In The Devil's Stables (Spirited #1)

Chapter 35

***Welcome to the world of historical fiction, @wandering_always. This dedication is for you! Thank you for offering the BIGGEST compliment! :) ***

------

Greyson rang his bell for the fourth time in as many minutes.

Bloody hell! Where was everyone?

He had been a veritable bear for days and still Charlie had not come to see him since she left in so quick a fashion two days ago. 

It irked him to no end. He replayed that morning, wondering if he had imagined it all. The way her eyes had softened when she looked at him, the tears that had filled her eyes as she scolded him for worrying her so.

The way she had gasped as he drew her essence into himself, sucking the taste of her from his thumb. Or the way Charlie's eyes had drifted to his lips, leaning closer, planting her tiny fist next to his hip as her eyes pleaded for Greyson to take them. To take her.

Greyson shifted, scowling when he hardened beneath the sheet. It had become his constant companion, dash it all. Greyson only hoped the chit was going through the same damnably frustrating arousal that he was.

For in his quest for attention, Greyson had only managed to sabotage himself - on his own sickbed, no less.  He had grouched at the staff, needling them with questions of the whereabouts of his bloody minx. When his ringing of his bell had produced no response yesterday morning, his sister, Georgianna, had taken delight in informing the earl that he had been so much of an ogre that his own staff refused to serve him. 

Hell, he thought, incredulous, he paid them to wait on him no matter his mood.

It had left him with Georgianna who was many things, but a helpful nursemaid she was most decidedly not. It had only taken an hour or two before even she had cursed him, leaving his rooms in a high dudgeon. "I can see why Charlie hasn't come in here to see you," she had mumbled, her curls half tumbling from its topknot with how often she had pulled at her hair in frustration. "It's the lair of a wildebeest!"

Greyson sighed, realizing he had been. But damned if it was helping that his calls were going ignored.

Glaring at the door, he waited for the unlucky victim of his ire.

Nothing.

By God, he vowed, someone was going to attend him. Greyson reminded himself that he had gotten out of bed just yesterday, the pain finally beginning to receded. It hardly mattered when everyone had turned against him.

Ding, Ding.

Ding, ding.

Dingdingdingdingdingdingdingdingdingding.

"For Christ's sakes," Thorne said, stalking into the room. He walked up to Greyson, grabbing the brass bell from his hand before it was thrown to the floor. Greyson watched, shocked, as his best friend raised his foot and crunched the object beneath his boot.

"What the devil did you do that for?"

Thorne turned to Greyson so abruptly, Greyson found himself swallowing back any further argument. Thorne's face was red in anger, his lips pressed into a tight line. "Get off your lazy arse and find her yourself, you damned oaf!"

With that, Thorne twisted around and was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

Well, Greyson thought, that was a slight overreaction.

Greyson fell back onto his pillow, his anger deflating. In truth, it was much more than lying in bed, invalid and bored out of his mind, he added, that was contributing to his foul mood. His mother's conversation of two days prior filled Greyson's mind.