Wolf in King’s Clothing

by Parker Foye

  Not one for pretending, apparently, Hadrian gripped Kent’s hips and pushed him away. Resignedly, Kent let himself be moved.

  Kent had never cursed his ability to see in the dark before but he would’ve liked to be able to switch the damn thing off occasionally. He didn’t want to see the question in Hadrian’s eyes or the way his gaze flickered across Kent’s chest like he could see through to the scars on his back and read their history.

  “Prince, what happened to you? It feels like you’re only—”

  “Late,” Kent said, cutting Hadrian off. Rescinding his invitation. Didn’t need to hear what he was “only.” He disentangled their bodies, chill cooling his ardour better than a bucket of water thrown over a dogfight. He’d got carried away.

  Letting his hair fall to cover his face, Kent retreated to his corner, careful not to show Hadrian his back. He grabbed his shirts and yanked them on, at once feeling safer under the layers of oversized fabric. He checked his knives, one-two-three, and tied them in place, shoulders straightening as he bore the weapons’ slight weight.

  Hadrian mumbled something, too low to hear, and Kent ignored it. He grabbed his coat and shook it out before pulling it on, sweeping his hair free. Glancing at the blankets, he thought about kicking them aside but the farmwoman had been kind and he didn’t want her to think less of the next shifter stupid enough to need charity. He folded them neatly instead, tucking them near the tools.

  With no other tasks to delay him, Kent quashed the niggling pain of his tired muscles and pushed past Hadrian.

  “Where are you—”

  “Patrol. We leave at dawn.”

  Chapter Four

  Kent scrounged a few hours’ sleep nestled in a field near the farmhouse, bundled beneath his coat, never sinking deep enough to dream. He woke for the final time to a sheep chewing his hair. He shooed it away, grumbling under his breath and checking over his shoulder no one saw him bested by livestock. The herd watched as he cracked and creaked upright, but who would they tell? Scarves on legs.

  Pushing aside another investigative nose, he made for the farmhouse. Dawn chased away the chill of night, and walking eased the stiffness from Kent’s joints. Rabbits and game birds startled as he took a shortcut through the fields, recognising a predator when he stalked among them. Their panic was gratifying, since his collar seemed to have tightened during the night, calling him to heel. Last days wearing it. He scratched beneath the leather, harder than he needed, in reprimand to his wandering mind. Don’t get ahead of yourself. They were miles from York, and he had yet to deliver Hadrian to Tabitha.

  A pheasant shrieked. Kent glared at it.

  Hadrian waited on the farmhouse step, a wedge of bread in his hand. He smelled like soap and wore new clothes with the faintest scent of must, like no one had worn them for a while. He’d scraped away the most unruly parts of his beard and become a more refined man than the wolf Kent stole from the north. Kent scratched his jaw, claws rasping over stubble, and decided a valet didn’t have to look neat. Enough for his master to be clean.

  “Help yourself to the bread,” Hadrian said, gesturing to the rest of the loaf on a plate beside him. “There’s more than enough for two.”

  Kent had been ignoring his hunger, but at the invitation he tore off a hunk of bread and ate it in quick bites. They’d tried teaching him manners at the orphanage but abandoned the project the third time he’d bitten Matron. After that came the binding.

  While Kent choked down the bread, Hadrian watched him with hooded eyes. Kent itched under his attention. He swallowed thickly, collar pressing tight.

  “What?”

  Hadrian leaned forward, as if to speak, but shook his head. Got to his feet and brushed crumbs from his borrowed clothes, tugging his frock coat to hang neatly.

  “Do you suppose the telegraph office will be open at this hour?” Hadrian asked as they fell into step. “You do still intend for us to visit that place, do you not?”

  He’d forgotten about the fucking telegram. Would the office be open? Farmers kept odd hours, didn’t they? Kent grunted, and Hadrian took it as confirmation, since he didn’t ask any more questions as they walked.

  Kent missed the startled pheasants. The countryside was quiet with Hadrian beside him, like he’d been tamed in Hadrian’s company, and the skin between his shoulder blades itched at how exposed they were, how obvious their noise. But he didn’t smell wolves or cloves on the wind, and they reached the inn in stilted silence.

