𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒

Chapter 11

The storm let up the day after Christmas. Edward opened the cabin door and scanned the scene outside, still unsettled at the prospect of a dangerous werewolf in the vicinity. All appeared calm. Edward wished he felt the same.

"Going somewhere?" called a voice from behind. He turned to find Draco sitting up and stretching.

"No." Edward shut the door behind him and leaned against it. Though obviously Draco's question hadn't been meant existentially, it made him think. No. He wouldn't leave as long as Draco still wanted him. "I was just checking to see if the snow had stopped."

"And has it?" A yawn punctuated the question, making Edward smile.

"It has."

"Good. I'd like to see about this sparkling business."

Edward moved to stand tentatively at the foot of the bed. He hadn't tried to touch Draco since his revelation the night before, though he hadn't stopped the wizard from sleeping pressed up against him.

"I'm afraid it's still cloudy. No sparkling today."

"Ah, pity." Draco faked a pout.

Edward trailed his hand over the new bedpost, considering. It was strange—in some ways he felt unburdened; in others the weight seemed heavier than ever. While he'd initially thought his own story might inspire Draco to open up, the telling had been cathartic. Yet it had also made it real. Emmett was gone forever, Edward's relationship with his family permanently damaged. And now Draco knew the true horrors of which he was capable. He frowned.

Draco's expression sobered. "Come here."

Despite the instruction, Edward hesitated for a moment. If Draco'd ever doubted Edward's dangerousness before . . . well, he couldn't any longer. Yet he hadn't left. Edward moved to sit on the bed, searching grey eyes for hints of fear, or distrust. Just like last night, he saw neither of those emotions reflected back.

"You're worried I don't want you anymore," Draco said, his voice rueful. "But once you hear what I have to say, it's you who won't want me."

Shaking his head in protest, Edward watched Draco reach for his wand. With a flick toward the fireplace, he added another log.

"But no matter the repercussions, I suppose the time has come. It's been difficult . . . keeping you out of my head all the time."

Edward nodded, trying to restrain his trepidation as he waited for the other to go on. This was, after all, what he'd been waiting for.

"My father's in prison," Draco said. Edward's eyebrows shot up in surprise—he'd thought the man was likely dead.

"Wizarding prison isn't like Muggle prison," Draco continued. "The place he's in—Azkaban, it's called—is a true horror. It's guarded by bloody awful creatures that will suck the soul out of your body, leave you a shell." His voice wavered slightly, and Edward saw pain flash briefly in his eyes.

"What did he do?"

Draco sighed. And then he rolled up his sleeve.

On his pale forearm, the hazy image of a skull and snake—the one Edward had seen in the dream—writhed and twisted as if alive. Edward almost reached out to touch it, but Draco hastily re-covered his arm.

"I told you there was a war, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"We're on what you might call the wrong side." Draco laughed darkly, his handsome features settling into a scowl.

Edward kept his voice even—if he expressed too much worry, he risked never learning the truth. "I think you'd better start at the beginning."

"I will. But you'll never think of me the same way again." He fidgeted where he sat, running his fingers over the length of his wand. Then, with a weary sigh, he regarded Edward with steely grey eyes. "Don't say I didn't warn you."