Free The Bone Orchard by Abigail Roux Page B

wordlessly a few moments later, his breath warm against Ezra’s neck, his seed warm inside Ezra as it spilled from him.
    Ambrose finally collapsed against him, breathing harshly into Ezra’s skin. They laughed quietly when they realized just how much noise they might have made. And the idea that they could and would do that many more times to come made Ezra downright giddy. He pulled Ambrose to him, appreciating the lithe muscles, the wiry strength in the man.
    They curled against each other, faces pressed together, bodies calming as fatigue threatened. Ezra closed his eyes, feeling the inexorable pull of that exhaustion, that bone-deep tiredness that he was too tired to fight anymore.
    “I’m sorry,” Ambrose said, and the pain in his voice broke Ezra’s heart. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”
    A moment later, the ground smacked Ezra in the back. He opened his eyes to find himself staring at the twilit sky, the stars just beginning to twinkle overhead.
    He glanced around the busy streets, heard the incessant laughter from the gallows.
    “Son of a bitch.”

Ambrose couldn’t stop laughing, even though Ezra looked genuinely upset. They were sitting at a dark corner table of the saloon, enjoying the music and the sounds of life around them.
    “It gets easier to stay in one place, I promise,” Ambrose tried, but Ezra’s dubious look told him his attempts were for naught. He held up both hands in surrender, but then grinned, leaning closer to Ezra to nudge him. “If you’re that upset about it, next time we can do it in the middle of the road.”
    Ezra shot him a scandalized glance, but then the merits of the idea apparently hit him because he pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t like anyone could see them anyway.
    “On to more pressing matters,” Ambrose growled, or he knew they’d be doing more of the sparring they’d so enjoyed and then lose more time when Ezra went winging his way back to the road after.
    “The laughing idiot at the gallows,” Ezra grumbled.
    “That’s the one. I noticed, when I fought with him, that his shackles stay on him. He can’t seem to get them off his wrists. Which makes perfect sense, ’cause that’s their intended purpose.”
    Ezra was nodding, frowning as he listened. “Okay. But he can still obviously cause damage with them on, so how does that help us?
    “If we can get the key, we may be able to unlock them, and then reattach them behind him.”
    Ezra’s eyes widened, and he nodded again. “Of course. Take away the use of his hands, then use his hanging rope to truss him up.”
    Ambrose grinned as he watched the light of excitement in Ezra’s eyes. But then it dimmed, and Ezra said, “But no matter what we do to him, when he’s returned to the gallows, he’ll be returned the way he died, with his hands chained in front.”
    “So we make sure he doesn’t leave the gallows,” Ambrose said, nearly snarling. He lowered his head closer to Ezra. “If he never leaves in the first place, he can never be returned good as new, and he can never get loose.”
    “He can never hurt another person,” Ezra added, his voice hushed.
    Ambrose took his hand and squeezed it tightly. He had been torn up inside ever since the night Ezra’s life had ended. He’d played it over and over in his mind’s eye, wondering if he could have stopped it, if he could have saved Ezra’s life if he’d behaved differently, if he’d been more aware. If he’d not been so taken with Ezra that he’d missed their quarry right behind him. Had he reacted too slowly because on some level he’d wanted Ezra dead, to be with him in this gray afterlife? Was he the reason Ezra had died? And if he was, did he deserve to be as happy as he was with Ezra here beside him?
    “He should never have been able to hurt you.”
    Ezra tapped his palm. “I see you doubting yourself, and I think you’re a damn fool to do it.”
    Ambrose snorted in annoyance.
    “I was there,” Ezra