by Lyra Evans
Oliver nodded to Rory, his hand reaching out to smooth over Connor’s back.
“Don’t worry about that,” Rory said. “We take care of family. And you’re both family. So we’ll do whatever it takes to get your name clear and find justice for Logan.” With a flourish, Rory turned and dropped down on the couch. Oliver and Connor followed her after a beat, dropping down to rest finally. Oliver’s entire body ached with the desperate escape. “And besides,” Rory added, “the amazing inside scoop I’m going to get from this whole thing is going to make my career.”
Oliver snorted a laugh and shook his head, his eyes falling closed for a moment. “So what now, then?” he asked, unsure of what to do in a circumstance like this. He’d never been on the run before.
“Well, there’s only one thing I can think of until we get more information,” Rory said, suddenly perking up. The glint in her eye made Oliver uneasy. “You’re hiding out in Maeve’s Court, after all, so as I see it,” she paused, “you’re going to need makeovers.”
Chapter 5
Rory’s closet was approximately the size of Oliver’s entire apartment back in Nimueh’s Court. The tiny two-bedroom place he called home seemed almost embarrassing compared to Rory’s home in Maeve’s Court. She lived with him half of her time, taking up the second bedroom and allowing him to manage the rent and utilities, but Oliver could never quite understand why she’d agreed to live with him in the first place. Her room there was barely large enough to fit a bed and a dresser. She had bookshelves put up all along the walls, taking up every inch of free space she could to display her ever-growing collection of novels. And the closet in that room was little more than a sliding door covering an awkwardly designed alcove.
Her room at her parents’ place was—palatial. The bedroom fit a king-sized bed comfortably at its centre, raised atop a platform as though it was floating. There was a vanity to one side with small padded benches and personal lights and magnifying mirrors. Rory’s collection of makeup and hair supplies was arranged in neat displays across the surface of the vanity, and Oliver was sure, in the various drawers. The bookshelves were neatly organized, though less populated than her stash at Oliver’s place. There was even two different sets of reading nooks. One was set into massive bay window that overlooked the cove and ocean below. The bench was covered in pillows and a thick, fluffy, folded blanket. The other was nearer the bookshelves. Rather, it was atop them. The bookshelves were affixed to a ladder that led to a seemingly floating platform that doubled as a lounge chair. Along the walls surrounding the platform, indented shelves contained a tiny garden of succulent plants.
The closet was another room entirely, and the centre was occupied by ottomans and cushioned benches. To either side of the benches were racks and racks of shoe drawers, arranged in terms of style, colour, and season. To either side of both shoe racks were the racks of clothing. Rory had enough clothing to furnish a department store, and Oliver noticed, at least half of the clothes were meant for men. A cursory second look at the shoes confirmed there were also men’s shoes. In a corner was a wall of accessories, with jewellery, bags, scarves, and headpieces mixed in among ties, cufflinks, tie clips, pocket squares, watches, and sunglasses. Oliver assumed the sunglasses were also for women, but he brushed the thought aside.
“Why do you have a Lacey’s Clothing Department in your bedroom, Ror?” Oliver asked, trying to seem unimpressed. He’d never been in her closet before. He’d never really had a need to, if he thought about it.
“I’m preparing for the fashion-pocalypse,” she said. “A girl’s got to be prepared for every eventuality.” Oliver stared at her.
Connor, meanwhile, looked stony as ever, but his eyes travelled up and down the racks of clothing with the slow deliberation of someone assessing a problem.
“You realize I’m slightly taller than you, yes?” Connor asked, his words an emotionless drawl. Rory rolled her eyes.
“These aren’t my clothes,” she said. “Well, not all of them. Since Oli came into my life, I’ve been collecting clothes, here and there, in his size in case he ever needed some when he was here. And when you wandered into his life, and consequently mine, I started doing the same for you. I’ve got supplies for all of my friends here, in case they ever need them. Like I said, I like to be prepared.”
Oliver’s disbelief melted to a smile. His chest ached slightly, though he tried to shake it off. The relationship he shared with Rory was a peculiar mix of light-hearted insults, rampant sarcasm, and desperate loyalty. But they were rarely very mushy with one another. Declarations of love were more likely to be accompanied with a barb and a punch to the arm than a hug or weepy promises.
