Dorian watched him go, his face a mask of shock and hurt. He knew that his secret had to come out eventually, but he had hoped it wouldn't be like this-with Xaverick's pain and accusation burning a chasm between them. He looked down at his own hand, the one that had reached out in comfort, now trembling slightly. He had never wanted to harm anyone, least of all the fiery-hearted cowboy who had unwittingly become his obsession.
Sheriff Jenkins cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Let him cool off," he said, his voice heavy with experience. "People say a lot of things in the heat of the moment."
Dorian nodded, his gaze still on the retreating figure of Xaverick. "I suppose so," he said, though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. The sheriff gave him a sideways look before turning away to survey the damage done to the fence. "But you're right," he murmured to himself, his eyes scanning the horizon. "This isn't over."
With a heavy heart, Dorian made his way back to the mansion, his mind racing. He had to find a way to prove to Xaverick that he wasn't the monster he believed him to be. But how? The evidence was stacked against him-his vampiric nature, the whispers of his family's past, and now this tragedy with Betty. The sun was a fiery orb in the sky, a stark reminder of the world he was forced to navigate in the shadows.
In town, the whispers grew louder as Xaverick stormed through the streets. People parted for him, their eyes wide with fear and pity. The usually stoic cowboy looked as though he had seen the devil himself. "Ugh, I knew not to trust the Blackwoods," he muttered, his voice a harsh rasp that seemed to cut through the air. His words carried with them the weight of a hundred accusations, a hundred fears given voice.
He angrily flung open the saloon doors, the sound echoing through the usually bustling space like a gunshot. The chatter died down as all eyes fell upon him. His dusty boots stomped across the floorboards, the sound of his steps like a countdown to doom. "Whiskey! Five of 'em!" he bellowed to the startled barkeep, slamming his hand onto the counter. His voice was thick with pain and anger, a potent mix that could fuel a stampede.
The barkeep, a seasoned man named Hank, knew better than to argue with Xaverick when he had that look in his eye. He lined up five shot glasses with shaking hands and filled them to the brim. Xaverick didn't bother with pleasantries; he simply took the first one and downed it in one swift motion, the amber liquid burning a path down his throat like molten lava. The second and third followed suit, each one a silent toast to his shattered trust.
As Xaverick reached for the fourth, a male voice rang out from behind him, "What happened to you?" The words were filled with a strange mix of concern and challenge, the tone of someone who wasn't used to seeing Xaverick in such a state. He turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with a jock-like build standing just a few feet away. The man's blond hair was swept back, and his eyes were a piercing blue that seemed to cut through the haze of Xaverick's grief like a knife.
"Jack?" Xaverick mumbled, squinting to bring the figure into focus. It had been years since he had seen Jack McAllister, the star quarterback of their high school football team. They had never been friends-not really-but Jack had always had a way of bringing a certain clarity to situations. "You've definitely gotten bigger since high-school," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Jack took a step closer, his eyes scanning Xaverick's disheveled form. "Looks like you've had better days," he said, his tone devoid of the usual bravado. He took a gulp of his vodka, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. "What happened to you, man?"
Xaverick paused, his hand hovering over the fourth shot glass. He felt the weight of Betty's loss like a boulder on his chest, and the whiskey in the glasses seemed to taunt him, promising to dull the pain if only he'd let go. With a heavy sigh, he slammed the glass down without drinking it. "Bettys... dead," he choked out, his voice breaking.
The saloon grew quieter than a cemetery at midnight. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and the sudden absence of conversation. Xaverick's shoulders slumped, and he laid his head on the counter, his eyes squeezed shut to hold back the tears that threatened to spill. His vision swam with the memory of Betty's trusting gaze, her soft bleats that had greeted him every morning, and the way she'd butt her head against him for attention.
"Aw, shit, man, I'm sorry," Jack said, his voice gentle, laying his hand on Xaverick's shoulder. The weight of it felt like a boulder, grounding him in the reality of his loss.
Jack's touch was a stark contrast to the coldness of the bar counter beneath his cheek, and Xaverick found himself leaning into it, seeking the warmth of human connection. "Thanks," he murmured, the single word feeling like a mountain he'd climbed. He didn't know why Jack's presence comforted him so much, but right now, it was all he had.
Jack slid the fifth shot of whiskey in front of him, his expression a mix of understanding and determination. "Come on, let's get you home," he said, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled Xaverick to his feet. The world swam around him, a dizzying kaleidoscope of light and shadow. Xaverick stumbled, and Jack's arms wrapped around him, holding him upright with surprising strength.
They staggered down the street, the cool night air doing little to sober Xaverick up. Each step felt like wading through a river of molasses, his legs uncooperative and his stomach churning. He clung to Jack, his vision blurring with unshed tears. "Why'd she have to die?" he mumbled, the question hanging in the air like a mournful ghost.
Jack's grip on him tightened. "I don't know, man," he said, his voice tight with a mix of anger and regret. "But it's not right. And I hope whoever did this to her gets what's coming to them."
Xaverick nodded, his eyes still squeezed shut. The words echoed in his mind, a refrain of pain that seemed to resonate with something deep within him. He didn't know Jack well, but he could feel the man's sincerity, his own grief mirrored in the tight lines around his friend's mouth.
Jack thought to himself 'she was just to delicious to resist' as his wolf growled with joy inside his mind agreement, watching Xaverick's pained expression. The words were like a whisper of dark amusement in the back of his thoughts, a part of him that he had long ago accepted but never quite embraced. His wolf was a predator at heart, and the scent of raw grief was a siren's call.
They reached Xaverick's cabin, the once-cheerful little haven now feeling like a tomb in the wake of Betty's death. The door creaked open, protesting against the silence, and Jack carefully maneuvered Xaverick to the bedroom. He laid the grieving cowboy onto the bed, the springs groaning under their combined weight. Xaverick's body felt boneless, as if the very essence of him had been siphoned away, leaving only a shell of pain and anger.
Jack hovered over him, his hand on Xaverick's shoulder, his touch firm and comforting. "You need to rest," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the room. Xaverick's eyes remained squeezed shut, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The bed dipped slightly as Jack sat down beside him, his hand moving from Xaverick's shoulder to the back of his neck, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.
"Don't worry, Xav," Jack said, his words a promise in the darkness. "I won't hurt your animals anymore." The smile that followed was sadistic, but Xaverick was too lost in his grief to notice. It was a smile that spoke of a predator's satisfaction, of a creature that had finally found its prey. But in the quiet of the cabin, it was lost, a secret shared only with the shadows.
