by Parker Foye
Griffith turned in his chair, already reaching up as Llywelyn reached down.
“Can I kiss you?” Llywelyn asked, playing his fingers lightly on Griffith’s waist.
“I’m afraid I insist you do.” Griffith wrapped his arms around Llywelyn’s neck as they kissed. He rubbed circles into Llywelyn’s nape as he traced Llywelyn’s sharp teeth with his tongue.
Llywelyn pulled back, brushing his cheek against Griffith’s, his stubble rasping against Griffith’s.
“Hold on.”
Heart fluttering as he knew what followed, Griffith tangled his fingers in the back of Llywelyn’s shirt and Llywelyn lifted him from his chair, supporting Griffith easily as he wrapped his legs around Llywelyn’s trim waist. As always, the display of strength made Griffith’s breath catch, and Llywelyn snatched what remained with biting kisses. He stepped confidently backward, navigating around the table and a stack of books Griffith had left on the floor.
“Bachelor,” Llywelyn said, tapping the books with his bare toes. He kneaded Griffith’s arse. “Confirmed bachelor, even.”
“Are you the expert?”
Llywelyn laughed as he lowered to his knees, handling Griffith like the most precious package. He eased Griffith back and Griffith stretched out on the pile of blankets that had started to smell like them both, even to his human nose. Not that they’d progressed further than fevered touches, but—if Griffith understood the banked heat in Llywelyn’s eyes—that might be about to change.
Llywelyn braced himself above Griffith, his knees outside Griffith’s hips, his hands by his head. They didn’t touch anywhere, which was antithetical to Griffith’s thinking. He brushed his thumb along Llywelyn’s cheekbone and around the shell of his scarred ear, hooking his hand around Llywelyn’s skull and pulling him into a kiss that made his cheeks burn.
Conversations about sex made Griffith embarrassed, and he’d never understood the obsession people seemed to have with it. Yet since returning to Llywelyn, Griffith could scarcely keep his mind on task. He wrapped his legs around Llywelyn’s hips and tried to tug him closer, grunting into Llywelyn’s mouth when the ass wouldn’t shift.
He swatted Llywelyn lightly on the arm and flopped back onto the blankets. “Stop being so stubborn, damn you.”
Llywelyn licked his lips, drawing Griffith’s attention to how slick and kiss-bruised they were. His prick throbbed at the sight and he squirmed.
“Have you ever f—Have you ever done this before?” Llywelyn asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Griffith blew out a breath. “No.”
Llywelyn made a strange noise and colour rose to his cheeks, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Since he didn’t move, Griffith decided he mustn’t mind. He squeezed his legs more firmly around Llywelyn’s waist, enjoying how it made his prick brush against Llywelyn’s stomach.
“Stop that.” Llywelyn tapped Griffith’s knee. “Let go. Lie back. I want to—Can I take care of you?” He asked the question like Griffith’s acquiescence would answer a prayer.
Griffith would give anything to Llywelyn ap Hywel, if it were in his power to give. If it makes you happy and don’t hurt no one, I don’t see no harm in it.
He shouldn’t think of Grandmother while having sex. Definitely that wasn’t right.
Determinedly, Griffith turned his attention to Llywelyn, and realised he hadn’t answered. He nodded and let his legs fall. Llywelyn rewarded him with a smile as beautiful as the dusk colours scattering across the cottage.
Yanking off his shirt, Llywelyn carefully unbuttoned Griffith’s, his task made difficult when Griffith tried to trace the scars and muscles of Llywelyn’s torso. Changing tactic with a snort, Llywelyn began to kiss down Griffith’s chest, sucking hot kisses between his ribs and grazing one of Griffith’s nipples experimentally with his teeth. Again when Griffith gasped and bucked up at the sensation, his prick filling. He curled his toes into the blankets.
“I like that.”
Llywelyn hummed a pleased noise and transferred his attention to Griffith’s other nipple, sucking lightly before scraping his teeth again. He continued down Griffith’s body in a drag of teeth, reaching Griffith’s trousers, where he framed the obvious outline of Griffith’s prick with his hands.
