Primal Need: A Sexy Male/Male Shifter Anthology: Wolf in King's ClothingThe Alpha's ClaimDark Water

by Parker Foye

  He drummed his claws over his chest, where the pocket with the paper pressed against his heart. One good deed. One lost cub to bring home, and Kent would be free.

  I’m coming for you, Hadrian.

  * * *

  Train whistle. Slowing to take the bend. Bridge ahead. The noise changed to a shallow sound. Hush of rain over the carriage. Kent shouldered open the luggage carriage door and squinted through the drizzle, trying to choose a good place to land. Didn’t seem to be any, aside from the overgrown verge alongside the tracks, flattened by the steady drizzle. It’ll have to do.

  Just make sure not to land on the tracks. Broken bones take too long to heal.

  Keeping the door open with one arm, Kent crouched for a jump. When the train started to curve on the bend, he leapt.

  Ow fuck shit Jesus Christ that hurts.

  Eventually he stopped. Panted shallow breaths. Wheezed slightly. Slept in a ditch until the sun began its downward journey. Pushed himself to his feet and started walking. The rain didn’t stop. His aches turned numb with cold.

  Wolf packs burrowed into the hills, building elaborate structures into the earth over decades, expanding their territory with pack numbers. Kent had heard stories about packs when he was a kid, when his family travelled down from the highlands with only legends to keep them warm; later, when he never had a roof for more than two days at a time, he’d wished he could build a wolf den in the city. As an adult, with Annie’s roof to keep him dry, he thought living in the hills must be what death felt like. Surrounded on all sides with dirt, no sun, no air, nowhere to run. Tombs.

  If Kent had the chance, he’d live at the top of the hill like a god damned king. Not a prince.

  Kent had been named “Prince” in the orphanage, when they’d sentenced him to a cold cell in the guise of saving him. He’d bedded down near a rich neighbourhood, too stupid to know better, and they’d dragged the nameless stray in to teach him right. Clipped his claws, hobbled him with shoes, operated—Kent shuddered at the memory, dusty though it was. Some travelling ha’penny warden had spelled the collar on, said it would keep the feral kid controlled under the pull of the moon. Kent hadn’t the words to protest he wasn’t a fucking wolf and didn’t need binding, still howling as the warden tipped his hat and took his bits of silver.

  Matron had sewn Prince on the collar like it was her right. The name of her dog, she’d said, eyes hard like a smack. Matron had been first to look him in the eye and call him “dog.” She wouldn’t be the last.

  He’d become Kent when Tabitha made him choose his own name. Said that’s what people did. Kent didn’t know. He knew he’d been “son,” once, and “best beloved,” but sickness took his human mother and winter turned his wolf father cold, and when Matron had demanded his name, he’d had none to give. Maybe Kent hadn’t been a person, then. Maybe grief and the city had turned him into something new, even as the moon continued to refuse him.

  Tabitha had never asked why the moon didn’t affect him like it should. Even bound, the moon should have called to him. Tormented him. She’d not been raised on stories about half-shifters with one body for their twin nature, caught between two possible lives and too mad for either. Kent wouldn’t be the one to tell her. Legends had taken enough from him already.

  His fingers drifted to the collar where letters remained in indentations, though he’d long since clawed away the stitches. He yanked his hand away when his claws brushed his throat. Concentrate. Today is for Hadrian. The past is buried.

  As the wolves were buried, deep in their tombs. Kent bared his teeth. He’d finally found the pack lands, following the tracks of those gone before. Keeping his distance, Kent listened for patrols. He followed their blood-and-earth-scent trails to the centre they circled, the pearl in the oyster of the north.

  With the rain to disguise his scent, and trees to skulk behind, no one called an alarm as Kent watched the pattern of coming and going. Three entrances into the hill. Wooden dwellings of differing size nearby. For visitors? Cooking meat hung thick in the air, along with the scent of bodies living together, and Kent’s nose itched. He missed the smoke-sweat stench of his city.

  The rain began to thin and full dark dropped quickly, only a few gas lanterns to beat it back. He had to make his move. A small cabin set alone seemed the likeliest location for Hadrian, with two wolves stationed outside, rotating to change guard on the doors, and a solitary light within. No coming. No going.