Walking over to the racks, Oli noticed some of them had names. Finding his own name, he stood before it appraisingly.
“Prepared for what, exactly?” he asked, plucking at a pair of ass-less chaps in real leather and a pair of hot-pants made entirely of sequins. He cast her a look, and the cat-like grin she offered in return told him at least half of the clothing on his rack was meant as a joke.
“You never know when you’ll have to go undercover in Maeve’s Court as a go-go dancer or a high-end escort.” Oliver pulled a face. “Okay, middle-of-the-range escort.”
Connor seemed to have found his own name atop a rack of clothing. His long fingers slid across the length of a pant leg, taking in the fabric. “And I’m to be undercover as what, precisely?”
Rory turned to him, and Oliver sensed the coolness on the air. He was normally full of mischief when Rory was around, always willing to join in with her ploys. But he’d just lost someone important to him, and he was a fugitive. They both were. And Oliver still found it difficult to remember that. But Connor—Connor couldn’t seem to forget.
“Oh, don’t worry so much,” she said, brushing off his tone. She pushed by him and began rifling through the clothes on the rack. “You just need clothes to fit in here. Disguises, I guess.” She pulled a pair of torn white skinny jeans and a stretched pink and purple tank top with the words Deal Me across the chest. The armholes were cut so low, the shirt was more of a smock fastened together at the waist. Connor stared at the clothes. Rory raised her eyebrows, and Oliver sensed an impasse.
“I would never wear that,” he said after a moment, when it became clear Rory saw no issue at all with the clothing.
She snorted. “Of course not, that’s the point. These clothes are so far outside your style that even without any other changes no one would look at you and think ‘Werewolf Alpha’.”
With another shrug and a push toward Connor, she pressed the clothes to his chest and dropped them. He caught them reflexively, still apparently disturbed by her choices. Oliver fought the smile growing on his face, trying to remember the seriousness of their situation. When Rory turned on him, his face fell.
She nudged him aside with her hip and began sorting through the options. “Too dominatrix, too sub, too actual Oliver, too Connor,” she said to herself, flipping through items as though through a catalogue. “Ah. Here’s an option.” She held out a pair of strange, khaki-coloured linen pants that only went down to about mid-calf and a button-up tank-top in a faded plaid. It was the strangest set of clothes Oliver had ever seen, though they did seem to go together somehow.
“So I’m supposed to look like a lumberjack?” Oliver said, taking the clothes and testing the pants against his waist. They looked like they’d be about as tight as if Oliver were to put on Rory’s leggings. “An impractical lumberjack?”
Rory considered him. “Pretty much.” She went to search through the accessories corner and returned with a slouchy grey beanie and thick, horn-rimmed glasses for Oliver, as well as a thick wristband and pair of rainbow-tinted sunglasses for Connor.
“I’ll leave you both to change, then,” she said. Walking out the closet door with a little skip, Rory wiggled her fingers as she disappeared. “It’s like having dolls again.”
Oliver frowned at the closing door. When he turned back it
was to find Connor staring blindly at the clothes in his hands. As though he wasn’t seeing anything at all in the room, Connor’s jaw twitched, the muscle bulging, and his forehead wrinkled. He sniffed the clothes a moment, holding them up to his nose as though he needed the proximity to get the scent of them, then tossed them aside onto one of the benches. Oliver looked down at his own outfit, and with a sigh, he set them down on a bench and walked over to Connor.
Pressing his hands gently to Connor’s waist, his fingers running up his sides, Oliver looked up at his lover, the man that should have been his mate by now, and searched his eyes. Slowly, as though returning from a long distance away, Connor’s vision focused on Oliver directly in front of him. The steel blue was clearer now than it had been, but he still held something back from Oliver.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said, because there was nothing else to say. He took Connor’s hands in his own and pressed them to his lips in soft, reverent kisses. “I’m sorry for Logan. I know what he meant to you. To everyone. I’m sorry.”
A cloud passed over them, and Connor’s expression recoiled. He screwed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth and shaking his head. But he dropped his head slightly, the line of his body sagging almost imperceptibly into Oliver.