Though Griffith’s night vision wasn’t strong, he could see how darkness had swallowed Llywelyn’s pupils, and over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he could hear the heady sound of Llywelyn’s light panting. Llywelyn could run to Lampeter with breath to spare, but kissing Griffith left him breathless. What power did magic have next to that?
“Keep going. Please,” Griffith said, biting his lower lip.
Llywelyn’s nose flared, and he nodded, his fingertips sliding beneath Griffith’s waistband for a moment before he unfastened the trousers and freed Griffith’s prick. A musky scent hit Griffith’s nose, and he almost wanted to apologise, but Llywelyn’s eyes widened and he visibly breathed deep. He ducked his head, only to pull up short.
“Can I suck you?”
Words froze in Griffith’s throat. He entirely forgot how to say please god I wish you would, and hoped his nodding would be enough.
When Llywelyn took Griffith’s prick in his mouth, Griffith forgot language entirely. The exquisite heat of Llywelyn’s mouth threatened to undo him, and Griffith clung to the sheets like they were all tethering him to the world. Noises reached Griffith’s ears and he wanted to be embarrassed at his high whining, but shame meant nothing in Llywelyn’s mouth.
Llywelyn smoothed his hands along Griffith’s hips and stomach, one wrapping around his prick to work the part Llywelyn couldn’t fit in his mouth. Needing to touch Llywelyn, to ground himself, Griffith reached for his shoulders. Llywelyn caught Griffith’s searching hand and interlaced their fingers, swallowing hungrily around Griffith’s prick until all Griffith knew was Llywelyn. Eyes screwed closed, Griffith rode the perfect knife-edge of coming until something made him look down and he saw Llywelyn looking back. Those heated eyes.
Orgasm struck Griffith like a blow. He arched from the ground, crying out and spilling down Llywelyn’s throat. Slumping back, he covered his eyes with his arm and tried to catch his breath.
He began to understand a little of other people’s obsession with sex.
A squeeze on his fingers reminded him he still held Llywelyn’s hand, and he lowered his arm. Llywelyn smiled at him and ducked his head for a lingering kiss, sucking Griffith’s lower lip until it pulsed with his heartbeat.
Griffith glanced down their bodies, seeing Llywelyn’s prick making his still-fastened trousers bulge.
“Can I touch you? I’m not sure I can suck you. Not yet.”
Llywelyn nodded, nosing along Griffith’s hairline. “Touch me like you touch yourself.”
Griffith wanted to point out he wasn’t a simpleton, but he didn’t want to argue out of getting his hands on Llywelyn’s prick. Releasing Llywelyn’s hand, he quickly unfastened Llywelyn’s trousers and slipped his hands inside. The first touch of Llywelyn’s prick made his own twitch in an effort to rise. Griffith stroked Llywelyn tentatively, watching his face for cues.
“Harder,” Llywelyn said, his eyes dropping close. He rocked into Griffith’s grip. “Faster.”
Obeying, Griffith tightened his grip and sped up, twisting his wrist with each movement until he could see Llywelyn’s arms shaking in the dying light. Leaning up, he captured Llywelyn in a kiss, chasing his own taste from Llywelyn’s mouth. Llywelyn groaned into the kiss as Griffith ran his thumb over the tip of Llywelyn’s prick, and hot splatters of come splashed over Griffith’s hand and onto his stomach. Gasping at the painful pleasure of his prick struggling to refill, Griffith eased Llywelyn through his orgasm until he shook his head and rolled aside, chest heaving.
They panted next to each other in the dark r
oom. Griffith wondered about lighting a fire, but he didn’t want to move. He wondered about fixing the window, but didn’t know how.
He wondered how long it would be until they could try that again, but the other way around.
“I can hear you thinking,” Llywelyn said.
Griffith kissed his grin into Llywelyn’s shoulder. “You’ll like this one.”
* * *
Griffith woke with a start, the sensation of the knife lingering on his skin. Morgan had started at his wrist. So Griffith could watch, he’d said. Sadist and bastard and every name besides.
Sweat trickled into his eyes, and Griffith wiped it away, belatedly noticing the bright eyes staring unblinking at him. A chill dripped through his body. He’d forgotten who slept beside him and kept him warm at night, the breathing furry blanket splayed across his bed and dreaming wolf dreams. Even when Llywelyn fell asleep in human form, he still shifted during the night. The sight of the monster in his bed brought Griffith comfort.
