Chapter Eight
His body ached from the mate pull, from three days locked in that sawmill, from the torture of being near Flint without being able to touch him. But underneath the pain, something else stirred. Hope…maybe...or the terrifying possibility of it.
One date. He gave us one date.
Arrow’s wolf whined, restless and anxious. One date wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, but it was more than they deserved after what Arrow had done.
He stumbled to the kitchen, yanked open the refrigerator, and stared at the nearly empty shelves. A takeout container from two weeks ago. A bottle of expensive wine. Some fancy cheese he’d bought to impress a date once that had since gone moldy.
Arrow grabbed the wine and drank straight from the bottle.
His stomach cramped in protest - alcohol on an empty stomach after days of barely eating was a terrible idea - but he didn’t care.
He rummaged through his freezer and found a frozen meal, something with chicken and vegetables that cost twenty dollars and tasted like cardboard.
While the microwave hummed, Arrow walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows that dominated his living room.
The city of Helena sprawled below him, a glittering expanse of lights and steel and concrete.
At night, all the mess and grime was hidden by darkness and distance, but Arrow knew it was still there.
Arrow’s fancy downtown loft had cost him a fortune.
Everything in it screamed money and success, from the designer furniture to the original artwork on the walls, and the windows overlooking the city.
He’d worked his ass off to afford his place, to prove he was better than the pack he’d left behind, better than his brothers who’d never given him the time of day, better than everyone.
The microwave beeped. Arrow retrieved his sad excuse for a meal and returned to the windows, fork in hand.
I was so proud of this view. He had brought dates here specifically to show it off, to watch them be impressed by what he’d achieved.
None of them had lasted more than a night or two - most were gone before breakfast. Wolves were supposed to be loyal to their mates, faithful and true, but without that mate bond pulling at him, Arrow had never seen the point in commitment.
Why tie himself down when he could have a different person every night of the week if that’s what he wanted?
And that had worked…to a point. Until he met the one person he actually needed and fucked things up so badly…Arrow stabbed at his chicken. The sauce was too salty and the vegetables were mushy, but he forced himself to eat anyway.
His mind kept drifting back to Assassin’s Alley.
The way Storm, Devon, and Levi had surrounded him on Flint’s porch, ready to tear him apart for trespassing.
The fierce protectiveness in their eyes when they’d talked about Flint and how much they cared about him.
Pax’s fury as he’d listed all the ways Arrow had hurt his friend.
Python’s earlier casual threat to curse Arrow’s dick off.
Cyrus’s quiet but absolute certainty that Flint deserved better.
They were a pack - the way a true pack should be.
None of them were related by blood or species, but they lived together by choice.
They looked out for each other, defended each other, lived close enough to share meals and check on each other’s mates and lock unwanted visitors in sawmills until their friend returned from killing a vampire.
I’ve never had any of that. Arrow shook his head. His birth pack had been all competition and hierarchy, everyone clawing for position. He’d left at eighteen and never looked back, and from that moment on, he’d built his entire identity around being a lone wolf who didn’t need anyone.
His loft reflected that philosophy - sleek, expensive, and utterly empty of warmth.
Arrow looked around, noting what he’d created.
There were no photos, because Arrow had never made memories he wanted hung on the wall.
He didn’t have plants because they needed to be taken care of, and books would just clutter his aesthetic.
Which meant all he had was expensive furniture arranged in a way that looked good in real estate photos.
Flint’s house had been the opposite. Arrow had only seen the inside for maybe twenty minutes, but the memory was seared into his brain. There were plants everywhere, for a start - healthy, vibrant foliage arranged in pots on shelves, hanging from hooks, and clustered around windows.
The furniture Arrow had been able to see looked comfortable and worn because it was used.
The kitchen smelled as if someone actually cooked in it, and there were even photos stuck on the refrigerator door with magnets shaped like vegetables.
A greenhouse visible through the back window, glowing faintly in the early morning light, was Flint’s pride and joy – or at least so Arrow had been told.