“I’ve lost so much,” Connor breathed, “so many loved ones and friends in such a short time.” The memory of months prior, the investigation into serial murders in Logan’s Court, resurfaced in Oliver’s mind. All the victims had been members of Connor’s pack, friends of his, Wolves he cared about. And they’d all been killed by Oliver’s ex-boyfriend and almost-fiance, a Fae named Sky Hawthorne. All those men, cut down for nothing more than their connection to Connor, to Oliver, still haunted Oliver. He caught the killer, sure, and Sky was dead now for his trouble, but none of that brought back the lives lost. Catching a killer never made the victim more alive. Nothing could. “I just keep losing people,” Connor said, “only since I met you.”
Oliver winced as though he’d been punched, his stomach crumpling beneath the impact of words he wasn’t sure how to take. What was he to do with that? Did Connor think it was Oliver’s fault all those people were dead? That Logan was dead?
“I just have to keep giving up people,” Connor went on, pressing his forehead to Oliver’s, “to be with you the way I want to be. To be free, with you.”
Oliver nuzzled Connor gently. He’d bear the weight of Connor’s pain for now. He’d take it, whatever it was. Because, Oliver realized, this wasn’t about him. Connor loved him, he was sure. Sure as the tides would come in, as the winter would return, as water ran downhill. There wasn’t a doubt in his heart that Connor loved him.
“And we should have been celebrating by now,” Connor said, pressing himself closer to Oliver. His hands found their way around Oliver’s waist, sliding their hips together. Connor nuzzled Oliver back, their lips now only breaths apart. “We should be bonded, forever and to the core. We should be celebrating that now, in front of everyone, showing the world. Instead of hiding here, away from everyone, trying to look like people not ourselves.”
Oliver tilted his head up just enough to close the distance between their lips. He kissed Connor slowly, softly, and breathed him in. “I know,” Oliver said. “I know. I want to be bonded so badly. I want us to be one.” His fingertips drew lines up Connor’s back and neck, sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging lightly at it, pulling him in. “You don’t deserve this.”
Connor shook his head minutely. “You don’t deserve this,” he said, and he pulled Oli into another kiss, this one deeper, more forceful than the last. “I wanted you so badly from the moment I saw you in the clearing. I wanted to lay you down on the stone and make love to you in front of everyone. I wanted to bury myself deep in you, to feel you all around me, until we could never be parted. Under the Black Moon, you would have been mine.”
Chest heaving, Oliver flattened himself against Connor, arching his back until he was flush against Connor’s chest. “Yes,” he breathed, sucking Connor’s mouth into a bruising kiss. “I am yours.”
And Connor inhaled into the kiss, drawing Oliver in, letting his tongue slide over Oliver’s to taste him fully, to connect in him. Oliver gasped into the embrace as Connor ground his hips into Oliver’s, their erections aligning for a moment of intense friction. Hands pressed roughly against his back, urging him against Connor, again and again, until Oliver pulled away with all the strength in him. His gaze with Connor’s, lost in the blue, Oliver kissed him once more, briefly.
“Let me,” he whispered and sank slowly down to his knees. Connor’s hands followed him down, dragging up his sides and shoulders, then carding through his hair. Oliver planted a line of kisses down Connor’s chest and stomach, stopping at his navel to suck languorously at the skin, coating it with his tongue. His hands played at the ties to Connor’s calfskin pants, unlacing them and drawing them down, inch by inch. As he did, the bruise blossoming at Connor’s hip became more visible. It followed the line of his hipbone, spreading like spilled ink over his upper-leg.
Oliver drew his fingers lightly over the skin, a feather-light massage, then pressed insubstantial kisses to the injury. He kissed the line of the bruise, his other hand pushing Connor’s pants down to his ankles, and made his way smoothly to Connor’s bobbing cock. His lips to the tip, peppering it with tiny kisses, Oliver looked up at Connor. Only once he held Connor’s gaze did Oliver’s lips part, taking Connor into his mouth.
