Chapter Fifteen
W hile Arran carried Moss down to the best point in the river for bathing, he kept a keen ear and nose on Moss’s demeanour. The sour odour of anxiety had left him and his pulse was normal—relaxed, even.
This was a stark contrast to earlier, when Moss had more or less had a full-blown panic attack while seated on Arran’s cock.
Until that point, the beast in him had approved greatly of satiating its desire to dominate Moss. To rule his body without restraint, even if his limbs were restrained.
Arran drank in each of Moss’s forced orgasms and thrilled over his euphoric scent. He would keep Moss in blissed-out subjugation for as long as his body held up to it.
But when Moss’s panic hit, the beast pulled back immediately. Protect, it snarled. Defend.
It was still snarling in the back of Arran’s mind as he walked to the river. It wanted to know who had betrayed Moss’s trust. Who had hurt him with such everlasting influence?
Elsie was one, certainly. Arran almost wished she wasn’t dead, so that he could have the satisfaction of killing her again for every wrong she had inflicted on the tender creature in his arms.
But there was also another, even darker part of him pondering Moss’s breakdown. The part that secretly relished it. Moss had asked to be unmade. And he’d totally unravelled under Arran’s command.
Arran suppressed a loathsome quiver of arousal—now was not the time. He’d jumped so fast at Moss’s request to be used. Hadn’t given any thought to the implications of it. He’d promised Moss he would never hurt him.
Arran reached the river, stopping at a point where it was narrow but the perfect depth and flow for bathing. He waded in, up to his waist, and Moss unfolded from his arms with a sigh. He’d kept his coat on, and it fanned out around him on the placid current as he sank into the cool water.
‘Your island’s not got a lot going for it,’ Moss said as he scooped water in his hands, ‘but the rivers sure are hella pure, wolfie.’
‘There are not many wild places left in the world,’ Arran said sombrely. ‘I like to think my small ravine is one of them.’
Moss ducked under and resurfaced with a gasp. Droplets caught the light in his auburn hair before cascading over his contented face. ‘Is that why you chose to live way out here? You hate people or something?’ He paused in scouring his arms. ‘I don’t get why you visit that old biddy on the cliffs if you don’t want to see anyone.’
‘I don’t hate people,’ Arran huffed, raking water through his pelt. ‘Quite the opposite, really. But I seem to cause trouble when I am around them. And, well… there is no place for creatures like me in the world, these days.’
Moss hummed and a sly smirk twisted his mouth. Arran was glad to see it—anxious melancholy didn’t suit Moss at all. He’d accept whatever barb it meant was headed his way.
‘What kind of trouble, then?’ Moss asked, and Arran instantly saw where he was going with it. ‘The shagging kind? Can’t keep your beastly ways to yourself?’
Moss’s eyes dropped to the level of Arran’s cock, which he was grateful was obscured by the water, however clear it was.
Arran contemplated an answer while Moss leered at him. It was not a subject he was keen to reopen. It contained too much grief and guilt, and he hated the thought of burdening Moss with it. But, then again, perhaps Moss deserved to know. Maybe it would lessen his load a little, to understand what company he was keeping in Arran.
A splash of water hit him in the snout.
‘Come on, wolfie,’ Moss jeered, sending another wave at Arran. ‘You look so pensive. Is it really so serious?’
‘Yes,’ Arran replied, before sweeping a great surge of water at Moss.
The wave smacked Moss clean in the face and rolled over his head. He re-emerged spluttering and laughing. ‘Is that the best you can do, old dog?’
Moss went for another feeble splash but was caught by Arran tackling him round the middle. They both plunged into the cleansing cold and surfaced with Arran holding Moss close to him.
Moss’s small frame fit so nicely in his arms. His slender fingers worked into Arran’s wet fur, tickling the flesh beneath. ‘Mmm,’ Moss sighed against him.
Arran nosed the crook of Moss’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. ‘To be quite clear, it was only one person. Who I shagged, as you put it. But yes, from that, all the trouble stems.’
‘ One? ’ Moss’s incredulous cry bounced off the rocks. ‘What about all the wolf pups and werewolves? You telling me those stories aren’t true?’
‘They are mostly true.’
Arran drifted to the shallows near the bank and sat, pulling Moss down into his lap. The water rolled pleasantly over their thighs.
‘Her name was Flòraidh,’ Arran said, resting his chin on Moss’s head.
‘Is this about to get all gloomy?’ Moss asked suspiciously.
Oh.
Arran suppressed the heavy-heartedness this imparted. He had no right to be disappointed that Moss didn’t want to hear about it. Moss had been through enough already. ‘No. I needn’t go into details. It is not a pleasant story, anyway.’
He watched the water swirl around them, two silent boulders in its path. Moss fidgeted in his lap, perhaps working up to say something, but he never did. Despite the sun, Arran could feel Moss’s body temperature dropping.
‘We should go inside. You need to warm up by the fire,’ Arran told him.
Moss shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’ He scrambled out of the river and shook himself off, much like a dog, then looked back expectantly at Arran.
Arran froze, caught as he was about to do exactly as Moss predicted. His fur was clogged with water, and shaking it out was truly the most efficient way of expelling it. Moss was grinning like a brat.
‘I will dry in the sun,’ Arran muttered, tramping past him. He led the way home, soggy and uncomfortable in his wet fur, and trying desperately not to wag his tail.
