Page 36 of The Wulver's Bond
His grove was snatched away. He wept while They looked on, triumphant and merciless in Their victory, in a battle Weed hadn’t realised he was meant to be fighting. He’d thought the two of them had forsaken the pointless struggle over territory. Thought they’d found a mutual understanding in their desire for peace.
Now Weed knew he’d been used.
And discarded.
Weed lurched into consciousness in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. The influence of the dream faded, retracting the sense of strangulation. Weed found he was clutching at his neck asthough trying to remove a noose, and as his arms came away he caught sight of the evil black ropes tattooed on his skin.
He cast around in the dim light, automatically seeking out Arran. The fire was down to embers, and Weed could only just make out the lump of Arran’s shape filling his bed. Soft, snuffly snores indicated he was asleep.
Weed slumped back into his sheepskins, sulking. Arran hadn’t even slightly stirred at his awakening. Couldn’t he smell distress, or some shit? Why were his strong furry arms absent this time?
Weed grimaced in the gloom. How pathetic of him. Did he expect the Wulver to save him from his dreams, now?
The air turned cold and Weed struggled to get comfortable again, having lost all his warmth when he’d kicked the covers off. He remembered how warm Arran’s arms were, and how cosy it had been to sleep by his side that one time.
Weed felt for the honeysuckle outside the cave and mentally tugged on it, without much enthusiasm. Even if he could beckon it this far inside, there was no way a single creeper would be strong enough to hold Arran down for a ride.
How to get into the wolfman’s bed, if Weed wasn’t able to shag him?
Maybe I could ask.
What a stupid idea.
Still, there was an inviting simplicity to it. But could Weed really expect to slide into the Wulver’s bed asking for something as childish as snuggles without offering anything in return?
He thought back to the old lady on the cliffs. Arran thought things didn’t have to be transactional. But they always did, in the end.
Didn’t they?
Weed watched the gentle rise and fall of the Wulver’s form. He longed for large, secure arms to surround him. To have thatmassive body curled around his back, like a great furry wall against the world.
Maybe he’ll let me give him a hand job, or something,Weed thought, tiptoeing across the cave. It would hardly be an arduous task on his part.
He’d barely touched the skins of the Wulver’s bed when a leathery palm snapped around his wrist. Arran’s eyes glowed like true amber in the ember light.
‘What’s wrong?’ the Wulver demanded. Only the slightest slur betrayed he was groggy from sleep.
Weed hesitated. He was on the verge of spitting out a malicious quip and abandoning the whole endeavour. But the honest concern in Arran’s gaze stopped him.
‘I want to sleep next to you,’ he mumbled back. Then he scrunched his nose and stuck his chin out, galled by the pitiable tone of his voice. He added, ‘If you think you can keep yourbeastlydesires in check, that is.’
The Wulver’s keen eyes observed him for a moment longer. Then he lifted the topmost sheepskin and beckoned Weed inside.
Weed scrambled in. He was delighted to discover that Arran had removed his awful hoodie and was, at least from the waist up, all fur. Rolling onto his side, Weed gleefully wriggled closer to feel the shaggy fleece of the wolfman’s chest sweeping against his back.
He felt Arran tense and ceased his movements. ‘Don’t worry, wolfie. I’m only here to sleep. Unless you want anything else from me while I’m here…’
He received a growl in response, which he was learning could be as much an indication of excitement as of aggravation on Arran’s part. Weed stuck out his ass for good measure and grinned as Arran’s growl abruptly stopped. The wolfman appeared to be holding his breath.
That’s right,Weed thought.Keep on pretending you’re civilised.
The thought of Arran wanting him so badly and fighting so hard not to show it was anenormousturn-on. Having seen how wild he could be when he let his animal urges surface… Weed craved a repeat of that savage sex. To lose himself again in the violence of it. In the raw honesty of it.
Blood rushed to his dick at the memory. Weed was too tired and too comfortable in Arran’s arms to do anything about it, but he was amused to think that the Wulver could probably smell his arousal. That the wolfman’s entire body was highly strung with Weed next to it. He wiggled his ass a little more, hoping to provoke the answering shape of Arran’s dick.
It was just so muchfunto rile him up. Not in the way it had been fun to piss off Logan—thathad been a matter of mental survival, of effecting some tiny act of control in a situation where Weed had none at all.
With Arran, Weed discovered genuine pleasure in testing him. In watching him squirm. In fantasising about what might happen if he snapped.
