Chapter Four
A rran turned sharply away from Weed, aware that his sudden snarl of pain might be intimidating. The wound in his arm had split open as the straps of one rucksack snagged on it, and the silver-edged sting caught him off guard. It needed dressing.
He grabbed his basket of medical supplies and rummaged for bandages and antiseptic. Weed watched him closely—and curiously. Arran had noticed how carefully Weed paid attention. Assessing him. For all his cavalier frivolity, Weed had a watchfulness that Arran identified with.
But now that Arran was about to take his hoodie off, this quality bothered him immensely.
He kept his back to Weed as he pulled the hoodie over his head. This turned out to be in vain, as Weed simply sidled around to get a better look.
Weed gave a low wolf whistle, appraising Arran from his waistband to his collarbone. ‘You got some muscles there, wolfie.’
Arran’s ears twitched, a behavioural tell of his self-consciousness that he hoped Weed couldn’t read. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. All you can see is fur.’
Weed’s grin was mischievous as he sauntered closer. ‘Sure. But the light in here throws some enticing shadows…’ He reached up and swiped a finger under the line of Arran’s left pectoral muscle.
Arran jerked back against the workbench. Wooden bowls clattered to the floor as he sought to grip on to something solid instead of lashing out at Weed.
Weed raised an eyebrow. ‘Personal space issues?’
‘I was not ready for that,’ Arran rasped, breathing heavily, baring teeth. ‘I would appreciate a warning before the next time you touch me.’
Weed sucked in his lower lip, eyes darkening as they roved over Arran’s body again. ‘Next time, eh?’
The insinuation, or perhaps merely the tone of his voice, triggered an alarming reaction in Arran. His instinctive shock at being touched morphed into a flash of arousal, flooding his nervous system with heat.
Arran spun away from Weed, stifling a hungry growl in his throat. He was appalled with himself. Was he really so touch-starved that a single stroke from a stranger excited him to this degree? And from a stranger he had the power to take advantage of, no less. The idea that he might exploit Weed’s curse disgusted him. But, judging by the way his cock was thickening in his jeans, it was clear his body had no quarrel with the situation.
Arran kept himself facing the workbench this time, hiding the shape of his cock against the stone while he cleaned the open cut on his arm. Weed leaned against the counter as he did so, still far too close for comfort. The hairs along Arran’s spine prickled, keeping him on edge.
‘What happened to your other wound?’ Weed asked, watching him wrap a dressing around the cut. ‘Elsie stuck you real good, back there.’ He endeavoured to peer down at Arran’s stomach—Arran pressed firmly against the workbench to deny him the view.
‘The blade was not silver, so it healed quickly. This one shall take longer.’ Arran skilfully ripped the bandage with his teeth so as not to waste any material. The excess could be put to use another day. Supplies were always limited.
‘So, Elsie was right about silver being the only way to kill you?’ Weed picked up one of the clay pots from the bench, inspecting it with interest. ‘Sounds like you and I might be together for a long time then, wolfie.’
Arran stopped and regarded Weed with a frown. ‘What do you mean by that?’
Weed’s attention flitted to a shelf of books. He stretched up on tiptoes to read the titles while replying over his shoulder. ‘I only move on when my master dies, don’t I? And what with you being nearly unkillable and also just as immortal as I am… You are, aren’t you?’ His gaze darted back to Arran, books forgotten. ‘I heard your lot crossed over five thousand odd years ago.’
Your lot, Arran noted. The Wulvers had always suffered a poor reputation, in his previous home as well as this one.
Arran had all but scrubbed his memory of his otherworldly origins. To have it jogged by Weed was an unwelcome distraction, although it did at least take his mind off his cock.
He remembered the fae realm as a harsh and cruel place. When a large tear in the firmament had allowed the first mass exodus of fae beings across to the human realm, Arran had seized the opportunity to escape. A few other Wulvers had made the journey too. They were scattered across the globe now, each leading the particular solitary existence that suited them best. Where they were and what they were doing—if any of them were even still alive, in fact—was no concern of his.
