Chapter Eleven
W eed stared at the red embers in the cave hearth. Behind him, the Wulver’s rumbly breathing resonated with a soothing cadence. His breath blew peacefully over the top of Weed’s head.
Weed snuggled deeper into the warm sheepskins and against the Wulver’s body. The wolfman’s arm tightened around his waist, just slightly.
Arran had opted to remain fully clothed when he climbed into bed next to Weed. Weed had also kept on his frock coat. He couldn’t quite describe why, but he wanted to keep a layer between his body and Arran’s, like a shield.
He got the sense that the Wulver had intended to have some kind of ‘meaningful’ conversation with him—no doubt he’d be apologising in it—and Weed had inwardly cringed at the thought of having to talk about what they’d just done. But once Arran had folded Weed into his arms and hugged him close, it seemed like words weren’t at all necessary.
Arran had stroked Weed’s back, his arms, his shoulders. He’d huffed long, calming exhales into the crook of Weed’s neck, holding him so securely, so safely .
Weed couldn’t bring himself to trust this. The world was too comfortable, all of a sudden. The Wulver’s body seemed too warm and soft. He wanted to be back at the mercy of the beast. Back in a state that was vicious and predictable. It was all wrong that the world was gentle now.
Weed’s trembling gradually eased while in Arran’s arms. He didn’t understand why his body was acting this way. Why the act of fulfilling his needs had made him weep. He felt pathetic. Used.
But not used, exactly—he’d wanted to be used, wanted it to be just as brutal as the Wulver had made it. And he’d used the Wulver right back. He’d needed it.
So why did it leave him feeling like he’d lost his footing? Like the whole world had dropped away with nothing for him to stand on, and he was falling into a void…
And then Arran held him. Caught him. Right here, in this bed. Weed was no longer falling.
More silly tears pricked at his eyes. Weed wiped them away with the heel of one hand. Arran stirred slightly behind him, but merely puffed out another long breath. He’d been asleep for a while.
Weed felt his own eyelids drooping. His body was becoming used to sleeping and it wanted to rest. He tucked his chin down and gave in to it.
Weed dreamed that he curled up into a tiny seed and hid inside the Wulver’s pocket. When he asked to see the daylight, giant paws cupped him gently and carried him outside. The sun was warm on his skin.
The Wulver planted him in the earth. He sank into the restful chatter of living things. Then he sprouted, became a tree. He provided shade over a barren landscape, and the Wulver leaned against him.
Together, they sheltered.
* * *
The following day Weed woke alone, but comfortable, in the Wulver’s bed.
Arran had left a plate of fish for his breakfast. The wolfman appeared to be busy with something in the pantry, judging by the industrious sounds emanating from it, and Weed was happy to leave him be. He had the prescient feeling that the Wulver would eventually try to engage him in some long-winded and heavy hearted discussion of the previous night, and Weed wished to avoid it at all costs.
To this end, when the Wulver finally emerged from the pantry Weed was already dressed and fit for action, and he headed off any undesired commentary by immediately demanding to know what activities Arran had planned for the day.
Arran blinked a few times, nonplussed by Weed’s uncharacteristic eagerness. ‘I had expected to go foraging,’ he replied carefully. ‘But if you don’t feel you are up to it—’
‘Great,’ Weed said firmly. ‘I’m good at foraging. Let’s go!’
In fact, Weed turned out to be incredible at foraging. He had a natural advantage, seeing as he could hear where all the best leaves and berries grew within the ravine. It was joyful to submerge himself in the underground conversation, to be allowed to follow its threads at his own pace and direction.
Weed effortlessly sought out banks of nettles and clumps of dandelions, swathes of chickweed and tufts of sweet red clover. He bounded excitedly ahead, racing to point out patches of edible plants before Arran could spot them, then preened like a prized terrier when the Wulver expressed amazement at his proficiency. All the while the warm summer wind whipped merrily at his face and the sun peeked in and out of clouds above them.
The Wulver seemed content to follow. If Weed was teaching him to suck eggs, he didn’t show it. He nodded along as Weed babbled about the rapport of plants, and met each of Weed’s discoveries with quiet appreciation and gratitude. Arran arranged the foraged florae delicately inside his backpack, handling them like treasures.
This attention was a novelty to Weed. It made him feel valuable.
He didn’t trust it.
But he also kind of liked it.
When their path turned towards the coast, Weed’s expertise diminished. He didn’t know the language of seaweed or of limpets.
Perhaps sensing his uncertainty, Arran slipped easily into the lead and began offering small titbits about what he was looking for. Weed learned that bladderwrack and gutweed were easy to find in the rock pools high on the shore while the tide was out, and that both could be eaten raw or boiled and were particularly good in soups, and that properly dried seaweed could last a whole year in the Wulver’s pantry. He learned how to knock a limpet off its perch with a stone, and watched with fascination as Arran prised the yellow foot of one out of its shell—before holding it out for Weed to taste.
