Bearclaw Valley they served you venison and morphine

He studies Outlander carefully, gaze tracing the male's features as if trying to solve an intricate puzzle. Their dance is such a strange one — at least, to Alarian. His relationships have always been built on words, even the awkward stumbling kind he always finds himself with, and this one is not. They've hardly spoken, instead building on some inexplicable draw to one another — he can't help but wonder if such a thing can last. But nothing he's tried before has lasted, has it?
You wouldn't have been forcing yourself on me, He tells him, just barely loud enough to hear. He doesn't even bother to answer his question — he doesn't know the answer, and right now he doesn't care. I just — He breaks off and sucks in a breath, glancing away for a moment to calm himself. When his gaze returns to Outlander, there's a new rawness to it; a vulnerability he couldn't hide even if he tried. I don't want to hurt you. And I will. I will.