Chapter Thirteen
A nother week passed, and it seemed to Weed that he and the Wulver settled into a kind of rhythm. With his wretched breakdown behind him and his libido at least answered, if not wholly satisfied , Weed finally began to slowly let go of the idea that he was subservient to Arran. If anything, an outsider might think the opposite was true.
Arran always rose early and prepared breakfast while Weed slept late. He didn’t ask Weed to assist in his chores, but usually found him looking over his shoulder anyway.
Most days, the wolfman invited Weed on a foraging hike with him—and if Weed said no, they didn’t. One day, when the sun was glaring in a blue sky, Weed decided to test the Wulver’s patience and spent the entire day draped over a mossy patch of rocks in the sunshine. When Arran asked what he was doing, Weed dryly replied, ‘Photosynthesising.’
Arran left him to it. Weed returned to the shade of the cave with the strangest feeling of agency bubbling through his mind. He’d chosen his activities for an entire day. No one had stopped him. Arran was content that he was content.
The next day, he asked to go foraging. Arran smiled and suggested they take their time, seeing as the larder was no longer bare. They trekked over rugged cliffs and across stark hillsides, a landscape framed by the sea. Weed found he appreciated Shetland’s wild beauty, even if it appeared harsh and unforgiving at first glance.
It was while staring out over the glittering ocean that Arran’s peculiar question returned to Weed. If he dared to admit it, it had been at the back of his mind the whole time.
Would he prefer a different name?
What would he call himself, if he were free to do so?
Dryads had no need for names in their native form. They knew who they were, and who the others were, and that was that. The rest was life: the growing of it, the symbiosis of it.
But humans found names powerful.
‘Weed’, he felt, was apt for himself. He was stubborn and unwanted. Nasty in his words. Wretched in his actions. An ugly creature.
It hadn’t always been that way.
And, in Arran’s peaceful company, Weed was beginning to think it didn’t always have to be.
One evening Weed dozed lightly in his bed, listening with half an ear to the sounds of Arran working. The wolfman was fixing a small basket, weaving in new strands of marram grass to repair a hole in its side. Despite his large paws, the Wulver’s motions were nimble. His sleek face was patient with concentration as he cut away rotten sections and folded new blades of grass in and out.
Weed slipped into dream with this image in his mind, of a made thing being unmade and mended. In the dream he flowed into the spirit of a bank of marram grass. It suited him, being coarse and spiky. His long, tangled roots held an entire dune together, like lacework within the sand.
The dune changed shape, taking Weed with it. It soared upward, turned a rich green, and transformed in a blink into his old grove. The one that he and They had shared. He and his former consort. Two nameless ghosts of the fae forest.
In a realm so sharp, Weed and They had crafted something soft. Together the pair sprouted a grove of trees, tended it with love. The leaves grew broad and green instead of cold silver. The ground was spongy with moss, dotted with mushrooms, and the tree trunks covered in placid lichens. Where Weed was a dryad of plants, They were a dryad of organisms that existed between the space of plant and animal: lichens, fungi, algae.
But then, over time, his consort’s creations began to dominate Weed’s. Their mycelia spread, hidden underground, invading and overtaking Weed’s root systems. Strangling his plants.
In his sleep, Weed began to choke.
He’d recognised the parasitic nature of Them too late. Even when it became obvious, when the trees were turning black and withered, Weed was blinded by devotion. He begged and pleaded with Them. He promised to be better. He’d do anything to save the grove. Anything to make Them happy.
Anything? his consort asked.
Anything, Weed agreed.
The face of Bryce the hunter reared in his dream, cruel and ugly. Weed stepped willingly into a trap, to appease the spirit he loved.
His grove was snatched away. He wept while They looked on, triumphant and merciless in Their victory, in a battle Weed hadn’t realised he was meant to be fighting. He’d thought the two of them had forsaken the pointless struggle over territory. Thought they’d found a mutual understanding in their desire for peace.
Now Weed knew he’d been used.
And discarded.
Weed lurched into consciousness in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. The influence of the dream faded, retracting the sense of strangulation. Weed found he was clutching at his neck as though trying to remove a noose, and as his arms came away he caught sight of the evil black ropes tattooed on his skin.
He cast around in the dim light, automatically seeking out Arran. The fire was down to embers, and Weed could only just make out the lump of Arran’s shape filling his bed. Soft, snuffly snores indicated he was asleep.
Weed slumped back into his sheepskins, sulking. Arran hadn’t even slightly stirred at his awakening. Couldn’t he smell distress, or some shit? Why were his strong furry arms absent this time?
Weed grimaced in the gloom. How pathetic of him. Did he expect the Wulver to save him from his dreams, now?
