Darcy's steps were slow, careful, his shoes sinking into the sand with each stride as he carried Micah on his back. The boy's arms had instinctively wrapped around his neck, cheek resting limply against his shoulder, his soft breath tickling Darcy's neck. At first, he had panicked, thinking he should take Micah straight to a hospital. But then he heard it, a little snore, and Darcy knew Micah had just fallen asleep.
The source of his stress, Darcy, the real young master, had suddenly appeared in front of Micah's eyes, not angry, not hurt. Of course, he would relax. His body had been pushed until he gave way.
Darcy adjusted his grip, hooking his arms more securely under Micah's legs. A faint smile had spread across his face.
He stepped slowly toward the villa, remembering the first time he had met Micah. The boy had fainted in the same way. A stab wound on his arm, blood dripping, his body frail as he had carried him on his back.
