When Rhys came to, he was in complete darkness, with cold, damp rock chilling his naked skin. His head felt as heavy as the stone he was lying on.
He couldn’t face Livia. Not after what happened at the feast, then again in the woods. He had lost control of his wolf, and didn’t trust himself any more. Maybe he was dangerous. The thoughts heaved around in his mind like trees in a hurricane.
Ragnar was inconsolable. He refused speak to Rhys, burdened by the shame of his actions and the pain of the betrayal. He knew he was the cause of the pain, but didn’t understand why. And neither did Rhys.
Wedged deep in the cave, there was no other sound but his own heartbeat and ragged breathing. Over and over again, the pain overtook him and he wept, alone, afraid, and ashamed.
He stayed that way
