Chapter 82

HIS OWN little hovel in the makeshift cellar surgery wasn't much of an improvement, though he was alone there, so there was that. Alone with his thoughts, such as they were. More like a centralized chaos, but still. Wil's and Wil's alone.

The bed was rumpled from when he'd more or less flung himself out of it, and arrowed down the damp stone passageway, aiming for what his brain had been shouting against but his body had been altogether too eager for. And bugger if he hadn't got exactly what he'd thought he'd wanted.

He didn't climb back in. The too-new remembrance of what had been tumbling through what passed for his mind when last he'd left it was just too... something. Raw. Instead Wil just sat in the dark, on the floor, back propped to the cold iron bar that supported the small cot--twin to... the other. Same damn sheets, same damn blanket, same damn hard pillow, except this one didn't smell like--