Page 24 of The Wulver's Bond
The eyes blinked, refocusing on the fish. A long, sleek shape with a pointed face emerged, nose-first, and sniffed the offering. Its head was topped by soft, rounded ears and covered in short brown fur except for its brow and muzzle, which were creamy white. A female polecat.
She took a large mouthful of fish and gulped it down. Then she chittered at Weed before grabbing the largest morsel in her delicate jaws and disappeared over the rocks.
‘You’re welcome,’ Weed murmured. He placed a hand on the earth and followed the polecat’s trail by the tap of her paws over plant stems. She squeezed into an underground burrow. Inside, Weed felt the jostling movements of tiny bodies against the soil. A litter of kits.
Weed rested his chin on his hands with a sigh. How wonderful to cultivate life rather than snuff it out, for a change.
His mood took a sudden nosedive. Elsie’s influence. The mere thought of her earlier in the day had left a sour taste in his mouth, a black pall clinging to his head containing every order she’d made him follow. Every monster—creature—person—she’d forced Weed to help her capture or kill.
Weed coiled a vine of honeysuckle around his wrist, matching the rope tattoo. Even in death, Elsie still held power over him. Wasn’t that why his body had panicked? Because it recognised the threat of her residing in his thoughts.
Arran had chased her away. What did it matter to the Wulver, if Weed’s body malfunctioned? It was one thing to keep Weed fed and clothed, but to add genuine compassion into the mix was starting to take the piss. Weed was even at risk oflikingthe wolfman, for goodness’ sake.
Weed threw the rest of his fish into the shadows for the polecat and other small beasts to profit from. He stood and stretched, then found himself staring at his empty plate.
Not everything is a transaction.
‘It’s just food for animals,’ Weed muttered to himself. ‘Won’t catch me proving you right.’
He sauntered back into the main cave, pointedly ignoring Arran for no reason. The Wulver was unperturbed and didn’t look up from his task by the fire.
‘Who were you talking to?’
Weed froze. He turned on the spot, glaring at the back of Arran’s head. Thoseears.‘No one,’ Weed replied snottily. ‘Just plants.’
‘I expected as much.’ Arran poked the embers. Amusement tinged his voice. ‘It is a struggle to survive in a place like this. There are many creatures that would be grateful of a gift to help them along.’
Weed’s face flashed hot.You smug, sanctimonious prick.
You considerate, charitable fucking prick.
Hating that he’d been caught red-handed, Weed snatched a book at random and slumped onto his fleece pile in sulking silence. He thumbed through the pages, pretending to read but actually mentally undressing the Wulver over the top of it.
The wolfman wasn’t doing anything particularly exhilarating. If anything, it was much the opposite: Arran was scrubbing out the big cauldron he used for stew, sat cross-legged by the hearth with the pot in front of him. He looked peaceful, yet intent on his work, which meant his brow was furrowed in a way Weed was beginning to find endearing.
The sharp ache of arousal stirred low in Weed’s abdomen. His dick filled insistently.
You really have a thing for domestic chores, don’t you?Weed thought, raising an eyebrow at his crotch. It rubbed uncomfortably against the metal zipper as he shifted position.
Weed continued watching the Wulver over his book and noted with satisfaction the way his broad shoulders suddenly stiffened.Smell me, can you?
But if Arran was aware of Weed’s condition he didn’t comment on it, and resumed scrubbing in silence. Meanwhile, Weed was recalling the feeling of the Wulver’s arms hugging him tightly. How strong they’d been. How close and safe he felt. How much he’d wanted them to do so, so much more.
His dick burned hotter, bucking involuntarily in its confines. The friction made Weed hiss. He cast another glance at the Wulver, who was still paying no attention to him.
Well, if the wolfman was going to act like he didn’t exist, then there was no harm in dealing with his ‘condition’ by himself.
Weed fumbled his trousers open and grasped his aching dick. At once his head lolled back as a long, heartfelt groan tumbled out of his throat. His dick felt fuckingrawin his fist, it was that long since it had been touched this way.
‘What are you doing?’ the Wulver’s voice croaked.
Weed looked at him hazily. The wolfman was rigid, staring at Weed’s dick like he might go for it—like a wolf for a rabbit.
‘What’s it look like?’ Weed panted. He jerked his palm in a few hasty strokes, and his body curled at the intensity of the sensation. ‘Oh, fuuuuuck.’
The Wulver was on his feet, towering over him. Weed took that image and ran with it, beating his dick furiously while locking eyes with Arran’s amber glare. A low growl reverberated in the beast’s throat, and the sound itself spurred Weed on. No going back now.
Weed grit his teeth, fighting through sensations akin to pain as he rubbed his dick sore. Tears pricked his eyes as the final gratification to his cravings refused to come. ‘Fuck,pleeease,’ he whined, squeezing his eyes shut and beating faster.
