12. Wilder
Wilder
Six hours of trudging through snow is a happy place for me.
I love the chill, and more than that, I love seeing my land, even covered in a blanket of white.
The surveyor doesn’t talk much, absorbed in the work.
Every now and again, he makes a little grunt and shakes his head.
I hope that means the original data doesn’t match up with what he’s finding, and the new findings are in my favor.
I know better than to bug him. It’s unconventional for us to follow a surveyor along; he was kind to even allow it.
Oz is quiet next to me, but he seems equally peaceful.
He’s a natural horseman too, his hips swaying easily in the saddle.
I’m impressed to see he’s actually wearing cowboy boots, and he’s got his heels down at all times, things riding newbies don’t typically do.
He’s even wearing appropriate clothing for the weather, with a wool shirt, thick down coat, and a neckerchief to keep the snow out of his clothing.
Saint, on the other hand, is wearing Converse sneakers with tight slacks and way too few layers.
He complained for the first hour but fell silent after that. My guess? He’s got frostbite, and he’s truly regretting coming with us. Suits me just fine. Maybe he’ll take off and head back to the wraith hotel. If he doesn’t, it might get awkward sharing a tent with Oz.
Well, maybe not any more awkward than our current living arrangements, come to think of it.
By the time we stop for dinner, Saint’s begun complaining again, loudly and every other minute, it seems.
Oz winks at me as we untack the horses and toss them hay inside a shed in one of the far north pastures. “Guess the city boy can’t keep up, hmm?”
“I heard that!” Saint shouts from outside the shed.
“Grab that corner of the tent, would ya, Ashbourne?” Erek mutters something about being better off alone.
Oz and I leave the relative warmth of the shed.
Outside, Erek’s cleared a spot in the snow and laid down a tarp to prevent the wet from getting in.
He’s got the frame of the tent up, but Saint is bitching and moaning about strapping it over the poles.
I move to Saint’s side and grab the flapping tent, pulling it over the frame.
Oz grabs the other side and straps it down.
He does it easily, like he’s done it a million times.
Something about seeing him bent over the tent, pounding in the stakes, produces admiration for him.
He rises and smiles at the surveyor. “Can I help with dinner, Erek? We both know you brought beef stew, although I maintain that Whiskey’s version is better than your mate’s. ”
Erek smiles over at Oz and jerks his head to one of the mule packs. “Don’t you talk about my sweet Caroline like that, and most definitely don’t ever mention how I agree with you. Grab a fire starter log there, Oz. Stew’s frozen. We can get it warming.”
“Thanks for bringing food,” I say, pounding the final stake in. No sooner have I done that than Saint runs around the tent and dives in with a huge groan.
Erek sighs and looks at us. “That was my tent, but alright. You two wanna help me put up the others?”
It takes us twenty minutes to put up two more tents and get the stew defrosted. It bubbles happily in a cauldron over the small fire. Saint still hasn’t reappeared, although I can hear his teeth chattering even from out here.
Erek grabs three small metal bowls from the mule pack and then ladles soup into each. When he hands it to me, I remove my gloves to soak in the warmth from the hot metal. A happy groan leaves me at feeling heat for the first time all day.
Oz dips into his soup with a dainty little move that highlights how delicate but strong he is.
He’s thinner than me, his musculature long and lean.
He’s pretty in a masculine way, angular jawline and high cheekbones.
The darkest of purple lashes flutter as he blows on the hot soup.
When he purses those dusky lips together, my groin tightens.
His hair hangs long to his shoulders, the stray tips covered in ice from the day’s ride. When he swallows the bite, his throat bobs. Unbidden, a vision of him at my feet invades my mind. Knowing he’s not a mind reader like my sister, I allow the thought to stay there, insidious and delightful.
Erek slurps down the last of his soup then turns to us. “I ain’t much for talkin’ after dinner, so I’m gonna retire. Y’all wanna try to keep the fire goin’ in case he emerges for food?”
“I’ll take him a bowl,” Oz says neutrally. “We won’t forget to take care of the fire. Night, Erek.”
He waves at us then disappears to check on the horses and mules a final time. They get extra flakes of hay to munch on overnight. Once he retires into his tent, Oz smiles over at me.
“You ready for bed, honey bun?”
I smile. “Think I’m gonna need more soup, actually. Kinda nice being warmed from the inside out. Can I get you more?”
He hands his bowl to me, and I refill it, smiling when he takes it again. His cool fingers brush mine, and a dark purple blush travels up his cheeks.
“Is that s-s-soup?”
I turn to find Saint standing there looking utterly miserable, huddled in a jacket that’s far too thin.