  Kent checked his knives—thigh, ankle, wrist, the small of his back—and flexed his fingers to check his claws. He yanked off his boots, setting them under a fallen log, and dug his toes into the mulchy ground. Easier to run without boots keeping him pinned.

  Easier to lose himself too. Not tonight. Keep present.

  Expelling a breath, Kent sank low and stole across the clearing toward the cabin, his footfall silent on the soft earth. The guard at the rear of the cabin saw him too late, and Kent had his claws to the man’s throat, his other hand over his mouth, before any sound could escape. Kent toyed with the idea of killing the guard, for efficiency, but the man didn’t deserve to die for being lousy at his job.

  Kent’s heart pounded in his ears as he waited for the man to stop struggling against oxygen deprivation. The damn wolf was almost twice Kent’s size. Will you please—fucking—finally. Kent checked for a pulse—present—and glanced around in case of movement from the other guard. Nothing. A handful of minutes before the second guard cornered the cabin.

  A few minutes should be enough.

  Fishing through his inside pocket, Kent withdrew a warding. A small card of heavy stock, inlaid with a gold filigree design not unlike a compass, stinking of old blood. The edges were foxed from frequent use, as Kent had never met a lock he didn’t prefer open. A minor magic, the warding was good for several uses.

  He pressed the card to the cabin door, bit open his thumb on his canine teeth and smeared the design with blood. The lock clicked. Holding his breath, Kent listened for movement. Hearing none, he pocketed the card and opened the door, stepping inside and closing the door quietly behind him.

  Single bed. Gas lantern turned low. Table. Chairs. Pail of water. Dried herbs lining the windows. Writing desk.

  Hadrian, the man from Tabitha’s paper whose image Kent had checked and rechecked on the journey north: strong unshaven jaw, clever eyes, smart beard, reddish-brown hair grown slightly too long for its neat parting, broad shoulders and tapered waist. A scar bisecting his left eyebrow.

  The gun was new. A fucking Luger.

  Almost as startling was Hadrian’s scent. The ocean, wild and cold, like it was on the northern coast. Salt spray and biting winds. Rolling waves spitting with froth. The edge of the world.

  Wrong-footed, resisting the urge to take lungfuls of that scent, Kent held out his hands. Water dripped down his face from his hair, but he didn’t dare move to scrape it back. He wetted his lips. Stupid they were dry with the rest of him soaked to the bone.

  “Rescue you,” he rasped. Wished his mouth knew more words.

  Rescue both of us.

  * * *

  Hadrian gestured with the pistol, unused to holding it. He took in the bedraggled intruder, tangled hair obscuring his face, mud coating his body. With the dark and dirt, Hadrian could distinguish little else about the intruder apart from—good god, were those claws? His lip curled at the sight. Parochial wolves had no respect. Barging in on another’s territory without an invitation was the height of bad manners.

  “I don’t need rescuing. And certainly not by the likes of you.” Hadrian sniffed. “What are you meant to be?”

  Where were his guards? They’d had Hadrian in the miserable little hut for days, ostensibly for his own protection. Dangerous lands up north, they’d said, swapping his “untested” retinue for the pistol and their own wolves, while they arranged the venue for negotia
tions between their packs. He’d been alarmed at first, but if the pup dripping before him was the worst the north could produce, Hadrian rather thought the locals had been exaggerating the perils.

  Though the pup had bypassed the guards.

  Perhaps Hadrian should call for assistance. To eject the intruder, if nothing else.

  A flicker of the lantern drew Hadrian’s attention to the pup’s ears and only good breeding stopped him gawking. What on earth? Curiosity made him take half a step forward, stumbling back when his vision blurred from the burst of speed as the pup rushed across the room and snatched the pistol from Hadrian’s lax grip. He dropped it carelessly to the table, making Hadrian wince, and withdrew something from his pocket. Fragrant spices perfumed the air. They made Hadrian think of Christmas, the family gathered around the hearth. His father laughing.

  “All shall be well, and all shall be well,” his father used to say, cheeks flushed with brandy. “And all manner of thing shall be well.”

