Chapter Eighteen
T he first thing Moss did inside the cave was find something to break. He found a basket and put his foot through it, breaking the weave with a satisfying crunch. He stamped on it again, deforming the shape and splitting the fibres, until it was no longer recognisable as a basket. Just a warped, ugly, broken thing.
That was how Arran saw him. Broken. In need of fixing. Too brittle to hold onto properly, in case he broke some more.
Moss curled into his bed, angry about the tears staining his cheeks.
Well, fuck however Arran saw him. Moss knew who he was. He didn’t need some arrogant wolfman to define him. And as for all the fucking trauma? None of that baggage had to define him, either. Or, if it did, then it would be on his terms.
Driven by a flash of insight, Moss sprang from the bed and grabbed Logan’s rucksack. The radio was right where he’d left it. He turned it on and glowered at the speaker, half-expecting to hear Logan’s voice immediately. But there was only static and the blinking numbers on the screen.
He pressed the button and hissed into it. ‘Logan. I don’t care if you’re fucking there or not. Whether you can hear me or not. You don’t have any power over me now. You only ever had the power of a coward. You’re a fucking coward, Logan. If it weren’t for Elsie I could have killed you with a snap of my fucking fingers. And Elsie’s not around any more, Logan. If you’re still on this island then you better run. ’
Moss caught his breath, feeling the first signs of a panic attack stir in his chest. Fucking Logan. And Elsie. And Them. Each one still had some invisible control over his body, made it react this way just by thinking of them. Well, not fucking today.
He dropped the radio and placed his hands on his knees, breathing deeply and calmly through his nose. His heartrate dropped, and the reeling panic never came.
Moss sensed someone watching, and turned to find the soaking wet Wulver staring at him solemnly.
Arran inclined his head to the radio. ‘I heard you speaking.’
‘So, what?’
Arran shuffled closer and crouched to meet his eyes. ‘Any response?’
‘I don’t need one.’ Moss flicked the radio off and chucked it to one side. So now the Wulver knew he had the radio. Big deal. The wolfman could get as pissy about the little secret as he liked.
Of course, he should have known better by now. Arran all but ignored it.
‘Moss,’ he said softly. ‘I have not said so, but I wish you to know, in case it has crossed your mind, that I do not find you weak or powerless. I find you formidable.’
Moss blanched at the word. Not merely strong, or capable, or resilient. Formidable.
Arran nodded at the radio again. ‘I have no real power over you, either, Moss. In truth you are the one with power over me. And like Logan, I am a coward, because I am afraid of the things you could make me do.’
‘With a snap of my fingers?’ Moss sneered, but his heart wasn’t in it. His heart ached .
He closed his eyes, his thoughts and emotions all jumbled. The way he felt about Arran was so messy. It was nothing like the clear-cut devotion he’d felt for Them. He wanted to hug Arran and strangle him in equal measure. To shout in his face while folding into his arms. To hurt him and be hurt by him.
‘Moss…’
‘If you’re about to say you’re sorry then I really will hurt you,’ Moss warned. ‘Why don’t you own what you said, instead?’
It was Arran’s turn to flinch. His tongue flicked out at his lips, claws flexing. ‘You… infuriate me, Moss. You goad me and I chose to goad you back. I questioned your desires because I do not wish to face my own. I am afraid of hurting you because I want to hurt you.’
‘Good start. But you’re so wrapped up in this “I don’t wanna hurt you” shit, wolfie. Guess what?’ Moss threw up his hands. ‘I’m fucking hurt. I’m as damaged as they come. If we both want the same thing then why are you still shying the fuck away?’
Moss realised he’d lost track of exactly what they were talking about. It felt like more than just a conversation about taking Arran’s knot, or of who owned who, or of being used or hurt. It was something deeper than that.
Arran growled intently. ‘I don’t think you understand. I would own you completely, Moss. It is a soul bond, not a mere mating ritual.’ He almost reached for Moss’s hand, but pulled back again. ‘If you took my knot inside you. If you let me mark you with my teeth. It is a primal act that cannot be undone. I would never let you leave me. No weapon or magic would ever separate us. We would be bound for all eternity. Do you see?’
Never let me leave? Moss frowned, measuring the weight of the Wulver’s phrasing. The wolfman always picked his words carefully.
He looked pointedly at Arran’s dick. ‘All that for a built-in butt plug?’
Arran blinked—then chuckled, breaking some of the tension. ‘All that.’
‘That’s wild, wolfie. And you want that?’
Arran shuddered, making his fur stand on end. ‘More than anything.’
He let the admission hang in the air between them. Moss absorbed both the statement and how gravely Arran meant it.
The wolfman smoothed the fur down along his arms. ‘This is why I suggest we leave, as soon as the rain dies down, to visit the Witch of the Highlands. He may be able to break the spell that binds you to me.’