‘I don’t know about unkillable,’ Arran answered, dodging Weed’s question. He wasn’t keen on inviting further probing into his history. ‘I should imagine cutting off my head would do the trick just as well as putting a silver bullet through it. Silver simply prevents my body from healing properly.’
Weed’s mouth twitched. ‘Are you saying that normal bullets would work just as well as silver ones?’
‘Perhaps,’ Arran replied dryly. He held back the truth, aware that just twelve hours ago Weed had been out to kill him. ‘For obvious reasons, I’ve never tested it.’
‘Wow. Elsie would be pissed to hear that.’ The idea seemed to provide a great deal of amusement to Weed. He cackled gleefully to himself while Arran packed the medical supplies away.
Arran then swiftly pulled his hoodie back on, glad to be shielded from Weed’s dangerously prying eyes. He wondered briefly at the garments Weed was wearing: mottled beige and green camo clothes at least two sizes too big that hung off his frame and made him look like a poorly dressed scarecrow. He had a thin gilet over the top, but otherwise appeared to only be wearing one layer, lacking any of the tactical vests and weatherproof coats that Logan and Elsie had sported.
Arran kicked himself then, realising that Weed must have been freezing on the trek across the island. Of course Elsie wouldn’t have wasted decent gear on Weed—if he could survive not being fed then he could probably survive the cold just as well.
It was getting late, and the cave’s temperature was chilly on even the warmest of nights. Arran considered his stash of firewood. He wouldn’t usually dip into it in the middle of summer.
‘I shall light a fire,’ he decided, nevertheless. ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Yes,’ Weed replied instantly.
Arran tried to not dwell on the fervour in his tone. Weed’s earlier explanation of his ability to survive starvation had disturbed him greatly. No doubt the knowledge had come from experience.
At the back of the living chamber was another passage that led to a smaller space which Arran used for stores. He retrieved from it an armful of firewood, along with a jar of fish pemmican and a bundle of dried seaweed.
Weed inspected these ingredients while Arran laid a fire in the stone hearth that was hewn into the cave wall. Arran was quietly proud of all his construction within the cave, but the fireplace especially. It represented a decade’s worth of work to chip out the smooth, domed recess for the fire, and for the painstaking drilling of the hole for the chimney—completed long before electricity and power tools were on the horizon.
Once Arran had a nice blaze crackling in the hearth, he hung a cast iron pot on a hook over the fire and filled it with water.
‘What is that stuff?’ Weed asked, watching Arran crumble the hard cakes of pemmican into the pot.
‘Dried fish and berries, pounded with sheep fat. It keeps for a long time.’ The water turned an unappetising greyish-brown as Arran stirred it. He hoped it wouldn’t put Weed off. ‘I’m sorry it isn’t much. I haven’t been home in months, so there is nothing fresh in my larder.’
‘Doesn’t bother me.’ Weed nibbled a piece of the dried seaweed, apparently curious of the taste.
Arran plucked it from his hands and added it to the stew. ‘It shall taste better when cooked. Is there still water in your canteen?’
Weed dug through the rucksack they’d taken from the hunters and shook the metal flask in Arran’s direction. It sloshed loudly, sounding about half-full. Good. They wouldn’t have to collect more until the morning. What else would a human need?
Visitors to Arran’s cave were exceedingly rare, and he certainly couldn’t remember the last time he’d cooked for someone, let alone had them stay the night. Even if Weed himself wasn’t human, it seemed like his body was.
‘There is a latrine outside,’ Arran said gruffly, nodding back to the cave entrance. ‘I will show you later. I think your leash should allow you to leave the cave as you please. You do not need to ask my permission, in case that is not obvious.’
