Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
G il spent the following week fishing and preparing for his excursion. After what had happened with Bryn almost taking a swim, Gil had wanted to leave him behind when he went out on the water. Bryn wasn’t having it. After being cooped up in the jail all those years, the fresh air and the magnificent rocky coast were a balm to his heart. This area reminded him so much of home that it awakened a longing he hadn’t experienced in many, many years. When Gil had spoken of sailing away, he’d entertained a wild fantasy of crossing the Atlantic, showing Gil all his old haunts.
It had been so frustrating not to be able to share that silly dream. It had been even more frustrating hanging helpless from that dobber Grady’s arm. If Bryn’d had his full magic, he’d have ripped him in half.
Today was Friday, though.
Bryn had watched Gil shower and dress in a clean shirt and dark jeans. He’d told his uncle he was heading to the Drunken Scallop for a few beers. He knew in his heart it was a bad idea, but Bryn couldn’t resist following. He just… wanted to do something for the man, something more than he could do as a cat.
Just buy him a drink, maybe. Somehow, he wanted to make Gil see that he wasn’t a callow idiot with no choice but to take every shovelful of shite that came his way… that he wasn’t alone.
Bryn opted for a simple ensemble, jeans and a black sweater over a tartan flannel shirt. He raked his black hair back as he stepped into the Drunken Scallop and let his eyes adjust to the low light. It was a small room with a bar at the back and booths on the side, a single pool table, and some outdoor seating that was completely ignored. It smelled, predictably, of stale beer, and a college football game played on the TV in the corner.
He located Gil in a booth by himself, his big shoulders curled forward and his head hanging down, just the way he’d sat in the prison cafeteria, and probably before that too. Bryn took a few steps in that direction, but then he stopped. What exactly had he planned to say? “Hey there. I’m yer cat. How about we get rat-arsed?”
Bryn had never struggled to get the attention of men, and with Gil’s shaggy auburn hair, gray eyes, and the whiskers coming in thick and as red as fire, Gil was very much the type of man Bryn had most enjoyed in those glorious days before he’d ever set eyes on monks or a church. When the people were godless and free and mingled easily with his kind….
Somehow, using his charms and wiles felt wrong. Hell, Gil didn’t need any more troubles piled on him. Instead, Bryn went to the bar and perched on a stool.
“Get you something?” asked the old man behind the bar.
“A beer and a shot.” Bryn quickly perused the scant line of bottles behind the man. “The Macallan.”
“Sure thing.”
The bartender set the drinks in front of Bryn, and Bryn set a folded leaf that looked remarkably like a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. Bryn downed shot, savoring the trail of warmth it blazed from his mouth to the pit of his belly, picked up the beer, and spun in his stool to take in the room.
The Scallop boasted a crowd of about twelve, all men save a stout lass playing darts, most of them on the downhill side of fifty. They were fisherman, locals no doubt, and next to them, Gil seemed as bright and colorful as a forest fire. Bryn looked over at him; their eyes locked and held for one, two, three heartbeats…. Bryn smiled. Gil looked away.
Bryn sighed. He looked around the room again. A few of the old-timers talked in the corner by the window; the rest were watching the game. His attention wandered back to Gil. Their eyes met again. Gil looked away.
“Doing all right here?” the bartender asked.
“You know what… let me get another two shots,” Bryn said. He put another folded bill on the bar, downed the rest of his beer, and muffled a belch in his sleeve. When the bartender set the two shots down, Bryn picked them up and made his way to Gil’s booth. It was a strange thing to know someone so very well and have to pretend you didn’t.
Bryn held up the shots. “Join you?”
Gil looked over his shoulder at the door, then back at Bryn.
“Are you expecting someone?” Bryn asked. He tried to ignore the flare of jealousy that thought ignited.
“No, it’s just…. I mean, sure. Have a seat. I’m not trying to be rude.”
Bryn put one of the shots in front of Gil and slid into the booth opposite him.
“Thanks,” Gil said. He lifted the shot and Bryn lifted his. “Uh, what are we drinking to?”
“How about new friends?” Bryn winked.
