Chapter Eight
O nce home, Arran immediately excused himself to the larder, ostensibly to prepare dinner. He heard Weed collapse onto his nest of fleeces and begin to hum a tuneless melody—another of his grating habits.
Arran clutched his head, afflicted by a deep headache that Weed was both the cause of and not responsible for.
How profoundly soothing it had been, to hold Weed close for the briefest of moments. Such a different kind of warmth compared to simply carrying an unconscious body. To feel Weed’s smaller frame lean readily into his own, without fear or repulsion for his wolfishness. Even the best of Arran’s human friends, when he had them, tended to always retain an air of caution in his company.
That was something almost endearing about Weed. Despite having literally hunted Arran, once he was free of Elsie, Weed gave no sense of discrimination against him. Arran was certain that Weed would have been equally antagonistic to a human master as to an utterly monstrous one. What fear he’d shown so far seemed to stem from Weed’s expectations of Arran as an owner, rather than any inherent fear of Arran himself.
Arran knew this was nothing to be proud of, but it was refreshing to be looked so brazenly in the eye by Weed. Refreshing, even, to be taunted by him. And flirted with—even if that was entirely meant in mockery.
And there, of course, was the real heart of Arran’s ailment.
With his finely tuned nose and sense of hearing, Arran received every signal Weed sent his way, including the unintentional ones. During his panic attack, Weed’s whiplash shift from panic to calm to aroused caught Arran in the crossfire. With Weed getting excited while in his arms, Arran’s number one priority suddenly became restraining his inner beast from burying its snout in Weed’s neck and inhaling deeply.
Things only got worse after they returned to the cave. Weed’s scent was everywhere . It had been building in the back of Arran’s mind for days, like an intangible pressure, as Weed spread his him-ness all over Arran’s things, picking up his tools and thumbing through his books, sharing his warmth and breathing his air.
Arran grabbed a jar of pickled fish from a shelf and stuck his nose over it. Anything to drown out Weed for a single minute.
‘What’s for dinner, wolfie?’ Weed called from the other chamber.
Arran stared into the shadows of the rock ceiling, thrown by the light of a solar lantern. Was there no escape?
‘Fish,’ he grunted, screwing the lid back onto the jar.
Arran moved back into the living chamber expecting to find Weed still lolling on his bed, but instead the nosy fae was picking grass figurines off the shelves. Fur prickled down Arran’s spine, irked by Weed touching yet more of his things.
‘What are these for?’ Weed asked, holding up two woven humanoid figures.
Arran’s headache intensified.
‘They are… keepsakes,’ he replied, knowing his tone was surly. ‘Reminders. Of people I’ve known and places I’ve been.’
Weed examined the two in his hand. They were hard to tell apart, a mere twist of difference in the hair, a suggestion of skirt on one and a little basket carried by the other. ‘Who are these two, then?’
Family.
‘Long dead,’ Arran said gruffly. He wasn’t in the mood to explain the grim history they chronicled. ‘Come over here and eat, if it pleases you. It’s been a long day and shall take even longer to get the fire hot, so cold pickles and smoked fish are our choice for tonight.’
‘Such refined cuisine.’ Weed gave the pair of figurines a final glance before replacing them on the shelf. He slunk into a space under Arran’s arm and plucked up the jar of pickled fish. ‘You miss ’em?’
‘Miss who?’
Weed waved a hand at the ornament-laden shelves. ‘All of them. You made loads.’
Arran’s heart clenched. Weed sounded unusually sincere, and it pierced through his gloom. ‘I have lived a long time.’
Weed sidled further round so he could stick his face under Arran’s. He smiled sweetly. ‘Will you make one for me?’
‘Perhaps.’
I hope not.
Arran scooped food onto a plate and ducked away from Weed.
It wasn’t Weed’s fault. He didn’t know what he was asking. He wasn’t to know that the figures were more than just souvenirs.
They were cenotaphs. Grave monuments.
Arran wouldn’t point out Elsie’s. He’d had trouble capturing the shape of a crossbow in dried grass, but felt it was the right thing to distinguish her.
It was important to honour the dead.
To atone for the sin of killing them.
He wondered whether Weed would understand. Did Weed feel any remorse for the lives he’d harmed while under Elsie’s command?
Arran surreptitiously watched Weed pick out his food, while trying to imagine this fiendish yet fragile creature hunting another being for sport. The idea didn’t align with the person in front of him.
Not really fiendish, Arran considered. Guileful, yes. Clever and canny. Coy, when he wants to be.
As if primed to catch him out, Weed glanced up and met Arran’s gaze. He winked and blew a kiss before heading toward the cave entrance with his food.
Arran hung his head, cheeks filling with fire. His tail gave a few pathetic thwaps against the ground where he sat. That was how bad it was.
Apparently, his beast’s infatuation was now so strong that even the vaguest of flirtations from Weed could get his tail wagging.
And he wasn’t totally certain he could blame it all on instinct, any more.