Weed fluttered his eyelashes. ‘My, my, I get to shit when I want to? You’ve thought of everything. ’
Arran grunted in return. Weed could be as sarcastic as he liked; Arran would look after him as best he could, whether Weed liked it or not. He was deeply unsettled by the prospect of having mastery over another being. Even if that being was Weed, who had been previously trying to kill him.
Weed looked remarkably delicate, but Arran had observed this appearance hid a steely strength beneath—much like the roots he conjured. Despite Weed’s boyish looks he could easily be several hundred years old, and that would still be young for a dryad.
These things made Weed simultaneously the most foreign person Arran had ever entertained in his home, and also the most similar.
Arran had to keep reminding himself of this, that looks were deceiving and he shouldn’t allow Weed an ounce of his trust. As a rule, most fae creatures were as likely to stab you in the back as shake your hand. Deceit was second-nature to them.
And yet.
After serving up the stew, Arran watched the way Weed ate.
Weed shovelled the watery porridge into his mouth like a starving man. In contrast to his earlier display of pleasure while eating the granola bars—during which it hadn’t escaped Arran that Weed was endeavouring to make the act sound like he was both giving and receiving the best blow job of all time—this meal he ate with a quiet urgency, scraping his bowl clean and then licking it spotless. Weed ate like someone who didn’t know when his next meal was going to come along. Like someone who was afraid he might not get another one at all.
Actions had a tendency to reveal the truth about a person, if you observed them for long enough.
‘There are seconds, if you would like some,’ Arran said.
Weed held out his bowl silently. Arran refilled it to the brim, and watched Weed demolish that helping as well.
After dinner, Arran gathered the bowls and spoons inside the cooled cooking pot, ready to be washed the next day after he’d had a chance to collect water from the stream. He left Weed by the fire while he unpacked his rucksack and made a list of the chores he’d need to do tomorrow.
He expected Weed to go back to nosing through his cave, and belongings, once again. But Weed didn’t stir from his spot on the floor. After twenty minutes, soft snores indicated he’d fallen asleep—still sat upright, with his chin tucked onto his chest. Arran glanced over, and was taken aback by the changed sight of him.
Weed didn’t look nearly so malicious while at rest. Perhaps it was the firelight softening his features, Arran told himself. Weed’s mouth, normally twisted into a spiteful smirk, now looked soft and gentle, blowing out calm breaths through wind-chapped lips. His messy fringe of auburn hair hung over his eyes, and this detail somehow made Weed seem vulnerable. He was a captive, after all.
A small measure of sympathy kindled in Arran’s heart. He huffed quietly and set about arranging Weed’s bedding into a comfortable nest on the floor. Then he picked up the sleeping fae—who was completely out cold—and settled him into it. Weed snorted in his sleep and turned over under the blanket, unconsciously burrowing into the fleeces.
Arran watched him a while longer, pondering their shared situation.
He pulled out his mobile phone. It was a chunky, rugged thing, kept charged via a small solar power bank that hung from his rucksack while travelling. There were very few people in the world who Arran could rightfully call a friend, and this modern machine was a gift from one of them: Cameron Walker, the lone Witch of the Highlands.
Arran had never had reason to own such a device until recently. The witch had more or less pressed him into it, so that they might be able to contact one another should trouble ever arise in their respective corners of the Highlands and Islands. Arran certainly hadn’t expected to find himself contemplating its use so very soon. Should he warn the witch of his predicament?
The Walker witch was young and inexperienced, but he meant well and had inherited some decent power from his bloodline. And he did, at least, have a proven track record in the breaking of curses. Taking Weed to visit him was the obvious course of action.
Arran’s shoulders sagged. He’d spent so much of the past year travelling, living in the shadows on the outskirts of civilisation, avoiding human eyes and the tiresome hounding of hunters. Elsie and her crew had chased him all over Scotland. He wanted nothing more than to be left alone—to be home, finally.
He tucked the phone away. The witch was a last resort, he decided. He’d look for other solutions first.