To an extent.
Though Griffith had vowed not to tell Llywelyn about his darkest day, the burden stood as a wall in his heart. He wanted to knock it down. Llywelyn hadn’t asked about Morgan since the first time, but Griffith knew he felt a distance between them. As they grew closer, he’d been trying to look over the wall. Griffith couldn’t stand the wall any longer.
He ran his fingers through the soft fur on Llywelyn’s head, playing with the tip of his scarred ear. When Llywelyn moved, as if to shift, Griffith shook his head.
“I can’t tell you if you change.” He’d dreamed of Llywelyn on the table almost as many times as he’d been in the wolf’s place. He needed to feel the truth of things under his hands. Needed to know Llywelyn had his fur. “Please.”
Llywelyn nudged Griffith’s scarred hand with his nose.
“That too. I’ll tell you.”
With a huff, Llywelyn resettled across Griffith, resting his jaw on Griffith’s chest. Holding Griffith in place with his weight, though Griffith would stay beneath Llywelyn forever if only it were practical.
Where to start? Griffith chewed his lip. “Wardings use loci, for focus. I explained this, didn’t I? Like the seaglass we found. The things in my bag.”
Llywelyn had fished through the accordion case with glee one morning, after Griffith granted permission. Like seeing your other life, Llywelyn had said. He’d turned over each item with delicate care, like they were precious. He said he wanted to know the parts of Griffith he’d missed learning firsthand.
Griffith rubbed his face, trying to focus. He needed a loci for his damn thoughts. “There are all sorts of things we can use. It depends on the warding. Morgan—Morgan prefers the darker arts.” Mood sobering, Griffith smoothed his hand through Llywelyn’s fur. As much part of him as his human skin, his hair, the way he kissed and laughed. “Wolves are valuable to wardens. We complement one another, like the moon and tides. But Morgan corrupted that. I found—Morgan was going to skin a wolf. While alive. For—for the pelt.” His lip wobbled. “I couldn’t save him, the warding was too complex. Morgan thought it was funny. He cut off my finger, for attempted theft, he said. I ran that night.”
Beneath his hand, Llywelyn stilled. Griffith checked for signs of breath, his nerves untwisting when he saw the rise and fall of Llywelyn’s chest. His nerves retwisted when Llywelyn moved his head, dislodging Griffith’s hand, and rolled to the side.
Griffith went cold with nerves, but Llywelyn didn’t go any farther than he needed to change shape, shedding fur for skin and retaking his place on top of Griffith. He laced their fingers together, bringing their hands to lie on Griffith’s chest and resting his chin on top. His stubble scratched gently at Griffith’s skin, grounding him in their shared bed, in the chilly cottage that had become warm with Llywelyn’s presence.
“Griffith Jones.” Llywelyn pressed a kiss to Griffith’s scarred finger, not breaking their shared gaze. “I love you. Your mistakes and your triumphs and everything between. More than anything in this world or the next, cariad, I wish to be by your side.”
“But—”
“Declarations of love aren’t for interrupting,” Llywelyn said, biting softly at Griffith’s knuckles.
Griffith laughed damply. “Sorry. By all means, carry on.”
Instead of speaking, Llywelyn unfolded Griffith’s left hand from his. The space where his fingertip should be made Griffith want to cringe, with remembered pain as much as what it represented. He’d lost the top of his finger, but the wolf had lost everything. He hated looking at his hand. A physical reminder of his failure.
“Morgan took this?” Llywelyn asked, though it was less a question than a confirmation. Griffith nodded all the same. “Then I’ll give it back to you.”
Before Griffith could ask how, Llywelyn took Griffith’s finger into the wet heat of his mouth, not moving his gaze from Griffith’s eyes. Though he remembered, with clarity, Llywelyn administering similar attention to his prick, the gesture wasn’t sexual. It felt like a gift. Like Llywelyn painted over the taint with a new memory.
Griffith would remember the peace of Llywelyn’s face, the heat of his mouth, the weight of his body. The gentle pressure of their intertwined fingers. Sunlight in Llywelyn’s hair. The smell of sleep and sweat, and the sound of rain. Griffith closed his eyes and breathed the moment in.