The Walker witch. Moss knew of him. Apparently he’d had some success sorting out the Loch Ness Monster, but the kid was young and breaking curses was hardly an easy thing. Moss waved his arms, flapping the sleeves down to reveal the tattoos. ‘Why bother, wolfie? He’s a helluva long way away and these chains aren’t going anywhere.’
‘We must have hope,’ Arran said firmly.
Moss’s frown deepened. ‘If it makes you feel better, I guess.’
If it would help Arran get over his ownership complex, Moss considered, then maybe it was worth going along with. At worst, he’d get to do some sight-seeing in genuinely enjoyable company, rather than being kicked along the road against his will.
In the meanwhile, it gave Moss time to consider Arran’s knot. Bound for eternity. That was heavy as fuck.
And the way Arran said it, Moss felt he meant it differently to the way his cursed chains tied them together. Because didn’t these magic tattoos also bind him to the Wulver for eternity? So long as Arran remained alive, anyway.
What would that be like?
He hadn’t fully contemplated it until now. Moss had lived from day to day, like he always used to, with no thought for the future—because under Elsie, what possible future could he hope to have?
But with Arran…
Moss imagined the years stretching before him. Years of living in this cave with the wolfman. Of their daily forages and chores weaving into the background texture of his life. Maybe moving permanently into a shared bed. Spending every night in Arran’s warm embrace.
The fuzzy, squirrelly feeling this stirred in Moss was utterly foreign. And enthralling.
Moss watched Arran clear up pots they’d knocked from the workbench. The air in the cave remained thick between them. Moss was still pissed, but the heat of his anger had died away. Now he was niggled by the sense of profound sadness apparent in the wolfman’s drooping ears and limp tail. He didn’t want to forgive Arran so quickly, but for the love of all that was green, Moss longed to reach out to him.
Arran picked up the basket Moss had broken. He carefully unbent some of its edges and inspected the holes. Moss watched him select a bundle of grass fronds and sit to mend it.
‘Why bother?’ Moss asked, peering over his shoulder. ‘You won’t get it back to how it was.’
‘That is not the aim,’ Arran said quietly, lacing a thin strip through an opening. ‘The aim is to work with the flaws. They are part of the object now.’
Moss flopped into a cross-legged position in front of him. ‘Show me how?’
Arran’s ears perked in surprise and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Surely you can simply ask your plants to weave one for you.’
‘I want to use my hands.’
I want to share this with you.
Arran passed him a new bundle of dry fronds and showed Moss how to weave a simple mat. While they worked, Arran talked about the journey to see the witch. About the food they should pack, which route they should take, where his boat was hidden far to the south.
Moss nodded along, lost in helter-skelter imaginings of his future. One with Arran in it. One without.
He knew which one he preferred.
* * *
The storm finally withdrew. Moss was glad to get out into the open air again. It had been a tense couple of days since the roundabout confrontation with Arran. Moss had the distinct feeling that Arran was treading lightly around him.
Each time Moss tried to brush against the Wulver, he pulled away. When they ate, Moss shuffled closer, and Arran seemed to shrink in on himself. So Moss kept to his own bed and cut his jibes to a minimum.
Still, the pensive gloom continued to hang over the wolfman’s head.
When the rain cleared, Moss tried to joke about it again.
‘Still thinking about your knot, old dog?’ He aimed a playful shove into Arran’s side, but it wasn’t returned.
‘There is much to prepare,’ the Wulver said distantly. ‘We must make haste.’
‘What’s the rush?’ Moss followed Arran into the pantry, where the wolfman began selecting items for his rucksack.
‘We should travel while the weather is good. If we delay until autumn it will be much colder. I would rather not drag you through ice and snow.’
‘Why not wait until next spring? Or the year after that?’ Moss leaned in the archway, twirling the hem of his coat in one hand.
Arran’s shoulders hunched a little. ‘That is too long, Moss.’
‘Too long for what? Oh, stop sighing like that.’
Arran’s mournful behaviour was getting on Moss’s nerves. He left the wolfman to his preparations and went to lie in the sun, instead. The dune willows greeted him, familiar friends now, and offered shade from the newly returned sunshine.
Moss didn’t look forward to leaving. The ravine was a secure haven, sheltered from the rest of the world. A harsh, rocky grove in an even harsher landscape—and yet, made softer for all the harshness.
He entertained the thought of tending this grove with Arran. It struck him that, if the Walker witch truly could remove his chains, then Arran might finally consider Moss free enough for his choices to have meaning.
Moss stretched his arms into the sunlight. The tattoos were a dull, faded grey.
‘I feel free right now,’ he murmured. Arran had already broken through the real shackles. The ones that had fettered his mind and made him feel powerless. Moss wasn’t powerless.
He was formidable.