Page 48 of The Wulver's Bond
‘This is an old wound,’ Arran muttered. ‘I’ve had many years for it to mend. I have done my best to mend it.’
‘By hunting werewolves? Your own descendants?’ Moss couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. ‘Sounds more like raking the wound open over and over again, wolfie. How can you bear to keep going like that?’
Shit.He hadn’t meant to come out with something so cruel:Your life sounds fucking awful, so why not just end it?
‘Yes. You are right.’ Arran’s deep voice was unusually small. ‘I realised this. That I could not go on in such a way. So I made it my mission to create a safe territory. I made allies in the Walker witches of the Highlands, and they helped me drive all the werewolves from Scotland. Even today, every werewolf knows it is inviting a death sentence to step into my lands. And after that… Once the task was done… I pursued peace, and only peace.’
Moss lay down on Arran’s chest, smoothing his cheek into the fur and listening for the wolfman’s gentle heartbeat. ‘So,your version of peace is living in a cold-ass cave in the middle of nowhere eating fish and seaweed for every meal?’
Arran grunted. ‘It may not seem like much, but I have found peace here.’
‘It’s pretty great, actually.’ Moss counted the thumps of Arran’s heart in his ear. Arran had a family. Probably friends, too, once. A whole life full of people, something totally strange to Moss. ‘Sounds like you’ve lost a lot to have it.’
Arran’s arms folded round him again, holding on, it seemed, like he was afraid Moss might fall away.
‘How old are you, wolfie?’
‘Hmph. I shouldn’t say. You will call me an old man.’
‘I’ll do that anyway.’ Moss found Arran’s nipple and playfully flicked it. ‘Old dog.’
Arran growled back, without menace. ‘My guess is around five millennia. I stopped counting after the first three. The humans in this land were just beginning to lay down farms when I arrived.’
‘You were right, wolfie,’ Moss crooned, seeking to lift his mood. ‘You are an ooooooold man.’
Arran rolled, chucking Moss off him in a surprised heap. His huge body balanced over Moss’s, grazing Moss with his fur but careful not to place any weight on him. ‘Am I too old to please you?’
‘Naw,’ Moss cackled, reaching for Arran’s nipples again. ‘I like a man with experie—’
‘Come.’
Moss’s voice evaporated to a squeak. Going from nought to a hundred in the blink of an eye, his body convulsed under the sudden shock of pleasure. Blood vessels expanded everywhere, transporting throbbing heat from his heart to his dick and a mirroring tickle into his brain. His nuts took a minute to rev up, but holy shit did they rev.
His voice, no more than a ghost in the back of his throat, called out the Wulver’s name as the orgasm rippled through him.
‘A—Arran—!’
Arran clasped Moss tightly while he convulsed. He growled, kneading the shape of his hard dick between Moss’s legs. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘Fuck.Moss. Fuck.’
‘That would be ideal,’ Moss replied, breathily. ‘Please dofuck Moss.’
Arran made a sound halfway between groan and growl. ‘I’ll be back.’ He fled from Moss’s side.
Moss heard him head toward the cave mouth and realised the wolfman intended to douse himself under the cold rain.
‘Pity,’ he murmured drowsily. The abrupt but welcome orgasm had finally knocked the adrenaline out of him. Before he lost himself to sleep, Moss shouted out to Arran, keen not to lose the headway they’d made. ‘You better use me like that again, wolfie! It’s rude to tease…’
An answering snarl assured him the Wulver had heard, and that he was utterly riled by it. ‘Good dog,’ Moss chuckled, and peacefully slipped into sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
From that night on, it took Moss less and less time to slip out of his own pile of sheepskins and slide into Arran’s instead. Arran tried to keep some mental distance between them, aware that he was starting to look forward to Moss’s presence in his bed each night.
He hadn’t considered himself lonely, until one night Moss took his time and Arran caught himself pining for Moss’s softness and warmth, and his peculiar, paradoxical prickliness.
Moss brought sharp edges into Arran’s refuge, managing to both shatter and elevate the peace of it.
Being cooped up together through the storm only made matters worse. Arran hadn’t left the cave except to drench himself when it felt like his skin was steaming. Moss was in his face all day, prodding him with little jibes and challenges. He said ‘Good dog,’ when Arran gave him a meal, or put logs on the fire, or scrubbed out a pot. It made his tail wag like a fucking puppy, and his cock go hard like a wild wolf.