Llywelyn released Griffith’s finger, dropping a kiss on top. Griffith opened his eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
Llywelyn grinned. “Is that all I get?”
“Egoist. I love you like Rhys loved Meinir, like Rhiannon loved Pwyll, like—”
“Those stories don’t end well, you know.”
“I thought declarations of love weren’t for interrupting?” Griffith asked, playing at haughty.
When Llywelyn kissed him, their matching smiles made it awkward and perfect. The birds started squawking again, no doubt chastising them for frittering time as Yule approached. But what did they know. They weren’t in love.
Griffith tugged Llywelyn closer. Yule could wait one more morning.
Chapter Eight
Ifanwy paced, impatience rolling from her like smoke. Though the main hall under the Hywel hill was large, she seemed to fill all of it. Sat by the wall, Llywelyn itched with the need to make himself small, to get a little breathing room. He was too nervous to smoke, even. Their mother waited beside him in her wolf form, ears pricked forward. Llywelyn wanted to curl at her feet, as when he was a child, but she hadn’t looked to him with anything more than animal recognition in weeks. She was losing herself to the wolf.
Of the remaining Hywel family, one was lost to grief, one to anger, one to love. Then there was him. If Llywelyn had to choose, he’d journey Angharad’s path. At least she was safe with her human, as much as her absence pained him.
He’d wanted to see Angharad when he crossed the boundary, but feared something going awry. That magic would think he preferred the village and trap him there, or drop protection completely. Magic seemed capricious, of late, and he didn’t dare try alone. But perhaps he’d try again. With Griffith’s help, he could be brave enough.
It mightn’t be so bad, if he were trapped in Aberarth with Griffith.
“And what are you happy about, brother?” Ifanwy snapped, tired of pacing and in search of a target. “Where’s your boy? He said he’d be here with the dark of the moon.”
Llywelyn bristled at “your boy,” though surely his scent told enough of the story to make protesting pointless. Wolves had never cared as much as humans about the form love took; more of a problem Griffith was human, than his being another man. But Ifanwy had yet to speak against Griffith, and so no one else dared.
“He’ll be here.”
Another of Griffith’s ideas. He wanted to try the warden ceremony, as he had wanted to try for y
ears. Llywelyn had taken the idea to his alpha and she’d acquiesced. Foolish for Griffith to tie himself to a dying pack, but in truth they needed all the help magic could offer. Especially with magic awake once more, capricious or not. Increased strength was worth the risk of something going wrong.
Again.
Though the hounds had worked, he conceded. Ghostly illusions of fine white creatures with red ears and terrible howls had haunted the area for days. Llywelyn heard them hunting and hoped they found Morgan’s dreams, as he unerringly found Griffith’s.
Llywelyn’s teeth ached with the need to sink them into Morgan’s flesh. He had yet to see the man, but would know him when he did. Emery and his wolves had worried the lines near incessantly since they met at the shore, but Morgan had stayed behind. Griffith claimed it as a victory for his hounds, but Llywelyn remained unsure. From what he’d heard, Morgan didn’t seem the type to give up what he considered his.
Which led them to the ceremony.
Around the edge of the hall, Efa and Bethan shifted. More with nerves than impatience. They’d heard from their new pack but opted to remain until Yule, to bolster the dregs of the pack. And Jonno had returned, saying the eerie cry of the hounds made him worry as he’d waited in Lampeter. Even after learning they were one of Griffith’s wardings, he hadn’t left. When Llywelyn asked about the boundary, Jonno had shrugged and said he hadn’t thought about the obstacle until he’d crossed.
The Hywel pack was made of fools. Llywelyn loved each one of them, almost as fiercely as he loved Griffith.
He jerked from his thoughts when a familiar scent reached his nose, and saw the others do the same, turning toward the hall entrance as Griffith stepped through with a sheepish smile on his face. Griffith gestured to the person following, saying, “I can explain—”
“Angharad,” Ifanwy breathed.
Llywelyn scrambled gracelessly to his feet, getting dirt under his nails and doubtlessly smearing it over his face as he wiped his eyes. Months since he’d seen her. Since he’d smelled her linen-and-coal scent. Something clicked into place in his chest, like a key in a lock.
