Page 37 of The Wulver's Bond
‘Weed,’ Arran snarled in warning.
Despite the snarl, Weed noted the gentleness of it and that, as usual, it was not followed by any orders. Arran was so fucking careful. It made Weed long for him to benotcareful. To say what he really wanted. To have Weed do what he really wanted.
Wow. Was he actually wishing for Arran to command him?
To own him, maybe?
Nowthatwas fuckingwild.
‘Just getting comfy,’ Weed said, all innocence. And he was, truly, comfy. Arran’s fur tickled his nose as he turned his head, meeting bicep on the way. ‘Do you want me to leave?’
Arran’s long chin came to rest over his head, and Weed felt the deep vibration of his voice shiver pleasantly across his skull. ‘No.’
Just as well, seeing as I can’t go anywhere,Weed chuckled inwardly.
He hadn’t entertained the thought of freedom for a long time, but now it skipped sneakily across his drowsy mind. Where would he even go, if he could? His grove was out of the question—it didn’t belong to him any more. And as for his former consort… Weed would prefer to exist in a realm entirely separate from that betrayal.
He would choose somewhere green. Maybe somewhere that would allow him to feel soft again, instead of coarse and spiky.
He wriggled deeper into the Wulver’s fur, eyelids heavy.
‘I’ve been thinking…’ Weed announced sleepily. ‘… I’d call myself Moss.’
Arran grunted in surprise and began to ask a follow-up question—but Weed had already sunk into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
As usual, Weed slept late and woke to a ready-made breakfast laid out for him. There was a washbasin too, and Weed happily dunked his head in it, first thing. He used to think, having had an intimate relationship with soil, that he wouldn’t care if he was dirty—but an unwashed human body was unpleasant for a number of reasons, and being able to keep it clean was proving to be a delicious thing.
He slicked back his hair, catching sight of Arran emerging from the pantry, and winked. ‘Morning, wolfie!’
Arran set down the basket he was carrying, which turned out to be the one he’d fixed the night before. ‘Good morning, Moss.’
Weed’s throat went dry. His chest was suddenly tight. He wanted to run. ‘What… What did you call me?’
Was it just him, or were Arran’s eyes looking all the way fucking through him?
‘Moss,’ Arran replied softly. ‘You said you would choose it as your name. Last night.’
‘I…’ Weed found it hard to swallow. Seriously, had all the moisture from his mouth just packed its bags for good?
Arran cocked his head, gaze still locked on Weed as though searching for him. ‘Do you prefer Weed? I will call you whatever you wish.’
For the longest second, Weed froze.
The first time Weed had been commanded to kill a living creature—at Elsie’s behest—he’d felt like he was balancing on the edge of a cliff, with a sheer drop into darkness opening up in front of him. He was nauseous with vertigo and fear. With the knowledge that stepping into that chasm would change the very fibres of his soul.
Weed found himself teetering on a similar cliff edge now. Darkness fell away from his feet. Arran was right behind him, like Elsie had been. But instead of threatening to shove him over the edge, Arran was simply still, and patient.
Weed looked into the darkness again and saw change swimming somewhere at the bottom.
Heart hammering, he stepped over the edge.
‘Moss,’ he croaked, then cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, that’s what I said. You better remember it, wolfie.’
Arran nodded solemnly. ‘I shall.’
Moss rolled his shoulders, feeling some deep tension leave them. A piece of his soul unclenched, like a flower unfolding in the presence of long-awaited sunshine. Arran passed him a cup of nettle tea, and Moss caught the corner of a smile playing at his jaw.