Weed wrinkled his nose, for the first time faced with food he didn’t want to eat. ‘Not likely, wolfie. Looks like a glob of phlegm you’ve hacked up.’
The Wulver huffed and popped the limpet in his jaws. ‘I shall cook some for you tonight. Perhaps you will change your mind.’
Not likely, Weed reiterated. It wasn’t like him to change his mind on things. He knew what he liked, and what he wanted.
The stream of thought that Weed had been avoiding all day finally came rolling into view, splashing a big old wave of cold water right in his face.
Last night, after he and the wolfman had smashed uglies just the way he’d wanted, his body seemed to have changed its mind just moments after the fact.
This was obviously an anomaly. A defect of his human skin. As a dryad Weed would shag twice as hard and for thrice as long and be happier for it.
Of course, that had been with his previous consort, in the peace of their grove…
‘What’s wrong?’ Arran asked, eyes sharp with concern. Weed flinched, unaware that anything had changed in his behaviour. How did the Wulver do that? Perhaps his body was betraying him again.
‘Nothing,’ Weed said loftily. ‘Just thinking of limpets for dinner.’
The Wulver cocked his head, ears twitching. He’s not buying it. Weed reached for an easy deflection. He found one in the matted roots of marram grass calling to him from a nearby sand dune.
Weed bid the long blades of grass to uproot and twine together, forming a continuous rope as they snaked along the ground and crept up behind the Wulver.
The wolfman looked as though he was about to press Weed with a question—but he detected the rustling rope an instant before it lunged for his legs.
He leapt out of the way with a growl. ‘What’s that in aid of?’
‘I think you know,’ Weed hummed, slinking forward. ‘Want another go at me, wolfie?’
‘I request that you stop.’ The Wulver side-stepped another swipe from the marram rope. ‘Please.’
There weren’t many plants out here that Weed could put to use, and he had the feeling that the Wulver would be capable of ripping through grass bindings, anyhow. He’d have to wait until they were back in the ravine. The roots of willow trees were much stronger.
‘No fun.’ Weed stuck out his chin in a pout, but called the marram off. He skipped further along the shore, trying to ignore Arran’s stare boring into the back of his head.
‘Do you really wish to lie with me again?’ the Wulver called after him.
Weed smothered a chuckle. Lie with him. What a polite way of saying ‘get fucked like a wild animal’. He tossed a response over his shoulder. ‘It passes the time. What else is there to do on this island?’
After no reply was forthcoming, Weed groaned when he realised the wolfman was taking his time to formulate one. That meant he was going to say something serious.
Weed longed for cutting banter instead. He ran through a list of insults the Wulver could throw back at him. He came up with at least three different variations on how foraging and other tedious island pursuits were more fun than enduring Weed’s company; how the grating call of seagulls was more pleasant than Weed’s squawking pleasure-moans; how passing the time scraping rotten guts out of a diseased fish would be more enjoyable than lying with Weed again.
The Wulver missed every one of these opportunities, and instead opted for words that Weed found far more biting.
‘You seemed hurt after what we did last night. I fear I went too far.’
Weed stopped short. It wasn’t really a choice, his body just locked up. ‘I wasn’t hurt. What gave you that idea?’
Oh, no. The Wulver was keeping his distance, eyeing him like a wounded bird. Trying not to startle him. ‘You seemed to need comfort.’
‘Oh, don’t flatter yourself,’ Weed snapped, taking several steps back. ‘You’re like a massive furry pillow. Just because you happen to be comfortable doesn’t mean I needed comforting!’
Liar, lie, lying, Weed’s brain sing-songed. Lying to the wolfman instead of lying with him.
‘I am sorry,’ the Wulver said quietly.
He didn’t qualify it further. Whether he was sorry for shagging Weed or for the cuddles afterwards or for simply having to tolerate Weed’s presence on his island—each reason warped and echoed in Weed’s head.
‘Don’t be fucking sorry! ’ Weed spat. His fists clenched, arms rigid at his sides. Little tremors tripped up and down his spine, oscillating on his tongue. His words came out with a wobble. ‘What have you got to be sorry about? Master of this island. Master of me! Master of all your little bastard wolf pups—right? That’s right, isn’t it?’
The Wulver began to frown and Weed saw it as a sign to push even harder. His mouth cracked open in a wide, nasty grin. ‘How many humans did you have to shag before you noticed your spawn had gotten out of control? Eh? Or was it always your plan to inflict werewolves on this world? I bet a lot of those human women died birthing them, right? Expelling those little monsters from their holes…’
The Wulver approached him. Weed’s lungs pounded for oxygen. His head was both light and heavy all at once. He felt like he might throw up once the wolfman drew near.
