Page 43 of The Wulver's Bond
‘Your island’s not got a lot going for it,’ Moss said as he scooped water in his hands, ‘but the rivers sure are hella pure, wolfie.’
‘There are not many wild places left in the world,’ Arran said sombrely. ‘I like to think my small ravine is one of them.’
Moss ducked under and resurfaced with a gasp. Droplets caught the light in his auburn hair before cascading over his contented face. ‘Is that why you chose to live way out here? You hate people or something?’ He paused in scouring his arms. ‘I don’t get why you visit that old biddy on the cliffs if you don’t want to see anyone.’
‘I don’t hate people,’ Arran huffed, raking water through his pelt. ‘Quite the opposite, really. But I seem to cause trouble when I am around them. And, well… there is no place for creatures like me in the world, these days.’
Moss hummed and a sly smirk twisted his mouth. Arran was glad to see it—anxious melancholy didn’t suit Moss at all. He’d accept whatever barb it meant was headed his way.
‘What kind of trouble, then?’ Moss asked, and Arran instantly saw where he was going with it. ‘The shagging kind? Can’t keep your beastly ways to yourself?’
Moss’s eyes dropped to the level of Arran’s cock, which he was grateful was obscured by the water, however clear it was.
Arran contemplated an answer while Moss leered at him. It was not a subject he was keen to reopen. It contained too much grief and guilt, and he hated the thought of burdening Moss with it. But, then again, perhaps Moss deserved to know. Maybe it would lessen his load a little, to understand what company he was keeping in Arran.
A splash of water hit him in the snout.
‘Come on, wolfie,’ Moss jeered, sending another wave at Arran. ‘You look so pensive. Is it really so serious?’
‘Yes,’ Arran replied, before sweeping a great surge of water at Moss.
The wave smacked Moss clean in the face and rolled over his head. He re-emerged spluttering and laughing. ‘Is that the best you can do, old dog?’
Moss went for another feeble splash but was caught by Arran tackling him round the middle. They both plunged into the cleansing cold and surfaced with Arran holding Moss close to him.
Moss’s small frame fit so nicely in his arms. His slender fingers worked into Arran’s wet fur, tickling the flesh beneath. ‘Mmm,’ Moss sighed against him.
Arran nosed the crook of Moss’s neck, breathing in the scent of him. ‘To be quite clear, it was only one person. Who I shagged, as you put it. But yes, from that, all the trouble stems.’
‘One?’ Moss’s incredulous cry bounced off the rocks. ‘What about all the wolf pups and werewolves? You telling me those stories aren’t true?’
‘They are mostly true.’
Arran drifted to the shallows near the bank and sat, pulling Moss down into his lap. The water rolled pleasantly over their thighs.
‘Her name was Flòraidh,’ Arran said, resting his chin on Moss’s head.
‘Is this about to get all gloomy?’ Moss asked suspiciously.
Oh.
Arran suppressed the heavy-heartedness this imparted. He had no right to be disappointed that Moss didn’t want to hear about it. Moss had been through enough already. ‘No. I needn’t go into details. It is not a pleasant story, anyway.’
He watched the water swirl around them, two silent boulders in its path. Moss fidgeted in his lap, perhaps working up to say something, but he never did. Despite the sun, Arran could feel Moss’s body temperature dropping.
‘We should go inside. You need to warm up by the fire,’ Arran told him.
Moss shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’ He scrambled out of the river and shook himself off, much like a dog, then looked back expectantly at Arran.
Arran froze, caught as he was about to do exactly as Moss predicted. His fur was clogged with water, and shaking it out was truly the most efficient way of expelling it. Moss was grinning like a brat.
‘I will dry in the sun,’ Arran muttered, tramping past him. He led the way home, soggy and uncomfortable in his wet fur, and trying desperately not to wag his tail.
* * *
Arran made sure to give Moss plenty of space after that. Definitely because he was being respectful of Moss’s space, and not because he spent nearly every waking minute thinking about Moss’s leash around his throat.
The feeling of being collared had been downright intoxicating—and the beast in him haddespisedit. Which meantit wanted to punish Moss. ItcovetedMoss. Desired to push him to within an inch of his sanity. To own Moss just as he threatened to own Arran.