  The inn was open. The telegraph office was closed. Kent shoved his fists into his pockets, not wanting to startle the woman sitting on the sill outside, where Hadrian had sat the day before.

  “An hour, they said,” the woman offered. The tilted brim of her hat shadowed her face and indicated a higher social class than her simple dress and accent. Maybe she’d been borrowing clothes as well. A battered doctor’s bag sat by her feet like a beloved pet.

  An hour to wait on a message that might not be coming? A glance at Hadrian said he’d want to wait. Of course he would. Kent bit on his lips to stop them curling with impatience. Snarling fixed nothing. Snarling wasn’t soft.

  Hadrian tugged his borrowed clothes and his posture straightened, as if to better present himself to female company. In response to Hadrian’s display, the woman revealed another sliver of her face, enticing. Some kind of dance Kent had never been taught the steps to.

  Let the wolf dance. His delicate paws were suited to it.

  Kent stalked back to the road. He could smell horses nearby, and they would need transport. Behind him, Hadrian sharpened the edge of manners gone blunt with only Kent for company. The most recent scent of horses led Kent around the inn, and he stood by the stables, debating whether the hour was early enough for larceny. A thick cloud of cloves seared across his nose and jolted him from his thoughts. The horses brayed, and Kent sneezed three times in succession, eyes streaming. Magic. What the fuck was—Hadrian.

  He’d left Hadrian with that woman like a rank amateur. Like a jealous—

  Kent nearly tripped over his own feet, coming to a hard stop by the happily chatting couple, the bag now open between them. Covering his nose with his hand and resisting the sudden urge to scratch his chest, where wardings pressed against his shirts, Kent swallowed hard and took a step. Another. Braced his knees to stop them buckling. Magic pushed against his skin and made him shiver. How could Hadrian stand there chatting with a thrice-cursed warden? Couldn’t he smell shit when he bathed in it?

  You missed her scent too. Getting tired.

  “Prince? Are you well? Do your injuries—Excuse me one moment,” Hadrian said, leaving the warden to crowd Kent. Too close. Kent retreated, one eye on the warden, hand still covering his face. Hadrian followed, entreating. “Will you stop for a blasted second?”

  Entreating in a fashion, at least. More effective than any order Kent might give, since Hadrian didn’t need a dark warding to make Kent stop. Stopping came as a relief with Hadrian’s scent to focus on.

  “A bound shifter, is he?” the warden asked, raising her voice, having the sense not to move. “You should have said. They’re more sensitive to magic than most. The binding decays their natural defences.”

  Hadrian had been reaching one of his nervous-bird hands to Kent, looking to alight somewhere safe, but at the warden’s comment he withdrew. Frowned, brow crumpling.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, half-twisting to face her.

  The warden clicked her bag closed, and Kent chanced a shallow breath. Better to focus on breathing than think about the strange itch where Hadrian hadn’t touched him.

  She gestured to her throat, where Kent’s collar choked him. “A cruel thing, I’ve often thought. Makes them more sensitive to wardings while muting their own capabilities, and thus binding becomes more effective as they grow weaker, binding them tighter yet
. Effective,” she said, tilting the hat down over her eyes. She turned her head. “But cruel.”

  Hadrian caught Kent’s hands to still him before Kent realised he’d moved to strike.

  “None of that.” Hadrian ducked his head, catching Kent’s gaze. He released one hand to smooth hair from Kent’s eyes, tucking it behind a pointed ear. “Don’t take offence so, Prince. Felicity didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Didn’t mean anything by talking like Kent couldn’t hear her? Like he wasn’t standing close enough to choke on her wards? Fucking ha’penny wardens. Felicity—and when had there been time for introductions?—or whoever, they were all the same, moving into and out of lives like the weather, not caring of floods or droughts left behind.

  Old wounds itched like they’d never healed. Kent shook his head, making his hair fall back over his face, and tugged his hand from Hadrian’s grip. He tried not to resent Hadrian for letting him go.