With a nod, Gil clinked the rim of his glass against Bryn’s and downed the amber liquid it held. The whiskey brought a rosy glow to his cheeks,
“It’s a little late in the season for tourists,” Gil said when the silence had stretched between them too long.
Bryn shrugged. “You just never know where you’re going to end up, and all you can do is make the best of it.”
“I suppose you can try,” Gil said, scrutinizing Bryn. “We haven’t met, have we? You seem….”
“I just have one of those faces. So you’re a local, then?”
“All my life.” When Gil said that, he sat up a little taller; his eyes twinkled with a flicker of the fire the world had tried so hard to douse. “I think this is the best place in the world. What about you?”
“Oh, I guess you could say I’ve been around.” Bryn put his elbows on the table and leaned in to see what Gil might do. Surprisingly, Gil didn’t lean away. “No complaints about this place, though. The views are beautiful. The locals are… friendly from what I can tell. Accommodating.”
A darker strip of pink appeared across Gil’s face, and the tips of his ears turned bright red. “People here can be a little judgmental.”
“I can’t imagine anyone finding you wanting,” Bryn said. He hadn’t really meant to flirt, just offer support, but his tongue seemed to have a mind of its own.
And maybe he’d gone too far. Gil’s eyes darted back and forth as if looking for an escape route… maybe somebody he knew who he could call over and save himself from being alone with Bryn. Finally Gil said, “Trust me, I’m… wanting. You really wouldn’t want anything to do with me if you knew.”
Beneath the table, Bryn’s claws extended, poking into the heels of his hands. Somebody should pay for convincing this big, kind, beautiful man he was unworthy—maybe the absent mother he mentioned in passing, maybe Grady LeBlanc. “Got some dark secrets, then?” Bryn managed to ask.
Gil shook his head. “That makes it sound romantic, like I’m a spy or something. No. I… I’m just a guy who can’t manage to take control of his life. Believe me, ‘freelance fisherman’ isn’t as exciting or lucrative as it sounds.”
Gil flushed harder and pressed his full lips together tight. “Shit. I haven’t had anything to drink in a while. It went right to my head. Sorry for the sob story.”
Bryn reached across the table and draped his hand over Gil’s. “No, don’t be. I know how it feels to be the victim of circumstances beyond yer control.”
For the next several seconds, they stared at each other, hands touching, the sights and sounds of the little bar fading away. Then Gil pulled back. Like a scared rabbit, he darted his gaze around the room again. Bryn couldn’t help it—when somebody acted like prey, it triggered his instinct to stalk… to hunt. He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth, feeling the sharp points of his fangs and preparing to pounce.
But he was too late. Gil slid out of the booth and stood. “I… I have to go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Doesn’t being freelance mean ye get ta set yer own hours?”
“It… no. No, I have to get going.” Without giving Bryn a chance to say another word, he turned and hurried out of the bar.
Bryn finished the half-empty beer Gil had left behind, thinking about his pink lips edged in red stubble, lips that had been just where Bryn’s were now. “Fuck it.”
Outside, the fog had rolled in thick again, and Bryn tracked Gil by his scent. He knew it well, having slept enveloped in it on that narrow prison cot for years. He caught up to him beside the little white building draped in fishing floats that sat at the end of the wharf. “Gil.”
Gil turned, a puff of breath coming out in a cloud, mingling with the mist. His lips parted, but Bryn didn’t give him a chance to make whatever excuse waited there. He pushed Gil up against the small shed or whatever it was and smashed his mouth into Gil’s. To Bryn’s delight, Gil put up no protest—not when Bryn shoved his hands up under his shirt and raked his nails down his back, not when Bryn slid his tongue between Gil’s teeth and into the slick, hot recesses of his mouth.
Gil’s skin was warm beneath Bryn’s hands, the coarse texture of the hair on his round belly intoxicating. His thick arms closed around Bryn’s waist, pulling their bodies flushed as they kissed hard and messily. Bryn arched against him as he dragged his teeth along Gil’s stubbled jaw, nipped his earlobe, and sucked his way down his neck, lapping the salt taste of his skin.
