I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 12: The Waterfall Memory

The woods grew thicker, the path narrower. Sunlight filtered down in dusty shafts through a canopy of ancient, gnarled oaks. It was quiet here, a deep, living quiet broken only by the soft crunch of sand under Angel’s hooves and the distant, cheerful chirping of hidden birds. Abel’s arms were still comfortably around Orion’s waist, his chin occasionally resting on Orion’s shoulder as he pointed out a squirrel or an interesting-shaped rock.

Orion felt a strange, fragile peace. The world of the estate—Ashford’s sneers, the Duke’s cold assessments, the servants’ pitying glances—felt miles away. Here, there was just the three of them: the horse, the man who loved him, and the husband caught somewhere in between.

Then a new sound threaded through the forest silence.

It wasn’t loud. At first, it was just a whisper, a constant, gentle rush of white noise beneath the birdsong. But Angel heard it immediately.

The great black ears, which had been lazily swiveling, snapped forward. A low, interested huff escaped his nostrils. His head came up, his walk slowing for a moment as he listened.

”What is it, boy?” Orion murmured, giving the reins a slight tug to keep him on the path.

But Angel had other ideas. With a decisive turn of his head, he veered off the sandy track, pushing through a curtain of low-hanging ferns. His gait became purposeful, almost eager.

”Whoa, easy,” Orion said, applying more pressure on the reins. ”Not that way.”

Angel ignored him. He was gentle but insistent, like a large dog following a compelling scent. He pushed through the undergrowth, his powerful shoulders brushing aside branches.

”He wants to go somewhere,” Abel observed from behind, not alarmed, just curious.

”I can see that,” Orion said, trying to steer him back. But guiding a warhorse who didn’t want to be guided was like trying to redirect a river with your hands. Angel simply adjusted his course minutely and kept going, his ears permanently pricked toward the rushing sound, which was growing steadily louder.

Orion sighed, giving up. ”Alright, fine. Have it your way.”

They moved deeper into the woods. The air grew cooler and damper. The smell of wet earth and moss replaced the dry oak scent. The rushing sound became a roar.

Then, all at once, the forest opened up.

It was a small, hidden clearing, a natural bowl carved into the stone of a hillside. And flowing down the moss-covered rock face was a waterfall. It wasn’t enormous or thunderous, but it was beautiful. A clear, silver cascade maybe twenty feet high, tumbling into a wide, deep pool of water so clear Orion could see smooth, colorful stones on the bottom. Mist hung in the air, catching the late afternoon light and creating tiny, shimmering rainbows. Ferns and wildflowers clung to the damp rocks around the pool’s edge.

Angel stopped at the clearing’s fringe, letting out a soft, satisfied nicker. He had brought them here.

Abel went utterly still behind Orion. His arms loosened their hold. Orion felt him straighten up.

He turned his head slightly. ”Abel?”

Abel was staring at the waterfall, his golden eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. The playful light was gone, replaced by a look of deep, bewildered recognition.

”Orion,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the water’s roar.

”Yes?”

”I’ve been here before.” He blinked slowly. ”Many times. I... I know this place.”

Orion’s breath caught. This wasn’t the vague, confused recognition Abel sometimes had. This was sharper. ”You remember it?”

Abel shook his head, frustrated. ”No. Not remember. It’s like... my body knows. My bones know this sound. The smell of this water.” He took a deep breath of the misty air. ”But I don’t have the pictures in my head. It’s just a... a feeling.”

Angel nudged Abel’s leg with his nose, then gave a little prance, splashing one huge hoof in the shallows of the pool. He looked absurdly proud of himself, as if he’d accomplished a mission. He was trying to remind his master. To reconnect him to a piece of his past, a place where the old bond between them had been forged, long before the accident.

Without another word, Abel swung his leg over and slid down from Angel’s back. He landed lightly on the soft, mossy ground, his eyes never leaving the waterfall.

Orion moved to dismount. He put his foot in the stirrup, started to swing down, but the moss was slick. His boot slipped.

He gasped, a jolt of panic shooting through him as he started to fall sideways.

Large hands shot out and caught him effortlessly around the waist, arresting his fall mid-air. Abel lifted him, as if he weighed nothing, and set him gently upright on solid ground. He didn’t let go immediately. He just held him there, steadying him, his hands warm and sure through the fabric of Orion’s tunic.

”Careful,” Abel said, his gaze finally shifting from the waterfall to Orion’s face. ”It’s slippery.”

Orion’s heart was hammering, both from the near-fall and from the ease of Abel’s strength. ”I... thank you.”

Abel nodded, releasing him slowly, as if making sure he was balanced. Then he turned back to the pool, a new, determined look on his face. He walked to the very edge, where the water was clearest, and stared at his own reflection rippling on the surface.

Angel came to stand beside him, blowing out a contented breath.

”You know what time it is?” Abel asked, his voice taking on a tone Orion hadn’t heard before—playful, but with an edge of command. An echo of the man he used to be.

Orion brushed dirt from his clothes, still feeling off-kilter. ”Time to head back? It’s getting late.”

”No,” Abel said, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. He looked over his shoulder at Orion, his eyes sparkling with the reflected light off the water. ”It’s time to take a bath.”

Orion blinked. ”A... bath? Here?”

”It’s perfect,” Abel declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He began working at the laces of his tunic.

”Abel, wait—” Orion started, taking a step forward, raising a hand.

But Abel didn’t wait. With a fluid motion, he pulled his shirt up and over his head. The afternoon sun fell on his broad back and shoulders, revealing a landscape of hard muscle, old pale scars from training, and the powerful, graceful lines of an Alpha in his prime. The wind caught his messy golden hair, tossing it gently around his face.

He looked back at Orion once more, that same half-smile on his face, and then he took two running steps and jumped.

He hit the water with a clean, shallow dive, disappearing beneath the surface with barely a splash. A moment later, he erupted back up, shaking his head like a dog, water flying from his hair, a loud, happy laugh bursting from him. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the clearing, pure and unfettered.

Angel needed no further invitation. With a joyful snort, the massive horse trotted into the pool, wading in until the water reached his chest. He lowered his head and blew bubbles, then lifted it and shook his mane, spraying water everywhere.

Orion stood on the bank, utterly stunned. He watched Abel swim with strong, easy strokes toward the waterfall itself, letting the pounding spray crash over his head and shoulders. He watched Angel playfully nudge Abel with his nose, nearly knocking him over.

This wasn’t the careful, confused man from the bedroom or the stables. This was someone else. Someone who knew this place in his muscles and his blood. Someone wilder, freer.

Abel turned in the water, treading easily. He wiped his face and saw Orion still standing there, fully dressed on the bank. ”Come on!” he called, his voice full of invitation. ”The water’s perfect! It’s not cold!”

Orion looked down at his own clothes, the simple grey garments that were his last act of defiance. He looked at the clear, inviting pool. He looked at Abel, laughing under the waterfall, and Angel, the fearsome warhorse, acting like an oversized puppy.

The last threads of his carefully maintained composure began to unravel. The fear of the unknown, the weight of his duty, the sting of every judgmental glance—it all seemed to melt away in the face of that simple, joyous laughter.

Slowly, hesitantly, Orion reached for the fastenings of his own tunic.

Maybe, just for now, he could stop being the responsible one. The caretaker. The replacement.

Maybe, just for now, he could just be here.