* * *
Arran made sure to give Moss plenty of space after that. Definitely because he was being respectful of Moss’s space, and not because he spent nearly every waking minute thinking about Moss’s leash around his throat.
The feeling of being collared had been downright intoxicating—and the beast in him had despised it. Which meant it wanted to punish Moss. It coveted Moss. Desired to push him to within an inch of his sanity. To own Moss just as he threatened to own Arran.
Arran took more cold dips in the river than usual for the next few days.
He also began to leave his hoodie in its basket when he rose each morning. If he were living alone, this would have been the normal state of affairs anyway, Arran reasoned. He was far more comfortable with nothing rubbing against the fur on his torso.
The fact that Moss clearly appreciated this change had nothing to do with it.
Moss seemed at peace, at least. He spent much of his time sunbathing, or thumbing through Arran’s books. When Arran requested that they visit his friend on the cliffs, Moss agreed with no hesitation.
‘Who is she, anyway?’ Moss asked, picking flowers on the way. ‘You never told me her name.’
‘I do not know her name.’
Moss gave a snort of disbelief. ‘What? How can you call her a friend, then?’
Arran shrugged. ‘You do not need to know your neighbour’s name in order to be kind to them.’
‘That’s wild, wolfie.’
When Arran slunk off to place his parcel on the old woman’s windowsill, Moss added his bouquet of flowers to it. ‘Probably no one gives her flowers,’ he said tersely, though a tinge of pink graced his cheeks as he looked away from Arran’s smile.
‘She will appreciate them.’
It seemed that she did. Her frail voice faltered on inspecting the parcel. ‘Flowers, today? You gone soft, old man.’ It was followed by a light laugh, which for a moment made her sound young again.
On the long hike home, Arran let Moss open the bag she’d left out for them.
‘Worse than last time,’ Moss said, with amusement rather than scorn. He pulled out the items for Arran to see, one by one. ‘Three buttons, a shoelace, an open packet of lemon bonbons—ooh, those look nice actually—and… half an onion?’
Moss shook the bag to double check, but nothing else fell out.
‘She does what she can, and I wouldn’t ask for more,’ Arran reminded him.
‘Yeah, but… I mean… Is she okay?’ Moss’s expression grappled with a mix of alarm and concern, like it was a foreign emotion he wasn’t used to outwardly expressing. ‘Is her mind all there, you know what I mean?’
Arran’s tail drooped. ‘No, I do not think she is well. People change with age. She has lost much of her acuity in recent years.’
He watched Moss carefully from the corner of his eyes. Eventually Moss said, ‘That’s sad.’
‘Yes. It is.’
Arran had watched it happen to countless others. Friends who had been sharp-witted and wise turned slow and quiet. No matter how strong they were in youth, frailty would eventually claim them. It happened to all humans, in the end, if they lived long enough.
As the afternoon wore on, the air became muggy and gained a dense kind of pressure to it. It clogged their throats, and Moss asked to stop for water several times. In the distance, dark clouds gathered over the ocean. Arran raised his snout, assessing the unusually warm breeze.
‘It is likely to storm soon,’ he said. ‘We must hurry back to make preparations.’
The angry clouds drew much closer to the island over the course of their journey. Moss sensed Arran’s urgency and skipped to keep pace with him rather than dragging his heels. Once they were home, Arran spent the remaining hours of daylight ferrying items between his network of storage caves.
If he were alone, he wouldn’t be quite so concerned about being caught in a storm. Arran knew he was capable of enduring a cold cave for weeks on end, that he could survive on hard tack for every meal, and even brave the storm itself if he really needed to top up any supplies.
But with Moss in his care, he daren’t let his cave go unwarmed, or his larder unfilled.
He hadn’t let on about this to Moss, but having a fire lit every day was an extreme luxury on an island with so few trees for firewood. Arran was acutely aware that Moss didn’t have the same resistances as he—and even if he did, Arran was loathe to suggest Moss tolerate anything short of absolute comfort while in his home.
One of Arran’s caves was filled with coppiced firewood from past seasons, and an ancient stockpile of coal that he’d been slowly picking at for over a hundred years. He gathered baskets of each and stowed them in the living cave. Next, he visited the smoke-cave and retrieved every morsel from its hanging station over the embers. For a final trip to the river, Moss helped him refill the barrel of water from the larder and a few extra containers for good measure.
‘You think this storm’s gonna be that drastic?’ Moss asked, his gaze sliding from Arran to the approaching black clouds. ‘How long do you expect us to be holed up in there?’
‘Hopefully just a day or two,’ Arran reassured. ‘But it is always best to prepare for the worst.’
The first rain hit the island that evening. Arran and Moss feasted on a warming seaweed stew while sounds of violence echoed down the passage from the outside world. The battering rain made for an incessant intruder, multiplying and amplifying with each bounce off the cave walls.
Moss didn’t seem spooked by it, at least. ‘I can hear the joy of the plants,’ he said mildly. ‘We are always happy when it rains.’
‘What about when there is too much rain?’ Arran asked. ‘Won’t they be drowned? Suffocated?’
Moss stared at him for several seconds too long. Something about Arran’s comment had put him on edge. ‘Sure. I guess.’
Then Moss retreated to his sheepskins, and didn’t talk to Arran again for the rest of the night.