Page 16 of The Wulver's Bond
Arran folded his arms, holding in his exasperation. ‘I simply do not wish you to feel uncomfortable.’
‘Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’m not shy.’
The smug way Weed said it should have clued Arran in. In a swift one-two motion Weed pulled off his shirt and snapped open his trousers.
Arran remained stoic as they fell around Weed’s ankles, baring all under the glimmering firelight. Weed planted his hands on his hips, grinning broadly. ‘What do you think, wolfie? Does this offend your sensibilities?’
Arran met his stare head-on, refusing to be cowed by such a ridiculous display. ‘Of course not. I know what a human body looks like.’
‘Ibetyou do.’
Arran made a show of rolling his eyes. ‘Wash yourself, or don’t. I shall be outside.’
He about-turned as Weed pouted, and left the cave inwardly cursing his infuriating lodger.
Infuriating, because Weed seemed intent on constantly testing his boundaries.
Infuriating, because he’d just learned that Weed was walking around bare-assed under his camo gear.
Infuriating, because the ass in question was pert and smooth and pale.
Infuriating, because the wolf in him wanted to take a bite.
Arran stifled a mortified growl. He remembered only just in time to stop a few yards away from the cave mouth instead of stalking off into the trees. His tail, freed of rigid self-control, began to wag.
Arran was furious with himself. This reaction was absolutely unacceptable.
Weed’s voice floated out of the cave. ‘Guess you still don’t want to shag, then?’
Arran closed his eyes, snarling some of his frustration into the air. Whatever Weed’s taunts, Arran wasn’t about to takeadvantage of him while Weed was under his command. He didn’twantto take advantage of Weed at all, Arran corrected himself.
His body was simply restless, his instincts agitated by the mere suggestion of some physical intimacy. It was a matter of self-regulation, not of any deeper need or desire.
At least, that was what he was going to keep telling himself.
Arran waited a long time for Weed to finish washing. Nearly an hour had passed when it dawned on him that Weed likely wouldn’t inform him when he was finished, out of spite if not mischief.
Arran raised his eyes to the heavens, lamenting the fickle fae.
Thankfully, Weed was fully-clothed when he stepped back inside. Arran cooked another fish for breakfast and watched Weed carefully as he ate. He was pleased to see Weed had regained his appetite. The strange melancholy that had come over him the previous evening appeared to have evaporated, perhaps cleared by another good night’s sleep.
It seemed the fog of exhaustion had also finally lifted from Weed’s shoulders. Weed’s body must have been desperate to refill all its reserves, taking every chance it got to catch up on rest. Now that he was fully awake, Arran invited Weed to join him in the day’s task of smoking the rest of the fish.
‘Haven’t got anything better to do,’ Weed drawled back.
‘Then, when you are ready, please follow me.’
Arran came to regret this. Weed turned out to be as useful as a shadow, and rather more of an incumbrance.
Arran showed him the way to the smaller cave he used for smoking, and demonstrated how to prepare and hang the fish over the smouldering embers below. Weed spectated from the entrance, unhelpfully blocking half the daylight.
‘That’s a lotta fish you gotta get through, wolfie,’ he said, smirking. ‘Boy, I bet you wish you had a servant to help you right now, eh?’
‘Would you like to help?’ Arran answered mildly. In truth, he enjoyed the work. But he’d enjoy it more if Weed left him to do it in peace.
‘Do youorderme to help?’
‘No.’
