Page 13 of The Wulver's Bond
Weed knew he sounded like a child and he didn’t care. Anything to wipe that false compassion out of the beast’s eyes. Anything to make him angry. Anger was familiar territory.
Weed seized hold of the only subject he’d known to make the Wulver irritated before. By chance, it also echoed his current fixation.
‘Shall we shag?’ he announced loudly. He didn’t look the Wulver in the eye, instead letting the words fall in a careless stream from his mouth onto the wind. ‘What with you being a legendary shagger, I reckon it would pass the time well. Better than fishing. I bet you’re ruthless! You could rip me apart with your cock, right? I wouldn’t mind finding out what all the fuss is about…’
His voice dwindled, stolen by the stoic silence of the wolfman. Weed dared to steal a glance and saw the Wulver’s triangular ears had flattened against his head and his eyes were a deeper amber than usual. Were those lupine signs of rage?
Very slowly, and very gently, the Wulver reached out and clasped Weed’s shoulders. For a split second Weed was back in his daydream, about to be pushed onto the grass. But instead, the Wulver remained quite still, seeking out Weed’s gaze before speaking.
‘I don’t understand what ails you, but I do not believe you truly mean these things.’ The Wulver looked up at the nearby willow tree, brow furrowing with thought. ‘Perhaps you are not comfortable in this environment? There are not many trees here.’
This time a laughdidescape Weed’s throat. The beast thought a lack of fuckingtreeswas his problem? Not the magical enslavement, or the lifetime of torment in a human body? That waswild.
The Wulver regarded Weed with bewilderment. ‘And now you are giggling.’
Weed fell on his back, no longer caring that the shape of his hard-on was obvious through his trousers. Seconds ticked by as he laughed, and still the Wulver did nothing but watch him. Weed’s cackles subsided, leaving behind a prickle of tears at the corner of his eyes—whether out of mirth or misery, he didn’t care to wonder. The earth was warm at his back. The sky overhead was blue behind the clouds. Despite everything, it was still easily one of the most peaceful days of his human life.
‘Would you shag me, though?’ Weed asked feebly, staring up at the clouds. He licked his lips, weary with arousal and confusion. ‘You’re so observant. You can tell I’m horny as a bitch in heat, right?’
The Wulver visibly shuddered. ‘Your scent makes your… condition… obvious. But no. Be assured, I shall not take advantage of you.’
‘Pity.’
Weed closed his eyes as the sun emerged from behind a bank of clouds. He reached for the leaves around him, basking in their nourishment, the comfort of photosynthesis.
He’d no idea he’d dropped off to sleep yet again, until a leathery palm gently shook him awake by the elbow.
‘I’m sorry to wake you,’ the Wulver murmured, ‘but we shall lose the light if we don’t get going soon.’
Weed stumbled to his feet, groggy and disoriented. The sun had moved west beyond the walls of the narrow ravine, which was now entirely bathed in shadow. The Wulver’s basket was full to the brim with ugly brown fish.
Weren’t we in the middle of something?Weed’s befuddled brain insisted. Was that really how that interaction had ended? With no comeuppance at all?
He watched the Wulver with suspicion as the beast pulled on his hoodie and hoisted the basket in both arms. The spear was slung over his back on a thin strap.
The wolfman cocked his head in the direction of the cave. ‘Are you ready?’
‘I am if you tell me to be,’ Weed replied sullenly.
The Wulver sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll take that as a yes.’
Weed followed at his maximum allowed distance, ambling as slowly as he could in the Wulver’s wake. Shetland’s peculiar yellow twilight fell around them as they reached the cave, and once inside, the Wulver disappeared straight into his pantry.
Weed poked his head in, reasoning that he hadn’t been told not to. This small chamber was entirely lined with rock-cut shelves across two walls, while a couple of ancient-looking oak barrels next to a stone trough lined the third. The Wulver poured his fishing catch into the trough and looked up as Weed stepped in.
‘Tonight we shall have a good meal of trout, if you are up to it,’ he said, nodding at the fish. ‘And tomorrow I shall smoke and pickle the rest. I shall teach you how, if you would like.’
Weed noted the carefully organised rows of tinned food and foil packaged MRE pouches that would make any doomsday-prepper proud. These filled about half the shelf space, while the rest of the pantry looked conspicuously bare. A number of empty glass jars and bottles suggested they were awaiting new contents, and a large sheaf of waxed paper was neatly stacked at one end.
‘What’s in these?’ Weed asked, pointing at the barrels.
‘One is for water. One is for salt.’
‘That’s alotof salt.’
‘Yes. I use it sparingly. Sometimes for cooking. But mostly for preserving food.’ The Wulver selected the biggest fish from the trough and motioned for Weed to follow him back into the main chamber.
He didn’t seem to require Weed’s assistance while gutting the fish, nor did he appear to care whether Weed showed any interest in it, either. So Weed left the Wulver to his dinner, and nosed through his bookshelf instead.
