Page 21 of The Wulver's Bond
It churned his gut, to think a creature as menacing as the Wulver would pity him. That was why the beast hadn’t struck him yet—he considered Weed a weakling, not evenworthyof the abuse.
That’s a poor attempt at a lie,said a tiny voice inside his head.Not even a child would fall for that one.
A sob threatened to rise in Weed’s throat, so he swallowed it back down. Did the Wulver pity the old woman? How could a creature so menacing go so far out of his way to deliver fish in exchange for old batteries and rotten fruit?
And, for a creature so menacing, how was his temperament so kind, and gentle? It had been weeks now and Weed hadn’t been commanded to do anything nasty or to hurt anyone, and he’d spent whole afternoons simply lying in the company of willow trees. The land here was barren but it wasresilient, and Weed could spend the rest of his life living this way in something almost approaching happiness, almost approaching peace, if the Wulver was really the mild-mannered soul he seemed to be.
Weed could just imagine how Elsie would scoff at such a notion. Not just at Weed’s fantasy of a quiet life, but at the idea of a life with the Wulver being peaceful. And yet it didn’t seem too far from possibility.
Honestly, how someone as placid as Arran had survived against Elsie was a downright miracle. If she could’ve caught him unawares, perhaps levelled her crossbow while the idiot was engrossed in spearfishing or helping little old ladies…
The memory of his old master stopped Weed in his tracks. He hadn’t thought of Elsie since the day she’d died. Something cold gripped his heart as he considered what she would do with the information he was now privy to. What she would’ve killed for, to know the Wulver’s whereabouts and routines. Which river he fished in. Which windowsills he frequented.
The Wulver halted beside him, ears flattening against his head. ‘What’s wrong this time?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You are pale.’
‘I’m naturally pale!’ Weed shoved past him, wanting to put distance between them again.
His pulse skittered in his throat like a nervy mouse. For some reason his lungs weren’t working properly. The air bounced in and out of them in hasty gasps. Visions of a life on this barren coastline warred with memories of slogging through other harsh terrain, following in Elsie’s footsteps with Logan kicking himviciously from behind. It was all too much. He wanted the Wulver to give him an order. It was so much simpler to exist under orders.
Elsie’s shadow fell over him—except it wasn’t hers, but Arran’s. The Wulver’s hand landed on Weed’s shoulder, pulling him to a halt. And then two solid arms folded around him, pinning his back against the wolfman’s chest.
‘Breathe,’ the Wulver growled softly in his ear. ‘You are safe. You can breathe.’
It was as close to an order as Weed needed, and his lungs obeyed with relief. He sucked in shaky gulps of air, wondering why the fuck his body was trembling.
‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ he croaked.
‘It may be what humans call a panic attack.’ The Wulver’s steady breathing huffed against his ear, and Weed found his own inhalations began to slow down to match it. ‘Your sc—… I mean, it is obvious you are feeling fear.’
Weed found himself relaxing, leaning into the warmth of the Wulver’s hoodie. ‘Obvious? Did your nose tell you that?’
Arran’s body was so firm, and so warm. Weed felt the urge to snuggle into him.
The Wulver’s body,Weed corrected himself.And no snuggling the stupid, considerate wolfman.
The Wulver gave a hesitant rumble from his throat. ‘People do not often enjoy being told what they smell like.’
‘Mmm.’ Weed hadn’t meant his response to sound like a moan, but it did. He couldn’t help it, this just felt sogood. Weed turned without thinking, twisting in the Wulver’s embrace so that his face was smooshed against the wolfman’s torso.
He desperately wanted to shove his hands under the Wulver’s hoodie and rake his fingers through the soft fur of his chest—andthattook Weed’s mind to other places, where he could hide his entire naked body under the Wulver’s, firmlypinned by these same strong arms that held him so tenderly. His dick firmed up a little, thrilled by the mere thought of it.
A peculiar, rhythmicwap-wap-wapsound captured his attention. It was the Wulver’s tail, wagging furiously. The Wulver himself had gone stiff as a board.
Weed poked his chest. ‘You okay, there, wolfie?’
The Wulver’s eyes seemed to unglaze and he glanced down at their feet. ‘There are some… roots?’
A weave of pale grass roots was steadily winding around both their legs. Weed cursed himself. It was completely accidental—the roots were simply responding to his pathetic desire to cuddle. His desire to latch on to Arran, to hold him tight by root and bough.
Weed cringed, slinking out of the Wulver’s arms. ‘Oh. Don’t worry, they won’t hurt you.’ The roots snagged on his legs as he stepped away.
The Wulver lifted one foot, carefully prising the hair-like tendrils off his ankle without breaking them. ‘What are they doing?’
Weed crossed his arms as a flush of heat spread through his cheeks. ‘Just… being friendly.’ He hurriedly bid the roots back into the soil. The Wulver raised an eyebrow but didn’t pursue the comment. He was still watching Weed with an air of caution.