Home. That’s what Flint’s house had felt like.
Not a showpiece or a status symbol, but a place someone lived in, had fun in, and was comfortable being in.
A safe space for someone who lived such a difficult life.
Arrow thought about that for a moment - thinking about how it would feel for Flint coming home from a job…
How does he do it? And yet the answer had been right in front of Arrow’s eyes for all of twenty minutes.
Flint had created his own home one plant at a time.
Flint would hate Arrow’s loft. Arrow chuckled as he shook his head again.
He could just imagine it, how Flint would take one look at the minimalist décor, the pretentious art, and the complete lack of personality and know exactly what it said about Arrow - that he cared more about appearances than comfort.
More about impressing strangers than building a real life for himself.
Arrow set his half-eaten meal on the coffee table and pressed his forehead against the cool glass.
I worked so damn hard to get here, and he had.
He had always been determined to prove he was worth something, that he could be successful without his pack’s approval or support.
Every promotion, every case closed, every expensive purchase had been another brick in the wall between him and the pup he’d been in Wyoming.
But what had it gotten him? A fancy apartment he barely lived in, co-workers who tolerated him but didn’t particularly like him, and a reputation as an arrogant asshole with a big mouth.
And when he’d finally met his mate - the person who was supposed to make everything make sense - he’d panicked and tried to make Flint fit into the image Arrow had built of himself rather than seeing him for who he actually was.
The agency’s best sniper. Flint had said it with such quiet pride, and Arrow had dismissed him as a boy-toy.
Arrow’s reflection stared back at him from the window, hollow-eyed and defeated.
In mere hours, he had a chance to prove he could be better.
He had been given the chance to have one dinner, one conversation, one opportunity to show Flint he was more than the asshole from the bar.
But what happened after that? Even if the date went well, even if Flint gave him a second chance, where did that leave them?
Flint lived in Assassin’s Alley, surrounded by his found family, his greenhouse, and a life that had nothing to do with living in Helena, cybercrimes or fancy downtown lofts. Arrow’s job was in the city - it was where his apartment was, and along with it, his carefully constructed identity.
None of this matters without Flint, and Arrow already knew Flint wasn’t going to give up his life to live with Arrow - he’d already said that, and unlike the last time Flint had tried to tell him something, this time Arrow had listened.
Pushing himself away from the window, Arrow also knew he wasn’t going to figure anything out at three in the morning, exhausted, still hungry, and half-buzzed on expensive wine.
But he could get a few more hours of sleep, and then start making changes.
It was clearly time to start dismantling the walls he’d built around him and figure out if there was anything worth keeping underneath.
/~/~/~/~/
The shower ran scalding hot, steam fogging the glass enclosure. Arrow stood under the spray, his thoughts still scattered as he tried to work out what he was going to do next.
His wolf had been eerily quiet since leaving Flint’s house, subdued in a way Arrow had never experienced. Usually, his animal side was all aggression and instinct, pushing Arrow toward dominant displays and territorial posturing. Now he just felt...sad.
We hurt him. We hurt our mate.
Arrow’s hands shook as he lathered shampoo through his hair. His wolf was right. They’d taken something precious and treated Flint like garbage because Arrow had been too scared and too proud to admit he’d found his person.
He finished showering and stood in front of his closet, staring at rows of expensive suits. Every one of them was tailored, pressed, and designed to fit him perfectly. The symbol that he had “made it,” the armor he wore to work each day, reminding everyone he was successful and untouchable.
Arrow pulled out his favorite. It was pale gray with subtle white pinstripes, and he paired it with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie in deep blue. He dressed methodically, trying not to think about how none of this would matter if Flint rejected him during their date.
Flint hadn’t had to tell him that if the mate bond was denied, it would eventually kill them both, slowly and painfully, as their animal spirits pined away to nothing.
The fact that Flint was prepared to do that - to die rather than be subjected to Arrow’s shitty behavior spoke to the strength of the man. He’s stronger than me, that’s for sure.