfaction in watching his partner grimace through a climax that seemed wrung from him against his will.

"And you're fine with being treated like this."

Kloff flung the words with a cold sneer and pulled out. The hot thing that had filled him withdrew, and cold air instantly wrapped his body. Kloff dragged the sheet over to wipe the blood and semen, straightened his clothes, and left without looking back.

A short while later, Aeroc drew his splayed legs together — played open like a carcass on a butcher's hook — and wiped what had trickled between them onto the sheet. He had lost count of how many times they had done this. At this rate, his heat would come soon, and he would likely conceive again.

Out on the streets, the thought had terrified him. Now it was entirely different. Knowing the child would be Kloff's made his heartbeat quicken slightly. When Aeroc was pregnant, Kloff did not hit him. He became, in fact, remarkably attentive. Though he despised the vessel, he could not help showing tenderness toward the life inside it. Picturing that — the way Kloff's hatred bent around the edges when a child was involved — Aeroc found himself hoping he would conceive.

His first heat after returning passed, and before it had fully subsided, Kloff visited the cottage again. Not long after, Aeroc was carrying his third child.

Aeroc ran his hand over a belly now noticeably swollen. This was the most dangerous stage. The previous three had not survived past this point, and the barely human shapes had been set adrift on the river as petals. He did not want this child to become another. Unlike the others, this one — whose father he knew — was still growing safely.

When he told Kloff about the pregnancy, Kloff had furrowed his brow and lowered the hand he had just raised to strike. Instead, he seized Aeroc by the collar, threw him face-down on the bed, and — like a rancher checking a broodmare — pressed a knee to the back of Aeroc's neck and pulled his trousers down to push his fingers inside.

Aeroc shut his eyes against the dry intrusion, clutched the sheet, and twisted slightly — but when Kloff said "Hold still" in an icy voice, he went truly motionless, as though dead. The long, strong fingers probed the inner wall until they found the slightly swollen cervical cleft. Once Kloff confirmed it was smooth and firmly sealed, the fingers withdrew, and Aeroc finally released a shuddering breath.

"A born bitch, I see. Nothing to be done about it. Hard to believe a thing like you was ever an alpha."

"You're the one who made me this way."

He had not meant anything particular by it. But the gaze that bore into the back of his skull was hot enough to burn skin. Aeroc pulled his trousers up and sat upright. He had not intended to avoid Kloff's eyes, but somehow he could not bring himself to look. The tall alpha wiped his fingers on the stained sheets and left exactly as he had entered.

Afterward, the servant who always delivered provisions began leaving meat and eggs alongside the usual potatoes, vegetables, and bread. Aeroc was pleased — and not only because of the protein. The instant change in supplies signaled that Kloff's attitude would shift as well. Sure enough, he now came once a day. His words were still cold, his gaze still dismissive — but the hitting stopped.

Aeroc sat up and reached for the clothes. The loose maternity wear fit everywhere except the shoulders, which were far too narrow, so he had ripped the seams and patched in extra fabric. His needlework was atrocious — the puckered stitches made it look like a clown's frill.

"To wear something like that and still hold your head up. If it were me, I'd die of shame."

That had been Kloff's comment the first time he saw it. He obviously had not meant it literally — he was simply returning the sort of remark Aeroc had once made somewhere. Aeroc felt no particular shame. After everything, blushing over a badly mended shirt was beyond him. That Kloff remembered such things at all, and that Aeroc recognized every barb's origin — both drew only a small, dry laugh.

Wearing his absurd clothes, he got up and ate a little of yesterday's roasted meat with boiled eggs and a raw carrot. His eggs invariably cracked when boiled — something always burst, and the yolks turned a bluish grey. He had once preferred soft-boiled, but that level of precision was still beyond him. Given that he still bore a small scar on his forehead from the time he'd put an egg directly into the hot stove and it had exploded in his face, managing to boil one at all was a monumental achievement.

It was a pity, then, that all the cracked ones were gone. Only the smooth, intact ones remained, and he had wanted that sleek white flesh — but the moment he tapped one on the table's edge, it collapsed into a pulpy mess.

He licked the yolk from his fingers and picked the white from the shells with his fingertips until the entire table was a disaster. The few drops of juice from the half-charred meat had run down his front, leaving his clothes blotted with stains. He patted at them absently, and his gaze happened to fall on the bed. The sheets — crusted with every fluid imaginable, dried stiff — looked particularly filthy today. Better to live cleanly, even in a clown's outfit. A dirty bed and dirty clothes could not be good for the baby. Perhaps today he would do laundry.