  “What are you—”

  “Need to walk.” Kent glanced at the warden and lowered his voice. “Find horses. Wait—wait here.”

  Leaving Hadrian to the warden made Kent’s stomach turn, but Hadrian would be safe. The warden—Felicity—could have struck him down already but hadn’t. She didn’t seem interested, playing with the brim of her hat like worry beads. Unless she had a razor in there.

  She doesn’t need blades, idiot.

  Kent cracked his neck, trying to reset his brain, and circled the inn to return to the horses. A mare studied him with serious eyes, swishing her tail when her stablemates bridled at Kent’s approach, his predator-smell. She could carry Hadrian, easy. Kent would run. He needed to run.

  Introducing himself cautiously and getting a huff in return, Kent rubbed the mare’s silky nose, careful with his claws. Hay and horse cleared his nose of wardings and slowly unravelled the knots in his muscles, keeping him relaxed as unease rippled through the stable. Hadrian. Kent focused on the mare steadily enduring his affection with haughty grace, and didn’t turn.

  “I hadn’t realised,” Hadrian said. Kent didn’t offer the satisfaction of reacting, instead continuing to hum to the mare. Hadrian shuffled. “About the binding, I mean. That it hobbled you so.”

  Why would he have realised? Binding and collars were relics of another time, and in legends no one stated the repercussions. And Kent had stolen Hadrian from the wolf heartlands, successful even with someone else’s decision around his throat. Limping on two paws might be ugly, but it got the job done. He shrugged one shoulder. Neither of them knew who Kent might be without Prince muffling him. Hadrian didn’t know there was a Kent.

  “Not your business.”

  “I could help, perhaps. If you wished. If I—a wolf might be able to break the ward. We’re stronger. But I’ve never tried—that’s old magic.” Hadrian sounded like he already regretted the offer.

  Careful not to startle the mare, Kent turned slowly, feeling his eyes widen, incredulous. He yanked back his hair to better see the fool offering to braid his own noose.

  “You would make me wolf?” For once, words came easy. “Make me pack?”

  “Then you might be able to—”

  “How? No alpha here.” Hadrian flushed and Kent’s stomach sank. He hollowed inside. “No.”

  Only alphas could give the bite, and no alpha travelled to another pack’s territory alone. No alpha let a stray’s claws touch their throat. Let him live. Let him press close and touch and hold. Alphas didn’t do that, and moreover Hadrian couldn’t be an alpha because if Hadrian were he could tear Kent apart without waiting for the strength in the next moon. He could’ve killed Kent in the cabin and left him for the crows.

  Had Tabitha known? Had that been her true reason for hastening Kent to the north? To avoid the moon—or else to send Kent to his death sure as the gallows. She’d never have to pay him freedom, then. If Hadrian’s pack learned Kent had lain a warding on one of their alphas, he wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy free air on his throat. Two years’ labour on a promise never destined to be fulfilled.

  Would Tabitha do that to him?

  The skin of Kent’s palms popped under pressure from his claws. He stumbled away from Hadrian’s outstretched hand, twisting aside when Hadrian reached for him. Blood dripped from his hands and roared in his ears.

  She wouldn’t. She would’ve just killed me.

  “Oh, for—” Hadrian put on a burst of speed and grabbed Kent’s wrists, his eyes going dark, finally using the extra height he had to loom. “Will you listen for a blasted moment?”

  Kent could break Hadrian’s grip. He had the strength, and his wrists were slick with blood. He could kick Hadrian in his knees. Get his teeth in bare flesh and worry it to splitting. Hadrian might be alpha, but Kent was a stray and no alpha had ever earned his loyalty.

  So why aren’t you fighting?

  Because Hadrian could’ve killed him over and again and hadn’t. He could’ve sent up a howl and any wolf nearby would’ve stalked Kent to the edge of reason. Alphas commanded the pack. But Hadrian didn’t seem to command anyone but Kent.

  What was that about loyalty?

  “Are you even paying attention, Prince?”

