Page 22 of The Wulver's Bond
‘What?’ Weed said, aiming for his usual sullen tone but missing by a mile of self-consciousness.
‘It has been a strenuous few days for you,’ the Wulver replied—unnecessarily cryptic, Weed thought. ‘In hindsight, only natural that it should have been so… emotional. Perhaps you should rest tomorrow.’
‘Watch it, wolfie,’ Weed warned. ‘I’m not emotional. And this is the least strenuous day I’ve had in years.’
‘Hmm. Are you ready to continue?’
Weed squared his shoulders. ‘Obviously.’ He paused. ‘Which way?’
The Wulver pointed eastward down a slope. In the fading light, Weed could just make out the edge of the ravine. ‘We are not far. And please—stop calling me wolfie.’
‘Is that an order?’
The Wulver faltered. ‘No.’
‘All right, then. After you, wolfie.’
Chapter Eight
Once home, Arran immediately excused himself to the larder, ostensibly to prepare dinner. He heard Weed collapse onto his nest of fleeces and begin to hum a tuneless melody—another of his grating habits.
Arran clutched his head, afflicted by a deep headache that Weed was both the cause of and not responsible for.
How profoundly soothing it had been, to hold Weed close for the briefest of moments. Such a different kind of warmth compared to simply carrying an unconscious body. To feel Weed’s smaller frame lean readily into his own, without fear or repulsion for his wolfishness. Even the best of Arran’s human friends, when he had them, tended to always retain an air of caution in his company.
That was something almost endearing about Weed. Despite having literally hunted Arran, once he was free of Elsie, Weed gave no sense of discrimination against him. Arran was certain that Weed would have been equally antagonistic to a human master as to an utterly monstrous one. What fear he’d shown so far seemed to stem from Weed’s expectations of Arran as an owner, rather than any inherent fear of Arran himself.
Arran knew this was nothing to be proud of, but it was refreshing to be looked so brazenly in the eye by Weed. Refreshing, even, to be taunted by him. And flirted with—even if that was entirely meant in mockery.
And there, of course, was the real heart of Arran’s ailment.
With his finely tuned nose and sense of hearing, Arran received every signal Weed sent his way, including the unintentional ones. During his panic attack, Weed’s whiplash shift from panic to calm to aroused caught Arran in the crossfire. With Weed getting excited while in his arms, Arran’s number one priority suddenly became restraining his inner beast from burying its snout in Weed’s neck and inhaling deeply.
Things only got worse after they returned to the cave. Weed’s scent waseverywhere. It had been building in the back of Arran’s mind for days, like an intangible pressure, as Weed spread hishim-nessall over Arran’s things, picking up his tools and thumbing through his books, sharing his warmth and breathing his air.
Arran grabbed a jar of pickled fish from a shelf and stuck his nose over it. Anything to drown out Weed for a single minute.
‘What’s for dinner, wolfie?’ Weed called from the other chamber.
Arran stared into the shadows of the rock ceiling, thrown by the light of a solar lantern. Was there no escape?
‘Fish,’ he grunted, screwing the lid back onto the jar.
Arran moved back into the living chamber expecting to find Weed still lolling on his bed, but instead the nosy fae was picking grass figurines off the shelves. Fur prickled down Arran’s spine, irked by Weed touching yet more of his things.
‘What are these for?’ Weed asked, holding up two woven humanoid figures.
Arran’s headache intensified.
‘They are… keepsakes,’ he replied, knowing his tone was surly. ‘Reminders. Of people I’ve known and places I’ve been.’
Weed examined the two in his hand. They were hard to tell apart, a mere twist of difference in the hair, a suggestion of skirton one and a little basket carried by the other. ‘Who are these two, then?’
Family.
‘Long dead,’ Arran said gruffly. He wasn’t in the mood to explain the grim history they chronicled. ‘Come over here and eat, if it pleases you. It’s been a long day and shall take even longer to get the fire hot, so cold pickles and smoked fish are our choice for tonight.’
‘Such refined cuisine.’ Weed gave the pair of figurines a final glance before replacing them on the shelf. He slunk into a space under Arran’s arm and plucked up the jar of pickled fish. ‘You miss ’em?’
