Page 62 of The Wulver's Bond
His stomach lurched as Moss stood. The dryad’s fingers curled around him, keeping Arran safe as the creature pitched forward into a swaying gait across the moorland.
‘Are you really going to carry me the whole way?’ Arran croaked, grateful and daunted at the same time. Moss was near godlike. ‘What if anyone sees you?’
Moss’s gnarled face split into a smile. Cracked lines in the bark flowed over the contours of his expression. ‘Then they shall have a story to tell.’
Arran huffed, settling into the crook of one giant finger. He watched the land pass below him. Moss’s pace was swift. Green vines and creepers streamed from the crags of his body, caught in the wind. Arran spotted Moss’s frock coat hanging off a branch in his autumn-leafed hair.
Exhaustion swept over him. His skull creaked with pain. Soothed by the swinging rhythm of the dryad’s palm, and the knowledge that Moss was safe, Arran closed his eyes and slept.
* * *
Arran woke in his own bed, inside his cave. For a moment he felt he must have dreamed everything. Must have dreamed Moss, agiant dryad, carrying him across his island.
The smell of woodsmoke reached his nose, alongside cooked fish and nettle tea. Arran rolled over, and found a laden plate and full cup next to his bedside.
‘Awake at last, old dog?’
Hesitantly, fearfully, Arran looked up, afraid it may all have really been a wild hallucination.
Moss sat by the hearth, weaving a grass mat. Or, attempting to weave, as he’d managed to tangle several sections and gotten the tension wrong, so it bunched up in places. Moss waved it without animosity. ‘Another flawed thing, I’m afraid. Maybe it’ll do for a coaster.’
It was Moss, all right. His usual shape and size, and wearing his usual frock coat with nothing underneath. But his skin still sported the bark-like texture—though it seemed smoother now. Less rough and wild. His eyes turned to Arran, and they were a familiar emerald green. Concern tinged Moss’s voice. ‘Are you going to get up? You’ve been asleep for days, wolfie.’
Arran registered more imperfect mats and half-made baskets scattered around the cave. There was also a pot of water filled with plates, like Moss had started washing up then forgotten about it. Had he made food for Arran every day?
Arran sat up, muscles twinging on the way. ‘Did anyone see you?’
He kicked himself. Great first question.
Moss took it in his stride. ‘Maybe someone fixing a sheep fence. Hardly anyone lives out here.’
‘Are you hurt?’
Moss gave a peal of bright laughter. ‘Oh, you’re serious? No, wolfie. I’m not hurt.’ His expression softened. ‘How’s your head?’
Arran skimmed over the wound with a paw. The skin had healed over, leaving a knot of scar tissue and a slight bald spot in his fur. His mind was in focus, and the pain was gone.
‘Restored,’ he answered. ‘I am sorry to have been caught so unawares, Moss. I am sorry you endured Logan’s control for even an instant.’
‘Don’t be,’ Moss said cheerfully. He swept across the chamber, trailing leaves from his hair. Moss dropped onto the sheepskins next to Arran and lifted the wolfman’s arm around him. ‘You gonna eat, or what?’
Arran pulled Moss all the way into his lap, squeezing his deep relief into Moss’s firm body. Moss sighed happily and combed fingers through his fur.
‘I shall eat your food. And then I shall devouryou. I will make you mine on my knot, and I will mark you with my teeth, and I will own you.’
Moss’s eyelashes fluttered and a little gasp escaped him. ‘My, my, wolfie. Such promises. You’re sexy when you say what you mean. I thought you’d want to catch your breath, first.’
Any thoughts of food dashed from Arran’s mind as he perceived the stiff prod of Moss’s cock digging into his stomach. He grasped it needily, and Moss reacted with a moan. Arran explored its strangely supple texture with his whole palm, then pulled back to behold it properly.
Moss’s cock looked like the finest antique dildo; as though it had been meticulously carved from solid wood and given a smooth, glossy finish. Yet it yielded under Arran’s touch like flesh. It leaked a fluid like precum, which smelled like sweet nectar. Arran growled instinctually and dipped his head to taste.
Moss arched his back as Arran’s tongue lapped around his cockhead. He tasted of honey and sweet tree sap.
Moss pushed his snout away. ‘Mmm. So impatient, wolfie. Don’t you have any self-control?’
Arran caught the sly gleam in Moss’s eye. He rolled and pressed Moss into the fleeces under him. Arran’s cock was swollen, his pulse beating a hard rhythm into his skin. But he would make Moss work for it.
Breathing hard, Arran snarled in his ear. ‘I shall do nothing unless you command me.’