At first Gil stood passive, as if too shocked to do anything but bask in Bryn’s attention. Which was fine… but then he seemed to stir out of his languor, and he worked his fingers into the back of Bryn’s hair to guide their lips back together. Bryn angled his body so he could rub his own hardness against Gil’s, and as soon as their cocks brushed together, Gil released a moan so desperate that it almost finished Bryn. He imagined Gil wouldn’t need much either; Bryn hadn’t seen him relieve his tensions once when they were in prison, not even with his own hand.
He rubbed his cheek up the side of Gil’s face, under his chin, and into his hair. “Not yet.”
A sigh juddered out of Gil. “I….”
“Let me make ye feel good.” Bryn hitched up Gil’s shirt and crouched to run his cheek over the hair on Gil’s belly. He wanted to coat himself in Gil’s scent, coat Gil in his own scent. He rubbed vigorously against the thatch of red hair between Gil’s soft, full pecks as he cupped the growing bulge in Gil’s pants. Gil gasped when Bryn drew one of his plump pink nipples into his mouth and grazed it with his fang. He worked his way back up, running his cheeks over the opposite side of Gil’s neck, pausing to nibble and nip at his ear and lips until he was satisfied he’d marked Gil with his fragrance. He’d worry later why that seemed so important to him. For now, he wriggled his hand into Gil’s jeans and wrapped his fingers around his thick cock.
“Oh my god,” Gil panted, his breath hot and damp against Bryn’s face, his hands twisted in the back of Bryn’s shirt.
“Shh, just a little longer.” Bryn opened Gil’s fly and shoved his pants and boxer briefs down to the tops of his thighs. It was a little easier to free his own cock since he hadn’t bothered to glamour up any underclothes for himself. Honestly, he hadn’t expected this to happen, but now that it was, he realized how much he’d always wanted it, wanted to feel Gil’s skin against his own bare skin, wanted to make Gil writhe and pant. He thrust against Gil, relishing the scrape of that hair against his sensitive flesh, and then he wrapped his hand around them both, squeezing hard. Gil bucked up into his grasp, his erection rubbing along Bryn’s. All Bryn could do was hold on.
They found their rhythm, grinding against each other while Bryn pressed his palm against the shed for balance and Gil cupped his arse in both hands. It was quick and messy, their cocks catching against each other until their fluids eased the way. When Bryn came, he bit deep into the cord of muscle on Gil’s neck. Gil yelped, but he followed Bryn over the edge just as Bryn’s fangs broke the skin.
Afterward, they clung to each other, panting, their cocks wet, limp, and pressed between their bellies. Gil cradled the back of Bryn’s head and peppered light, sweet kisses across his brow. It was as if they both knew that as soon as one of them spoke, the spell would be broken.
Still, it had to be done.
“Well…,” Bryn said, taking a step back.
“Yeah.” Gil pulled up his pants and tucked himself away.
“I should….” Bryn canted his head back toward the main street.
“Yeah.”
He took a few steps into the fog, then turned back, grabbed Gil’s face in both hands, and kissed him until they were both gasping for air. “Bye.”
That had been good for both of them, Bryn thought as he walked back up the street with a smile. It didn’t have to mean anything more than that, and truth be told, it couldn’t, not when he was stuck as a cat six days out of the week.
And speaking of that little inconvenience….
“Have ye no shame?” There was Brother Wilfred in his pointy black hood, waiting for Bryn as soon as he reached the kirkyard.
Well, Bryn had no intention of letting the old fud ruin his good mood. “Liked what ye saw, did ye?”
“I thought I told you to leave that young man alone. Can’t ye see that he’s vulnerable?”
Bryn rolled his eyes. “Yer doing my nut in. Besides, you cannae tell me who I can bed. The curse only said I cannae kill anybody, and I know how magic works. What’s said is said and set. Ye cannae change it as ye go.”
“Perhaps, but doing wicked deeds will bring ye no rewards. It never does.”
“I have objective evidence that you’re wrong there,” Bryn said, winking. “Seven more years until I see the last of you, and not a moment too soon.”
“You’ll never make it.” The monk slid his hands into his sleeves. “Ye must renounce your sinful ways, abandon evil in your heart. Ye cannae just pretend.”
“That wasn’t the deal,” Bryn said, flipping the old man the two-finger salute as he continued on his way. All he needed to do was avoid the faerie lord for another seven years, and it would be smooth sailing.