The Wulver towered over Weed, lupine eyes narrowing as he looked down his nose. ‘I shall hold you now, if you would like.’
He held his grey palms face up—a tender invitation.
A sob tore from Weed’s throat. ‘Why don’t you fucking hit me? ’
He raised both fists and slammed them onto the Wulver’s chest. The wolfman stumbled half a step, but it seemed mainly in surprise. Weed walloped him again. And then again.
‘Hit me!’ he screamed. It echoed off the cliffs, scared away the gulls. ‘Fucking stop me, why don’t you!’
When the Wulver caught his arms, Weed was braced for anything. His mind had already drawn pictures of his face being dashed against the rocks or drowned in one of the shallow pools, being mocked by crabs and anemones as the other shoe finally— finally —fucking dropped.
Long, calm breaths filled his ears. Arran’s arms encircled him, squeezed him. Firm, but gentle. Weed found himself pressed into the Wulver’s hoodie, inhaling the musky scent of his fur mixed with the crisp salt of the ocean air. His body ceased shivering. You are safe. You are safe.
‘I shall not hurt you,’ Arran’s voice rumbled softly against his head. ‘You are safe here, Weed. You are safe with me.’
Weed choked, trying to swallow back the sudden onslaught of tears. He failed, and they erupted with a humiliating bawl that he buried in the Wulver’s chest.
The hold on him loosened: Weed felt a hand stroking his hair. It sent tingles down his neck and slowed the outpouring of tears. Arran was also growling—a soothing, purr-like growl that seemed to vibrate from his ribcage with each patient breath.
‘I have no excuses for what happened between us, Weed. I could have truly hurt you. I could have destroyed you.’ The tone of Arran’s purr faltered into something angrier. ‘It was a beastly compulsion on my part. I shall do better to rein it in.’
‘If you—’ Weed stammered, his voice too weak to finish. He gathered his wits, grasped hold of his anger.
Weed glared up at Arran, eyes still streaming. ‘If you didn’t… If you didn’t fucking want me to shag you then why didn’t you make me stop? You could make me stop any time. ’ He gasped and buried his face in Arran’s hoodie again. ‘With a word. ’
‘Yes. This thought has been plaguing me, too.’ The Wulver pulled back a little and tipped Weed’s chin up to meet his gaze again. ‘Weed. Any shame or regret I might feel over last night lies entirely in the way I have failed you. Not in the act itself. Not in you. You have done nothing wrong.’
Weed gave a bitter snort. ‘Sure. I only tied you up and forced you to shag me.’
‘You asked. I gave permission. That is on me.’ Arran looked away momentarily. His wolfish expression was hard to read at the best of times, but it seemed to Weed that it came over nervous. ‘I was weak, and overcome with want, and I should not have taken advantage of you . It was a stupid risk to your wellbeing, and I am sorry that my wanting has caused you anguish. I would make amends for that mistake, however you wish.’
Weed nearly laughed in his face. Had the wolfman eaten some strange seaweed that made him go loopy in the head? ‘You reckon you took advantage of me? That’s wild, wolfie.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘Ha.’ Weed tucked back into his embrace, chasing the warmth of Arran’s chest against his cheek. His muddled brain sharpened, pulled back into focus as it discerned the most important meaning of the Wulver’s words. Arran wanted him. Desired him, even.
And yet, he was apparently unwilling to follow through on that desire unless explicitly invited.
Well, if that was how the wolfman wanted to play things, why not have fun with it? Weed grinned with mischief. ‘Will you shag me again, then?’
The arms around him went hard, like he was being held by a statue. Arran’s reply was slow and thick with poorly concealed hunger. ‘I… That was not… what I meant.’
‘You said you’d make amends.’ Weed delighted in the Wulver’s highly uncomfortable stance; Arran’s ears flattened even as his pupils dilated with desire. ‘However I wish. That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
Weed discerned, with tremendous glee, that the rod suddenly poking into his stomach was the Wulver’s extremely solid cock. ‘Woah. Someone’s eager to change their tune! Down, boy!’
Arran spluttered, pushing him away. ‘I wasn’t intending—’
Weed didn’t let him finish. With how low the wolfman had to wear his jeans, the purplish head of his long dick nudged just proud of the waistband, and Weed couldn’t resist. He swiped his thumb over the leaking slit and tasted it.
Arran’s claws dug into him, clutching Weed’s back while another growl-laden groan ripped from his throat. His broad shoulders hunched over. He looked the very picture of a beast fighting his own instincts.
Weed patted the side of Arran’s soft muzzle. ‘Don’t worry, wolf boy. I won’t take advantage of you right now. Another day, eh? Maybe when you’re a bit more in control of yourself.’
He winked and lifted the Wulver’s arms off him. Then, with a flap of his coat and no backward glance, he flounced past Arran and capered on down the path.