Connor moaned, leaning his head back against the rack of clothes. The hangers clinked together, drawing across the metal rod, and the clothing crumpled behind him. Oliver hummed into his movements, laving his tongue flat against the shaft of Connor’s cock, and hollowing his cheeks with every upward stroke. Hands in Oliver’s hair, tugging at the messy locks, Connor began bucking into Oliver’s mouth. Oliver let him, adjusting as he needed to accommodate the full length of Connor’s erection. He sucked and licked spiralling circles around Connor’s cock until Connor tensed, his back arching and his mouth parted. Connor moaned a low exhale as he came down Oliver’s throat, his hands grasping tightly to Oliver’s hair.
Oliver sucked down the climax, swallowing as it came, and let Connor’s slowly softening cock slip out of his mouth. Licking his lips, Oliver looked up at his lover, running his palms over Connor’s thighs. Connor watched him, his gaze half-lidded and sated, his chest heaving.
“You are gorgeous,” Connor said. “Brilliant. Everything,” And Connor drew Oliver to his feet, walking him carefully back until his knees hit the edge of a bench. Oliver felt himself fall back onto the bench and watched Connor dropping to his knees. He slipped off Oliver’s thin cotton pants, and Oliver’s hard cock sprang up, barely contained by the fabric of the pants. Connor kicked out of his own pants and cast them aside.
He pulled Oliver into an awkward kiss, then placed his palm flat against Oliver’s stomach and pressed him back against the bench. Connor spread Oliver’s legs, settling between them, and lowered his head to Oliver’s cock. He flicked his tongue at the head, into the slit, and around the crown. Oliver exhaled a breathy sound and spread his legs further.
Long fingers drawing down Oliver’s stomach, Connor brought them to his mouth and sucked slowly on his index and middle fingers. He licked them masterfully, coating them with spit, and then pressed the tip of his index to Oliver’s hole. As he pushed it in, painfully slowly, Connor leaned down and took Oliver’s cock into his mouth. He sucked and bobbed, drinking Oliver in as his fingers probed into Oliver.
Oli threw his head back, moaning and bucking, desperate in only minutes, yearning for more. He thrust into Connor’s mouth, his thighs spread so wide it hurt, and pulsed around Connor’s finger. Then Connor added another finger, and another, until he’d stretched Oliver wide with four fingers pushing into him. Oliver reached down with one hand, burying his fingers in Connor’s soft hair. The other hand combed into Oliver’s hair, pushing his messy locks back from his forehead. He arched his back and t
hrust faster and faster into Connor’s mouth as Connor’s fingers found his prostate.
A cloud of fireflies burst behind Oliver’s eyes, his mouth wide and begging mindlessly for Connor to give him more, to fuck him harder, and Oliver came wildly down Connor’s throat. He felt himself pulsing, trembling, as Connor swallowed and stroked his spent cock. He leaned back on his knees, eying Oliver. Oliver ran a hand up and down Connor’s arm, barely able to manage to lift his head.
Pressing a soft kiss to Oliver’s hipbone, Connor laid his head against Oli.
“You haven’t asked,” Connor said, and Oliver shook his head.
“Asked what?”
Connor smiled and pushed himself up to his feet. “If I had anything to do with it.”
The hazy post-coital spell broken, Oliver blinked at him. His heart swelled with every glance at Connor, with every touch. He sat himself up.
“I don’t have to,” he said. Connor smiled again and kissed Oliver once more, the deepest flavours of them both mingling on Oliver’s tongue. Connor picked up his clothes and turned to put them on. As he did, Oliver’s eyes fell on the deep scratch mark across Connor’s right, outer-thigh. As though it had been made by claws.
Chapter 6
When Oli and Connor emerged from the closet, Rory was curled up in her bay window, a book in hand and headphones perched on her ears. It took a moment for her to notice them beyond the pages of her book, but when she did, she perked up and set it aside. A pleased grin spreading across her face, Rory appraised their new looks.
Trying to ignore the voice at the back of his mind that told him Rory planned their quickie in the closet, Oliver squirmed on the spot. He was uncomfortable in these clothes. The slouchy beanie was comfortable enough, half-propped on his tousled hair, but it was about twenty degrees too hot outside in Maeve’s Court for a beanie. And the glasses, though the lenses were clear, felt awkward on his face. He kept blinking into them. The plaid shirt and pants fit well, but Oliver felt strangely costumed in it.