  Hadrian hadn’t thought about that for years.

  “Rescue you,” the pup repeated. He needed hot lemon and honey for his damn throat.

  Irritated, Hadrian set his jaw. “I don’t—”

  Whatever the pup held, it made Hadrian’s eyes sting as he raised it. He couldn’t focus. Was it a calling card? Questions died on Hadrian’s lips as the pup snatched his hand and slapped the card into it, smearing it with his blood. Hadrian wanted to recoil but his limbs were sluggish. As lead as bullets. As hot as coals.

  Hadrian feared fire. He knew what it could do.

  “I say, you can’t—”

  Fire rose through Hadrian’s veins and into his mind. Consumed it.

  Hadrian turned to ash.

  * * *

  Hadrian fell silent as the compulsion warding took hold, his clever eyes glazing over. He would remain silent unless Kent ordered otherwise.

  Stomach twisting, Kent curled Hadrian’s unresisting fingers around the card.

  “Hold.”

  Hadrian obeyed, and Kent led him to the rear door, listening briefly before unlocking it and propelling Hadrian outside. They had seconds at most.

  “See trees?” At Hadrian’s silent nod, Kent released his wrist. “Run.”

  Hadrian took off like the hounds of hell bayed at his heels. Three strides into his own run, a howl erupted in Kent’s wake as the second guard found her unconscious companion. More howls chorused around the cabins and deep in the hill, like the dead wanted his blood and would take it by force.

  They couldn’t have it.

  Kent ducked his head and put on another burst of speed, dirt flying behind him as he headed for the trees. They could lose the pack if they kept moving, if they crossed the river, if they met the night train on the way down from Edinburgh. Too many ifs. Time for something certain. Catching up to Hadrian, Kent snarled for attention and got it from glassy eyes.

  “Follow,” he said. Ordered. “Run.”

  Hadrian’s answering nod made guilt roil in Kent’s gut, sickened by the strength of the compulsion on Hadrian’s will, but he swallowed it down. Time enough for guilt when they were on the train. Kent would have the luxury to spend long years feeling guilty when he was free.

  Tonight, he ran.

  Chapter Two

  They outran the pack, albeit barely, and struggled aboard the sleeper train from Scotland to London. Thankfully the strikes were over, otherwise they’d have been dog food. Kent found use for his unlocking warding, as he often did, and ordered Hadrian to bed down in the luggage carriage. Familiar with such limited luxuries, even Kent found their current accommodations lacking, though of course Hadrian wouldn’t notice shit unless Kent wanted. Huffing out a breath, Kent wrapped his arms around his legs and huddled in the dark corner by the door, mud flaking from his toes as it dried. He missed his dry boots, abandoned in their hasty retreat.

  Hadrian snuffled in his sleep like a pup in a pile. Kent’s lips twitched at the noise, and he flattened his mouth into a line, nipping his lower lip to keep it still. He hunched his shoulders, trying to repress shudders; cold had him in its fist, but he couldn’t shed layers to dry more quickly. Vulnerability didn’t assist a rescue, especially with a reluctant rescuee. And what had Hadrian meant, he didn’t need rescuing? Why would Tabitha send Kent to the north for abduction and not directly state that was his task? She hadn’t smelled like lies. And he’d done worse before.

  Unease curdled in Kent’s stomach like old milk. Getting to his feet, he approached the still-snuffling Hadrian and watched him for a moment. Hadrian had a handful of years and a foot on Kent’s stunted growth, probably fed well on wild things, but curled in sleep he seemed puppyish. Kent wondered if anyone had ever seen him sleep and thought he looked anything as innocent. Unlikely.

  He gently toed Hadrian’s hands, tucked beneath his head. When Hadrian didn’t react, Kent crouched down to retrieve the warding, gripping it with the edge of his claws. Having fed the compulsion, the blood had disappeared from the cardstock, and the clove-smell faded with it. Shivering, Kent tucked the card away with his other. He wouldn’t use it again.

  He stretched, bones cracking, and swayed with the movement of the train. He caught himself watching Hadrian sleep and stalked to the other end of the carriage. Not what you’re paid for. Bad enough he’d stolen Hadrian. No need to loom over him like a vulture eyeing a carcass.

