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Wesley licked his lips. “Off you get,” he whispered. “Or I’m not going to be able to let you go.”

Sebastian wanted to kiss him again, but he didn’t trust himself to stop either. Instead he nodded, hiding the robe in his overcoat as he stepped out the door and past Sir Reginald, heading into his own room.

* * *

After Sebastian left, Wesley got rid of Sir Reginald with a brusque My best gambling tip for you is to fucking give it up. Then he dressed in his pajamas and lay down on the bed, staring up at the canopy.

I’m sure you’d rather not join a fox hunt anyway.

It’s almost worse to stay behind. Knowing what’s going to happen to the poor thing and being too cowardly to face it.

Wesley could perfectly recall the slump to Sebastian’s shoulders, the dejected expression, that had gone with those words.

Sebastian was one of the bravest, toughest men Wesley had ever met, had survived three years of torturous blood magic that would make every hunter in that manor cry with fright.

And instead of boasting, he was distraught over the fate of some pest of a fox.

And it was Wesley’s fault Sebastian was here, entirely Wesley’s fault Sebastian was sad.

It’s not your fault.

Sebastian’s voice replayed in Wesley’s head, the conversation they’d had two days ago at the inn.

Of course it is. You were at a hunt ball with my entire hunting club—

But you didn’t mean for this to happen. Even if you hunt yourself, you would never have purposefully dragged me to one. You are kinder than that.

Except it was his fault. It was Sebastian who was too kind, who was always too kind with those rose-colored glasses when it came to Wesley—

More of Sebastian’s words came back to him, this time from across an ocean and a cold night in Manhattan.

It must be the rose-colored glasses. After all, how would I know anything about bad men?

Wesley frowned. Christ, hadn’t he just been recalling what Sebastian had survived, his bravery and toughness? Was Wesley still as bad as all the other men in this manor, mistaking a soft heart for a weak one?

It can’t go both ways , Sebastian had said that night in Manhattan. You say I know evil better than Langford. But I’m saying that he’s wrong about you, and you won’t listen to me.

Wesley stared unseeing at the canopy, thoughts tumbling together. He knew damn well Sebastian wasn’t sheltered or na?ve, wasn’t deluding himself that all flowers were free of thorns. No, Sebastian didn’t wear rose-colored glasses; he knew the difference between barbed wire and a rose.

And somehow, he believed Wesley was the latter.

I have come to think that kind hearts shouldn’t have to learn to be cruel. Not that I expect anyone else on this earth would believe me capable of such a mindset.

Because you don’t have enough people who know you .

Wesley swallowed. For years he’d known most people thought of him as the worst person they’d ever met. And Wesley had believed they were right.

But Sebastian knew him better than anyone else, and he believed Wesley was kind . Here Sebastian was, dragged to a fox hunt, yet he didn’t blame Wesley; he knew Wesley would never have done it on purpose, understood that nothing short of the fate of the magical world could have gotten them here.

How could Wesley have ever explained how precious Sebastian’s faith was? What it meant to have found a person who looked into his heart and saw good, who made Wesley see the good in himself, when no one else, not even Wesley, had believed in it?

Fuck passively wishing that a capricious life might somehow deign to give him his fairy tale future with Sebastian. Wesley was going to make it happen if he had to fight another war to keep him.

And he would start tonight, by trying to make Sebastian happy.

He doused the light and let himself fall into a light sleep, distantly aware of the occasional noise in the hall, other guests talking in low tones or making midnight trips to the bathroom.

Finally, at three a.m., he let himself come fully awake. He dressed in the dark, in warm wools for outdoors with his heavy overcoat in his arms and, most importantly, his gloves.

As quietly as he could, he eased his door open and snuck down the hall.

First stop was the kitchens. Some poor young woman was awake, setting loaves of dough to rise at one end of the room, but it was easy enough to ask her to grab him a brandy to help him sleep. When she’d disappeared, Wesley ducked into the larder and helped himself to several choice cuts of meat.

From the kitchens, he found a servants’ door to the outside. The moor was silent as he walked on light feet from the house down to the kennels he and Sebastian had visited.

He could hear the warning growls of the hounds as he approached.

Their kennel was chained closed for the night, but their barks would be loud.

Before they could sound an alarm and wake the master, he began tossing the steaks over the fence and into their yard, and the growls quickly turned to slobbery chomping instead.

The hounds master had a small shed just past the kennels. Wesley slipped inside. Lighting a match, he studied the shelves until he found the label for what he was looking for.

Scent rags.

He pulled out the basket and nearly gagged. Christ, it smelled like the rags were soaked in—well, exactly what they were soaked in.

Fox piss.

Perfect for training the foxhounds to scent and trail a fox—and, with any luck, also perfect for confusing said hounds when they couldn’t find the real fox in a mess of scent.

Wesley gingerly picked up a rag in one gloved hand and held it up in disgust.

Ugh. He’d have to use them all for the best chance. Really rub them in too, on the stumps and empty trunks and rocks that’d he passed on his walk with Sebastian today.

Fox piss. Christ.

The things he did for Sebastian.