3. Chapter 3 #2
“Something small would’ve done,” Lance said, though his stomach growled, ratting him out.
The carrots he’d swiped off a stable horse hadn’t held him.
He sat at the table and spotted the can of creme soda beside an empty glass.
A laugh escaped him. “Either your memory’s that good, or you like creme soda as much as I do. ”
“My memory’s that good, and I hate the stuff.” Roman turned, and whatever he’d meant to say died when he saw Lance in his clothes. The tongs creaked in his grip. He just stared, and Lance felt the weight of the look land on him like a hand.
“Uh huh. Then why’s it in your fridge? Oh, wait.
” Lance snapped his fingers. “Merritt liked it, didn’t he?
” It came out light, but there were years under it.
His nostrils flared at the alpha’s scent drifting over.
He cleared his throat and looked around the place.
“You’ve got a sweet deal here. Nice place, strong pack, good money.
You’re a hot-as-hell alpha, so why haven’t you got some sweet omega in your bed and at your side? ”
“Loner, remember?” Why did that ring hollow with Lance when it rang true with his brother?
“What about you? You’re hot as hell,” he shot back.
“If I’d met you in some bar, I’d say anything, do anything, to get you back to my den with me.
” The only thing holding him off now was that you didn’t take advantage of a guest under your roof.
Especially one with nowhere else to go. Hospitality was one of the few pack traditions Roman had never been willing to break.
Lance took a long pull of the creme soda and smacked his lips.
“With my bloodline, I’m not a hot commodity.
Not with an expiration date under three years out.
But I’d probably say yes to a tumble with you.
Might’ve had a crush on you, back when we were kids.
You were fearless, and funny, and you treated me like pack even while you called me Rat. ”
“Rat.” Memories rose and filled the space between them.
“That was because you were always nibbling on something, and you hung around the stable,” he said, half-smiling, and made himself turn back to the food.
He flipped the steak, which did nothing for the tension winding tighter in him.
“Bloodlines are a stupid way to measure a person. Full-blooded wolves go into wolf-rage too. Why are half-bloods the only ones who get punished for it even before they actually...?”
Lance’s eyes clouded. “You know the stats.”
Roman said nothing.
“Ninety-five to ninety-eight percent of unmated half-bloods like me lose their minds between puberty and twenty-five.” Wishing the odds were better was a waste, and waiting for a soulmate to walk in and save him was something he only did in dreams. “Wolf-rage isn’t that common, and it doesn’t last. We don’t get that.
Once we break, there’s no mending us. Not with a mate, not with anything. And what we leave behind...”
He went quiet a moment, then looked back at Roman, softer now. “But hey, you’re not treating me like a time bomb. It’s... it’s good to just be Lance for a night, not a half-blood statistic.”
Roman set the platter of steaks down, his hands steady.
“I’ve heard there are elixirs that might help.
Let me look into it.” He uncovered the potatoes and salad and met Lance’s eyes, his own steady and certain.
“And after that I’m taking you to a matchmaker, a real one, great track record.
You find your soulmate, you’re saved. Problem solved.
” Something crossed Roman’s face as he said it, there and gone.
“Full-bloods don’t mate half-bloods unless they’ve gone completely nuts,” Lance scoffed. “And no matchmaker’s risking their reputation on me.”
“Then the elixirs...”
“Elixirs are b.s.” He pulled the plate closer and breathed in. He wasn’t sure what smelled better, the steak or Roman, and given how hungry he was, that was saying something. “You know what isn’t b.s.? Bedlam.”
“Bedlam? Are you out of your mind?” Roman started to surge up, then made himself sit.
“Not yet.”
Roman’s mouth tightened. “Not funny.”
“Maybe. Still true. Word is one of the roving gates to Bedlam is north of here this time of year. That’s where I’m headed. I might not have much shot at keeping my sanity, but I’m not sitting around waiting for the Venators’ axe. I won’t.” He started spooning out salad and potatoes.
The stubborn set of Lance’s jaw made Roman wish he could just order him to drop it.
But Lance wasn’t pack and owed him no obedience.
He’d have to make him see reason instead.
“Listen, the Venators don’t come for you unless all hope’s gone.
You’re fine. Better than fine. Bedlam is lawless, it’s deadly.
What’s the point of running there to escape Venator justice when... ”
“Until...”
“Unless,” Roman ground out, “you actually go mad. You’re safe till then. You might not last a day in Bedlam. Your life would be hell every day until your twenty-fifth birthday, even if the madness never came.”
“You really think the Venators wait for a half-blood to crack? That’s cute, Romy.
I had a job once. An apartment. Worked with humans.
Then one day a full-blood caught my scent, and just like that I’m running from the ‘nats, hiding in hay bales in somebody’s stable.
” He smirked and cut into the rare steak, mouth watering.
“And yeah, for now I’ve lost them, or I wouldn’t be sitting here having a great meal with you. ”
“Stay here. With me. I won’t let anyone touch you.”
Warmth went through Lance at the fierce protectiveness in it.
He’d missed that. He’d miss it again soon.
But however much Roman wanted to protect him, to hand him a few real years, Lance couldn’t stand what it would take from Roman to do it.
“Your brother, the pack, they’ll never agree.
The danger I’d put you in. And they’d be right.
It would gut me if the craze took me and I hurt you, or worse.
I can’t. Won’t. Risk you, Roman.” He swallowed.
“I’ll head north after dinner, once my clothes are clean and dry. You’ll get a proper goodbye this time.”
Roman’s hand shot out and closed around Lance’s wrist, possessive, near desperate.
“I can defend myself. From the pack, the Venators, from you if the madness ever comes,” he growled, the wild edge of him surfacing.
“After everything you’ve told me, I’m not letting you go off alone.
It’s a three-day drive to the gate, and you’re not making it by yourself. ” There was no give in it.
Lance twisted his wrist free and caught Roman’s hand instead. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Always so chivalrous, Romy. If you won’t let me go alone, then come with me. Send me off to Bedlam with a kiss and a blade.”
That barely-there brush of his lips had no business kicking up his pulse the way it did.
“A kiss.” Roman leaned in until their mouths were a hair's breadth apart. “And a blade.” The words hung there, full of promise. “In some circles that’d be taken as an invitation.” His voice dropped, his hand coming up to cup Lance’s jaw, his thumb at the corner of Lance’s mouth.
“Yes. I’ll take you. I’ll take your kiss.
And as for the blade...” He bent and dragged his nose slow up the side of Lance’s neck, breathing him in, and Lance forgot how to want anything that wasn’t this.
“That, I’ll give you. Though mine stays sheathed.
For now.” He sat back, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth, and left Lance trying to remember there’d been a question on the table, let alone a cooling meal.