  Why do you care?

  Be quiet.

  The aftereffects of the compulsion should keep Hadrian out for hours, which meant a thankfully quiet journey, at least for a while. Though being in close quarters with Hadrian’s sea-scent grew tiring. Kent was drowning in it.

  Kent paced the carriage for long minutes and told himself to be grateful for the reprieve until, disgusted with himself, he abandoned the luggage compartment in search of food. Most arguments in Kent’s life were borne from a lack of something. He reasoned food was in his power to find and might forestall some of the inevitable shouting from Hadrian. The sleeper train would have enough passengers with divided attention for Kent to use his large pockets and quick hands. He’d make do.

  Pockets stuffed with purloined sandwiches and bottles of pop from the well-dressed family sleeping two carriages along, Kent’s nose twitched as he returned to the luggage carriage. He could smell smoke and wet green things. Blood-and-earth underneath like a struck note. The northern pack.

  Idiot-idiot-fucking-idiot. He stopped outside the carriage door, heart beating fit to burst, and listened.

  “He should come back with us, we’ll keep him right,” a strange wolf said. Scuffle of noise and ripped cloth, like he’d tugged Hadrian and Hadrian refused to move. Dead weight? “After the ship—”

  “I think not.” Hadrian. Apparently Kent had grossly underestimated Hadrian’s healing ability. “That lunatic said he was rescuing me. Can you imagine?”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Do you think such a creature would travel north of its own will? That it could? Someone ordered him to find me.”

  A muscle ticced in Kent’s jaw. Not a creature or a lunatic. But Hadrian seemed to be saying he wouldn’t go with the pack member. Which meant Kent might get his collar off if he—

  A yell from inside the carriage and patter of feet. Too many for two people. Idiot!

  Kent burst into the carriage, wood splintering as he yanked the door too hard. A sliver of light from the next carriage outlined the smoke-scent wolf with claws to Hadrian’s throat, another with a thin blade and teeth bared. Darkness swallowing the far end. But wolves didn’t need more than the moon to see.

  Nor did Kent.

  “Is this the one?” Smoke asked, jutting his chin at Kent.

  Blade scoffed. “He’s just some mutt.”

  Ignoring their derision, Kent dropped his coat with its laden pockets, kicking it
to the corner. Blade raised her knife in warning, and Kent shifted his weight with the movement of the train. He knew the route. Knew the turns. Did the wolves? He glanced at Hadrian and felt his ears twitch to find Hadrian looking back. Lounging casual in Smoke’s arms like he didn’t care about the claws at his throat.

  Kent cared. Those claws would not bleed his payday.

  He twisted his back foot, Blade’s only warning, and leapt across the carriage with claws raised.

  “Mother of god!” Smoke yelled, tugging Hadrian back.

  Blade merely grunted and raised her knife to parry Kent’s strike. Blood bloomed across his knuckles as he knocked away her lunge and grabbed for her throat. She twisted aside and his hand closed on air. Fast. Very fast.

  When Blade recovered to attack again, Kent absorbed her kick to his stomach and grabbed her foot, yanking her off balance. She yelped as she hit the floor and Kent followed with a heel strike to her midsection, using the moment of disorientation to knock her knife aside. His own knives remained strapped in place, but he didn’t reach for them. No need for only two opponents. Claws were enough.

  Claws and the bridge at Pike Bend.

  Kent retreated across the carriage toward the broken door as Blade rained a storm of blows on his face and torso. Her claws raked across his arm, surprise flickering across her hard face when she caught the knife strap at his wrist. Taking advantage of her stumble, Kent grabbed Blade’s arms, spinning her back to the open door. He shoved her and jumped into a kick, striking Blade in the chest with enough power to propel her from the carriage. Her howl cut off short.

  Panting, Kent checked out the door and swore under his breath. Too early. He’d missed the bridge and got the verge instead. Blade stumbled to her feet but the train rushed on. Someone else’s problem. Kent returned to the dark carriage where Smoke hadn’t moved his claws from Hadrian’s throat.

  “Now you,” Kent said. Grinned.