The belly, considerably heavier now, was not yet large enough to hinder movement. Fortified by a solid breakfast, Aeroc rolled both sleeves high, gathered the sheets, pillowcase, and every stitch of clothing he had taken off, bundled them all in his arms, and dragged them to the hand pump. Then he washed them with everything he had. The conditions were far better than the riverbank, but the incompetence was the same. He lathered the soap, kneaded the fabric, and rinsed. He spent the entire day with his hands and feet in cold water — scrubbing, wringing, rinsing.

By the time he finished, his clothes were soaked through, his stomach was howling, and when he straightened from the crouch he'd been holding all day, the world spun. He barely managed to wring the sheets with reddened hands and spread them over the low shrubs nearby, then wiped the sweat from his brow.

It was already afternoon. Before starting on the rest, he boiled potatoes and vegetables and ate — and then, looking at the bare bed, it struck him. He had washed all the bedding. What was he going to sleep under tonight?

He entertained the optimistic thought that everything would dry before sundown, but well past dark the blankets were still dripping. The other clothes he had set out during the wash had soaked through as well, leaving him nothing dry to layer. Why on earth had he washed the top cover and the bottom sheet at the same time? Idiot. Regret was Aeroc's constant companion now. That he managed to generate it even over something this trivial was almost impressive. He curled himself as tight as he could, rubbed his freezing hands and feet together, and tried to sleep.

He did not know when he had drifted off, but when he came to it was deep into the night. He had definitely gone to sleep uncovered, yet his body was burning with heat and his head throbbed viciously. His hands and feet, conversely, were so cold they shook. He seemed to have caught a chill. A full day soaked in cold water, heavy labor while pregnant, and a freezing night with no blanket — the result was inevitable.

His trembling knees rattled against the bare wooden bed frame. He had not been this ill in a long time. On the streets, there had been no room to be sick. The terror of what might happen if he lost consciousness and collapsed had driven out even illness. He had walked on freshly delivered legs through that fear. By comparison, here was a place where he could afford to be sick. And the only person who came through that door was someone Aeroc would give everything to. There was no need for vigilance. Panting hot breath, he fixed his unfocused gaze on the door in the darkness.

He had not come today. Had something happened? A brilliant investor turned trusted economic official — he must be busy. He already had two children, and a third, fathered on a stale enemy who had turned up from nowhere, might not mean much to him. Even so, waiting was beyond his control.

Unable to tell whether his eyes were open or shut, he listened. The wind sweeping through the rose garden. The distant knock of cedar branches. The mournful whistle of the boxwood. Hoping for the sound of footsteps among them.

"Hey. Wake up."

Something nudged him, and his body rocked. He forced open eyelids as heavy as if a great statue sat upon them. A blurred silhouette. Ah. You.

"Stop being dramatic."

The cold words dropped his body temperature another degree. Despite his best effort, his vision sank back into darkness, and into his dulled ears fell a chill sigh. He pushed a hot breath through his cracked lips, and Kloff clicked his tongue.

"The temperature drops and you wash every blanket you own — was that deliberate, or are you just that stupid? Surely you weren't trying to lord a pregnancy over me. The fireplace isn't a decoration."

He tried to say he'd attempted to light it, but his voice would not come. While he mumbled, a small curse accompanied something heavy settling over his body. Cool, smooth, with a certain weight — a man's coat. Very large. Like a blanket, it enveloped Aeroc entirely, and from the fine fabric rose a faintly bitter scent.

Aeroc instinctively curled tighter and breathed inside that scent-drenched fabric. Every inhale filled his lungs with a fragrance that settled his fever-roiled stomach. Was it because this was the father of the child inside him? Perhaps simply because this was the alpha he had shared a heat with. Either way, the alpha's body scent gave the pregnant, feverish omega a deep, cradling calm.

Having tossed him the coat, Kloff did not leave. Instead, he rummaged around the table on the far side. He seemed to be inspecting the fireplace. A poker struck the floor with a clang, and a biting rebuke followed.

"Can't even light a fire without a servant. Useless."

Even half-asleep, Aeroc hugged himself tighter under the coat. He knew how to light the stove, so he had assumed the fireplace would be no different. With his feverish body, he had hauled several heavy logs in from outside and tried again and again. But no matter how many matches he struck or how hard he hit the flint, the solid timber refused to catch — and when a flame did take, nothing but acrid smoke poured out before dying. He had given up for fear of suffocating.

Heavy footsteps, then the sound of the door opening and closing. The steps receded. He was leaving, it seemed.

Aeroc pulled the coat higher and buried his nose in the collar, where the scent was strongest. He nuzzled his cheek against it, just slightly. Pride did not enter into it. He was simply finding comfort in his alpha's body scent. He was grateful, at least, that Kloff had left the coat behind.

Harsh words or not, it was obvious he could not ignore the child. That was who he was.