The air turned cold and Weed struggled to get comfortable again, having lost all his warmth when he’d kicked the covers off. He remembered how warm Arran’s arms were, and how cosy it had been to sleep by his side that one time.
Weed felt for the honeysuckle outside the cave and mentally tugged on it, without much enthusiasm. Even if he could beckon it this far inside, there was no way a single creeper would be strong enough to hold Arran down for a ride.
How to get into the wolfman’s bed, if Weed wasn’t able to shag him?
Maybe I could ask.
What a stupid idea.
Still, there was an inviting simplicity to it. But could Weed really expect to slide into the Wulver’s bed asking for something as childish as snuggles without offering anything in return?
He thought back to the old lady on the cliffs. Arran thought things didn’t have to be transactional. But they always did, in the end.
Didn’t they?
Weed watched the gentle rise and fall of the Wulver’s form. He longed for large, secure arms to surround him. To have that massive body curled around his back, like a great furry wall against the world.
Maybe he’ll let me give him a hand job, or something, Weed thought, tiptoeing across the cave. It would hardly be an arduous task on his part.
He’d barely touched the skins of the Wulver’s bed when a leathery palm snapped around his wrist. Arran’s eyes glowed like true amber in the ember light.
‘What’s wrong?’ the Wulver demanded. Only the slightest slur betrayed he was groggy from sleep.
Weed hesitated. He was on the verge of spitting out a malicious quip and abandoning the whole endeavour. But the honest concern in Arran’s gaze stopped him.
‘I want to sleep next to you,’ he mumbled back. Then he scrunched his nose and stuck his chin out, galled by the pitiable tone of his voice. He added, ‘If you think you can keep your beastly desires in check, that is.’
The Wulver’s keen eyes observed him for a moment longer. Then he lifted the topmost sheepskin and beckoned Weed inside.
Weed scrambled in. He was delighted to discover that Arran had removed his awful hoodie and was, at least from the waist up, all fur. Rolling onto his side, Weed gleefully wriggled closer to feel the shaggy fleece of the wolfman’s chest sweeping against his back.
He felt Arran tense and ceased his movements. ‘Don’t worry, wolfie. I’m only here to sleep. Unless you want anything else from me while I’m here…’
He received a growl in response, which he was learning could be as much an indication of excitement as of aggravation on Arran’s part. Weed stuck out his ass for good measure and grinned as Arran’s growl abruptly stopped. The wolfman appeared to be holding his breath.
That’s right, Weed thought. Keep on pretending you’re civilised.
The thought of Arran wanting him so badly and fighting so hard not to show it was an enormous turn-on. Having seen how wild he could be when he let his animal urges surface… Weed craved a repeat of that savage sex. To lose himself again in the violence of it. In the raw honesty of it.
Blood rushed to his dick at the memory. Weed was too tired and too comfortable in Arran’s arms to do anything about it, but he was amused to think that the Wulver could probably smell his arousal. That the wolfman’s entire body was highly strung with Weed next to it. He wiggled his ass a little more, hoping to provoke the answering shape of Arran’s dick.
It was just so much fun to rile him up. Not in the way it had been fun to piss off Logan— that had been a matter of mental survival, of effecting some tiny act of control in a situation where Weed had none at all.
With Arran, Weed discovered genuine pleasure in testing him. In watching him squirm. In fantasising about what might happen if he snapped.
‘Weed,’ Arran snarled in warning.
Despite the snarl, Weed noted the gentleness of it and that, as usual, it was not followed by any orders. Arran was so fucking careful. It made Weed long for him to be not careful. To say what he really wanted. To have Weed do what he really wanted.
Wow. Was he actually wishing for Arran to command him?
To own him, maybe?
Now that was fucking wild .
‘Just getting comfy,’ Weed said, all innocence. And he was, truly, comfy. Arran’s fur tickled his nose as he turned his head, meeting bicep on the way. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
Arran’s long chin came to rest over his head, and Weed felt the deep vibration of his voice shiver pleasantly across his skull. ‘No.’
Just as well, seeing as I can’t go anywhere, Weed chuckled inwardly.
He hadn’t entertained the thought of freedom for a long time, but now it skipped sneakily across his drowsy mind. Where would he even go, if he could? His grove was out of the question—it didn’t belong to him any more. And as for his former consort… Weed would prefer to exist in a realm entirely separate from that betrayal.
He would choose somewhere green. Maybe somewhere that would allow him to feel soft again, instead of coarse and spiky.
He wriggled deeper into the Wulver’s fur, eyelids heavy.
‘I’ve been thinking…’ Weed announced sleepily. ‘… I’d call myself Moss.’
Arran grunted in surprise and began to ask a follow-up question—but Weed had already sunk into a deep, peaceful sleep.