Page 18 of The Wulver's Bond
A protective impulse shivered over Arran. Perhaps his frustration with Weed was unfair. The fae creature was learning how to live without being under the rule of someone else. Of course he was continually testing boundaries.
For the first time, Arran wanted to sweep Weed up in a hug. To reassure him that he was no slave here, that he would never be used again.
But of course, that wasn’t really the truth, was it? How must Weed feel, knowing that at any moment Arran’s mood might swing, that he could choose to take Weed’s control away from him on a whim? Arran had done exactly that, just now.
No wonder Weed’s natural reaction to everything was impudence. It was probably the only act of rebellion he’d ever had available to him.
‘We shall find a way to free you,’ Arran promised quietly. Weed seemed to shuffle away from the words themselves. Did Weed not believe his intentions? Maybe all promises rang false after eighty years of servitude.
Arran huffed, lightening his tone. ‘You are a nuisance, and I shall be glad to be rid of you. Until then, I’m sure you will find many new ways to exasperate me. But your time is your own here, and I shall not dictate how you spend it.’
There didn’t seem to be much more he could say. Weed would either believe him, or he wouldn’t, and Arran had no power to change that.
He withdrew to sit by the fire, giving Weed some space. His ears pricked to the sound of Weed sitting on one of the wooden stools and dragging his spoon through the bowl of stew.
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ Weed asked.
‘I must run an important errand,’ Arran replied. He winced, realising he was already contradicting his previous words. ‘It requires some travel, and I appreciate that you will have no choice but to follow me. I hope you will tell me if you become tired, or cold, or otherwise uncomfortable.’
Weed snorted into his stew. ‘Whatever.’
The rest of the evening passed with no further words between them, and Weed retired to his sheepskins even earlier than the night before. Arran slept dreamlessly, though he woke several times with the phantom feeling of a chain tugging at his neck.
The next morning dawned blustery and overcast. Arran frowned first at the weather, and then at Weed’s attire. His short-sleeved T-shirt and pocketed vest was no match for Shetland’s northern climate, even in summer.
Arran growled to himself and dug out a storage basket from under the workbench.
‘Is this your wardrobe?’ Weed asked with amusement, watching him pull out old items of clothing.
Arran spread them over the floor for Weed to see. ‘Please, take your pick. You will fare better if you are dressed warmly.’
Weed poked through the odd assortment with open incredulity. Arran only collected new clothing when he had outworn his previous apparel, so much of what he had to offer was littered with holes or unravelling at the seams. They were kept for rags, and he felt bad that this was all he could offer Weed.
Weed’s eyes lit up. He pulled an item from the bottom of the pile. It was an Edwardian frock coat, made of now thread-bare velvet in what was once a deep, rich green. Arran remembered it well—it had never quite fit right, being too small across the chest, so he’d always had to wear it open. As such, he’d only ever used it as an overcoat, thrown on top of other layers in particularly inclement weather.
Weed pulled it on and twirled on the spot. The coat flapped merrily around his legs, and for a moment he looked genuinely joyful.
‘When did you ever have a reason to wear this fancy article?’ Weed asked, twirling back in the other direction. ‘Bit grand for you, isn’t it?’
Arran chuckled. ‘Yes, it is. It was gifted to me by a gentleman whose wife I saved.’
‘Saved from what?’
‘She fell from a cliff, and I caught her.’
Weed’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what, these people were totally cool with meeting a giant werewolf monster?’
Arran huffed another laugh, deciding to overlook the werewolf jibe. ‘Actually, they were looking for me. Not manypeople know the name of the Wulver today, but a hundred years ago the island folk knew enough to stir the curiosity of visitors. The man and his wife were holidaying here, and she was an enthusiast of folklore, thinking to prove my existence.’
Weed stroked the velvet, running the lapels through his fingers. ‘What were their names?’
Arran shrugged. ‘I do not know. I did not ask.’
‘No wonder you’re such a loner, wolfie,’ Weed scoffed. He buttoned the coat, which was double-breasted with three rows of brocaded buttons. One of the buttons was hanging loose, and Arran made a note to fix it for Weed later.
‘I will prepare us some food for the journey,’ Arran told him. Weed nodded, still distracted by the coat. Arran smiled privately and left Weed to it.
It was good to see Weed smiling in a way that was not derisive or deceitful. Arran felt the urge to tease that smile out of him again, to provide for Weed in a way that could satisfy his soul.