Kloff wanted the children. No matter what happened to Aeroc, he always took care of the baby. This time, too, the moment it was born he would take it away before Aeroc's filthy hands could touch it. Thinking of that inevitable day opened a howling hole in his chest. If he would just let me see the face, even once.

Ah — the fever was making him think nonsense. By any measure, growing up in a cold, bleak cottage as a criminal's child was worse than growing up in a warm, clean manor as the son of a distinguished nobleman.

It was only a coat, but Aeroc felt an impossible warmth as he sank into sleep. Later he grew so hot he broke a sweat and had to push the coat down in his half-sleep. The night air, which should have been frigid, was warm.

That can't be right. This cottage is always drafty — what happened?

A pleasant crackling and a faintly bitter smell — dry oak burning. He forced open his leaden eyes. The fireplace, which had gathered nothing but dust, was glowing red.

Who—

The door opened and a familiar figure came in. He had rolled his sleeves up. He carried in the damp blankets from outside and spread them before the fire. Not realizing Aeroc was awake, he went into the small kitchen. Soon came the sounds of things being moved. Though the cottage was tiny and quiet enough for even a low mutter to carry, Aeroc could just make out what sounded like cursing — something about how even dog food would be better than this.

A sudden flush of shame. It was probably not so different from what Rapiel had felt that day. But unlike that mild, sweet person, there was no one to kiss Aeroc's chapped fingers and make the pain go away. His neck shrank into his shoulders. He should be straightening up, holding his head high — especially now — but all he wanted was to burrow deeper into the coat.

After a while, kitchen clatter gave way to Kloff emerging with a scrubbed pot. He pulled the second chair — the one that sat at the table as a matching set, always in its place, never used, unlike the one Aeroc kept by the bed — over to the fireplace and sat down. From the pot on the floor he picked up a small lump, and with a knife he held in his other hand, he began to peel. A potato.

Where Aeroc lost a finger for every potato he peeled, Kloff handled the work with large, deft hands. Neat, gleaming potatoes caught the red firelight and looked unbearably appetizing. He finished one and reached for the next. The long fingers turning the potato in the light glowed a pale orange, and their movement — precise, fluid — was like a jeweler working amber. Extraordinarily delicate. Extraordinarily graceful.

Those strong, brutal hands can move like that.

Aeroc watched, spellbound, through the gap between the coat's collar and its lapel.

After a time, Kloff finished the potatoes, took the pot back to the kitchen, and returned with it full of more than just potatoes. He hung it over the fire. Before long, a smell savory enough to flood Aeroc's mouth rose with the steam, and a soup began to bubble. Kloff stirred it with a practiced hand, then set the finished pot on the table.

Not a trace of char. Every attempt Aeroc made ended half-burned and half-raw. Whenever he tried to boil anything, the vegetables disintegrated into mush.

Kloff went outside and brought back more logs, stacking them near the fireplace. He checked the blankets, then pulled them off and came toward the bed. Aeroc shut his eyes and pretended to sleep. The warm coat was whisked away. He shivered at the sudden cold, and then a stiff blanket settled over him. Washed but still deeply stained, it smelled faintly of soap. It was bigger and thicker than the coat, covering even his frozen toes — but somehow, he thought the coat had been warmer.

Whatever business Kloff had apparently finished. He left the cottage. Aeroc waited, hoping he might return, but the door did not open again. At last, accepting the disappointing reality that he would not see Kloff again today, Aeroc pushed the blanket down a little and sat up.

Disappointed. What was the matter with him today — so full of complaints. It was probably just hunger. Clutching his empty stomach, he walked to the table. He lifted the lid of the pot Kloff had left, and white steam rose with a deeply savory smell. The fever had eased somewhat under the coat, but a low-grade heat lingered and his back ached, so he wrapped the blanket around himself and fetched a spoon from the kitchen. He considered getting his usual chair but instead climbed carefully onto the one Kloff had been sitting in. He pulled the still-hot pot toward him and spooned up the steaming soup.

"It's good."

The words slipped out before he knew it — that was how good it was. He peered into the pot, but there was nothing special inside. The same ingredients he had. How could the result be this different? Aeroc began devouring the soup. Normally he ate sparingly, but illness and skipped meals had left him ravenous, and he scalded the roof of his mouth without noticing, face buried in the pot, and did not stop until the bottom was bare.

As far as Aeroc knew, there had never been any mention of Kloff being a good cook. Kloff had attended a boarding school, and even during leaner times after graduation, he had been able to afford at least a boarding house. If he had learned, it must have happened during the years he vanished after losing his wife and child.

What had happened to him during those years? Aeroc had no way of knowing. Besides, the soup — which would rank among the very best things he had ever eaten, even measured against the exquisite dishes of his former life — had so thoroughly consumed his attention that every other thought was soon forgotten.