  The name quelled Kent’s thoughts. Cold crawled into his brain, cooling the stupidity trying to build fires in his chest. He licked the points of his teeth and forced his shoulders down. Tried to pay back the mare’s calm with some even temper of his own.

  “Listening,” he bit out.

  Hadrian sighed, like Kent had said the wrong thing in just a single word. “Is this panicking over my being alpha? Or my offer? I mean only to help if I can, and to be quite honest I’m doubtful I’m able, I don’t—”

  A whine slipped from Kent’s lips and became a question. “Why?”

  “A question best left for another time and place, don’t you think, lads? Another life, per’aps?”

  Kent wrenched himself free from Hadrian—he kept doing that—and blinked sluggishly at the men crowding the mouth of the yard. Big men with farm tools and familiar expressions. The almost overwhelming scent of tobacco. The man in the fore looked to have lost a few fights in his time, one ear larger than the other and a few teeth missing from his grimace, and he gestured with his shovel when he saw Kent looking.

  “Nothing to say?”

  Kent would take a distraction when it curled its lip at him. He shifted his weight.

  “Prince—”

  “Later.”

  The horses brayed when Lucky and his morons moved forward, alpha of his little human pack. But nothing like so powerful as a true alpha must be. Kent bared his teeth and they faltered. He edged in front of Hadrian, eyes flickering to track movement. His claws would rend their flesh. Shovels and spades would snap in his hands.

  The flail might prove more challenging.

  “Was it you asking for shelter, then?” Lucky asked. “I heard a mutt was sniffing around our land, and here you are. Survived the night after all.”

  “Was worried about him,” chimed in the man with the flail, laughing.

  Their words meant less than shit. Kent let the sounds wash over him, burbling together, his narrow-eyed attention on the two men in the back. They had dark eyes and skinning knives and the scent of piss and blood trailed them like shadows. Tanners, come for skins. Wolf pelts were used in wardings, the sort even Tabitha wouldn’t trade. The tanners were the ones to watch. One reached into his pocket.

  “Prince, will you please—”

  Kent shoved Hadrian aside as the tanner threw out a warding in a spray of blood. Didn’t need to wait for the hit. Anything feeding on life would be bad for those it hunted.

  Stone and earth shattered around Kent’s head as he protected Hadrian’s. The horses whinnied in shrill voices, adding to the noise as another warding took out the near corner of the stables. Wood and
earth. Burned meat. One of the horses shrieking. The farmers yelled, a sharp cry of denial, the meaning lost to Kent as he met the nearest tanner with upraised fists.

  The men quickly turned their attention from infighting to Kent, and he caught a blow from the flail as he shoved headfirst into the group. Twisting to avoid a shovel, Kent met Lucky’s chin with the heel of his hand, hearing teeth clack together. An elbow to one of the other farmers’ jaw brought the tang of blood, a curse and a strike to Kent’s knee. A howl tore from his throat at the bright flash of pain. Someone knotted his hair around their fist and yanked, strands pulling out at the roots as Kent twisted, arching to bite the hand too close to his mouth. Flavour of soil and sweat. He spat to clear his mouth as the man shrieked like the horses were shrieking.

  “He fuckin’ bit me! He’s off his bloody onion, that one!”

  “Dog,” Kent said, baring his teeth. He could taste blood slick over his fangs. One of the men fell back when Kent shifted his weight. Kent clacked his teeth together and snorted a laugh.

  The sound died in his throat, and he hurled a knife at one of the tanners, who had cut his thumb for another warding. Too late. Hadrian was caught in the blast, watching them all like he’d never needed to look out for himself before.

  Because I was supposed to be protecting him.

  Kent’s nose filled with the smell of Hadrian’s blood, as it had on the train. Like a memory. A song he’d sung to himself in small rooms filled with cruel hands. His ears caught the thin sound of Hadrian’s whine. The waves rose over his head.

  When the rage descended, Kent raised bloody fists to meet it.

  * * *

  “Prince. Prince, wake up. Prince.” Hadrian blew out a sharp breath. He smoothed Prince’s hair from his temple, smearing blood over pale skin. Grimacing, he wiped his hand on his trousers. “What should I do?”