#severin.

WITH EYES AS BLACK AS HARLAN COAL AND A RATTLESNAKE TATTOO,   severin painted a classic picture of the outlaw.   ashley first saw him when he was only a boy — he came riding through kentucky with a storm on his heels.   the ink on his hands and arms was darker then, the scales on the snake more defined.   and in his hand, he held a gun.   the first time ashley ever saw him, he was chasing a man, another outlaw who had done him wrong.    in the news, it was another killing to the man who had no name.

the next time ashley saw him, he was retired.   he’d settled in one of the darkest hollers, living out his days in the company of the wild.   henri told him about severin — about good men born to travel down bad roads.   about the folks who’d abandoned their bloodline and still been seized by their curse.   severin was a cautionary tale.   severin was the devil’s way of saying watch out.   and when ashley finally met him, face-to-face, ash was busy bleeding like a stuck pig.   with teeth like that, severin must’ve found him when he smelled the blood.   (   ‘ shit — ashley? ’   thick texas drawl.   callused hands on his face and shoulders, painfully rough where they’d been torn and scarred over.   life had chewed and choked on the man who called himself severin.    ‘ i’ve got you, son.   i've got you. ’   )   he wrapped his jacket around ashley’s shoulders, two sizes too big, and drove him to henri’s.   though his mind was nothing but blood and blood and replay — ashley still managed to feel bad about getting blood on the upholstery.   severin just laughed his wicked laugh.