“Come sit,” Oz says evenly. “Do you have a thicker coat?”
Saint sniffles and looks down at his outerwear. “It’s…not real wool, I guess. The wind goes right through it.”
I could almost feel bad for him until I remember how Oz has talked about him.
Oz looks at me and sighs, then stands and goes for the packs. He withdraws another coat and returns to the fire, handing it to Saint.
“Try this one,” he says. “I’d brought it for day two, but you can use it. And take a seat. We’ll get you some soup, and that’ll help warm you up.”
Saint takes the coat and shrugs it on, moaning at the added warmth. Dropping onto a log next to me, he lifts quivering hands for a bowl. The sound he lets out at the first bite sounds nearly orgasmic.
He eats in silence, occasionally looking at us.
Oz moves his hand to my knee and rests it there.
When no one seems inclined to talk, I squeeze Oz’s hand, then drop to a knee by the fire.
I throw dirt over the coals to help the fire die down.
The soup’ll refreeze overnight, and we can pack it away in the morning.
That done, I turn to Oz with a smile. “You ready for bed?”
He beams at me like I’m the only male in the entire world, and it lights his face up. Behind him, his tail lashes happily, and he shuffles his wings. Long, beautiful horns flex straight, a sign of arousal. It’s perfect, something a gargoyle would only do with his mate.
Oz rises and reaches for me. When I stand, he leads me to the third tent. I lift the flap and gesture him in, grinning at him like I can’t wait for us to be alone.
Inside, the sleeping bags are set up already. Except what was two separate ones has been zippered into one giant sleeping bag. I turn and look at Oz.
He shrugs. “Better for snuggling, and with this chill? I’m gonna be all over you. You know I love to be warm.”
Laughing, I pull him fully inside and zip the tent closed. Oz shucks off his jacket and pants, and underneath them, gods help me, he’s wearing the heart-covered jammies. He tosses off the clothes he wore all day and bends down to his bag. And fuck, the sight of his tight, bubbly ass and that tail?
My sack tightens, length hardening against my thigh as I stare, telling myself not to. That this is all fake. That I don’t know the real Oz because all of this is for show.
Except it’s hard to fake every moment of a day. Some of the things he says might not be real, but his obvious love of today’s ride? That was all Oz. At the very least, it feels like we’re blurring lines.
He dons thick sweatpants over the outfit, then zips a long-sleeved hoodie up his front. I almost offer to help him button it at his shoulders, but that seems like too much. I almost pray he struggles with it, so I can offer to do it for him.
Why?
I can’t start liking him that way. I’m paying him, for gods’ sake.
He looks up at me, shuffling his wings at his back. Cocking his head to the side, he blinks. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
A ruse, just for show. That’s all this is.
“Just tired,” I lie.
His lashes flutter, and he forces a smile that’s obviously fake. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Turning from me, he steps to the head of the sleeping bag and slips in, tucking his wings tightly around his body, shielding it from my view.
When I join him in sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal, he’s careful to stay on his side of the double sleeping bag.
“It’s chilly,” he says in a voice that’s a little too loud, no doubt for Saint’s benefit.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll keep you warm, little mate.”
Fake. False. It’s all a lie.
Except…what if he really is cold?
That dark blush trails up Oz’s cheeks again.
“I like it when you call me that,” he says, only slightly softer this time. He shifts onto one elbow and glances toward the tent exit, twitching a pointed ear. Listening for a moment, he smiles and lies flat on his back, turning his head to me. “He’s snoring. We can hit the hay too.”
“Good,” I manage. “We’re in for another long day tomorrow.”
“Night,” Oz whispers so low, I can barely hear him, even this close. He flips over and punches the pillow a couple of times. His tail flaps beneath the covers, moving steadily. I assume he’s wrapping it around his thigh.
It’s just moments before he’s asleep, breathing softly. His tail spade thwaps against his thigh while he’s snoozing. Wind whips the tent around us, but I might as well be a furnace for the heat my larger body puts off.
Oz’s right ear twitches along with the rhythm of his tail.
Outside, the faint sounds of Saint cursing reach me from the other tent.
Something must have woken him. I grin at the thought of him being uncomfortable all night.
What Oz said about him this morning did not sit well with me at all.
Oz might have seemed a little dramatic when we first met, but no amount of drama means a monster should be made to feel small.
If today has shown me anything, it’s that, despite The Great Table Debacle, there’s more to Oz than meets the eye. I think I might actually like him as a monster. Maybe we could be friends when this is all said and done.
Sleep takes a while to find me, and the last thing I remember is Oz shivering beneath the covers. But when I reach for him in a half-dazed state…he rolls away.