by Parker Foye
Creeping thoughts made Kent’s brain itch. He watched the strong lines of Hadrian’s back and shoulders as he braced himself on the hearth, as if he might climb in. Disappear like a rat up a spout.
Tabitha couldn’t know of Hadrian’s talent. She never would’ve taken the contract, for one. Hadrian challenged her by breathing. She wouldn’t want him in York if she knew.
Would she? What had Tabitha said about the contract? Kent pressed his tired brain. She’d shown him the picture. Said to retrieve him. That was all. Kent had done the rest of the thinking himself, stealing Hadrian from the wolves. Hadrian’s reluctance had only turned to assistance after the pack moved against them. For her part, Tabitha hadn’t said anything about Hadrian being willing.
Shit. I think I fucked up.
* * *
“Kent?”
The new name felt strange on Hadrian’s lips. Like he had been waiting to say it all his life. Kent jerked. Hadrian suppressed a smile and had to bite his lip when Kent scowled. The expression made him seem young, as if caught sneaking treats.
“What are you thinking about?” Hadrian asked.
“Pack in the north. Why?”
“Do you mean why was I there?” Kent nodded. Hadrian was getting the hang of this communication business. He settled by the hearth. “We sent our high alphas on the Titanic to establish links with packs across the water. Then—well, you know. I jumped the ranks after that.”
Eight of their pack dead, including the top three ranking alphas. They were foolish to have travelled together, everyone said when the news came in. Too damn late and now the pack trembled with fractures. Even a firestarter could climb ranks with those odds in his favour, despite general distaste for magically gifted shifters.
They’d sent him away as soon as the invitation arrived, of course, saying it was for his own protection. Hadrian carried the right breeding, but the old wolves itched with unease at his holding power. At his friendship with Felicity. They were terrified of change. On his more generous days, Hadrian didn’t blame them. The twentieth century hadn’t been kind to wolves.
Chewing his lip, Kent touched Hadrian’s knuckles with strange reverence. Hadrian allowed the touch.
Allowed. He welcomed it. Was beginning to crave it.
“This?”
“Is what got me sent north. Rumours of icebreakers on the ship, you see. Turning their skills to the top bidder, to ruin the ship and ensure she sank with those aboard, and using the same skills for safe escape. Whether there’s truth in the rumour, I don’t know.” He rubbed his face. “It doesn’t matter. But the rumours rather made anyone with talent something of a target. When the invitation came in May, I didn’t object to acting as liaison to the north. For my safekeeping, and to help packs draw together. To put aside our differences. The world is changing and we must change with it or be left behind.” Heat rose to Hadrian’s face at Kent’s enraptured expression. He studied his nails, affecting a belated nonchalance. “That sort of thing.”
Kent hugged the blankets close to himself. “They trapped you. Locked away.”
“My venture north met with some mishap, I admit. After some time together, and no progress made, it transpired the pack believed me more valuable as pawn than player. My talent made me a choice bartering tool. I wasn’t ‘trapped’ but—but I don’t think it would have been much longer before my accommodations changed for the worse. My retinue left in midsummer and gifted me the pistol, for protection. I don’t think they believed me much more use than I turned out to be.” Hadrian laughed softly, thinking of Kent dripping in his cabin like a spectre from a story. “I doubt they expected someone like you to appear and steal me away.”
Hadrian expected to exchange a smile with Kent at the idea, as he might with a friend, but when he looked up it was to find Kent flexing his claws in the blankets and his gaze distant. A tear had opened in the uppermost folds. Stomach sinking, Hadrian inched closer.
“Kent, please. Whatever turn your thoughts have taken, steer them back.”
Growling lowly, Kent noticed the tear and smoothed it down. Again. Hadrian captured his hand to stop the compulsive motion. He kept forgetting. They weren’t friends. They didn’t have the same background to draw upon. Indeed, from Hadrian’s observations, they couldn’t have been more disparate members of the same species.
Taking a moment to assemble his thoughts, Hadrian allowed his hand to remain on Kent’s. To his surprise, Kent didn’t tug his hand away. He only glanced at Hadrian from the corner of his eye, like prey might a predator. In case they moved.
Hadrian didn’t want to hunt Kent. He folded his hands in his lap.
“How about we negotiate? You can ask me one question, one that matters, I mean, and I’ll ask in return. You can refuse if you wish and we’ll speak no more of—of any of this. We’ll journey to York and part ways none the worse for our adventure here.”
“Ask about what?”
“Is that agreement?”
Kent ducked his head. “For now.”
“I’ll take it.”
Gaining Kent’s agreement had been more than Hadrian had hoped. He’d thought only to distract Kent from whatever dark paths his mind seemed determined to travel. With the opportunity to ask a question, Hadrian was stymied by possibility. Should he ask about Kent’s history? His work in York? How he’d learned to overcome wolves twice his size? No fighter, Hadrian had been both impressed and alarmed by Kent’s martial proficiency. And jealous. And aroused.
Considering the different options, Hadrian moved the blankets and—with great daring—Kent’s legs, to better make room for himself. Though he had been aware of their size difference, in close quarters Kent seemed smaller still. He might duck beneath Hadrian’s arm if he wanted, and Hadrian would scarcely have to move at all.
What an inopportune thing to realise.
Turning his attention to the moment, and not impossibilities, Hadrian knocked Kent’s bare foot with his booted one. They were both covered in mud from their adventures. Kent wiggled his toes, ensnaring Hadrian’s attention until he cleared his throat, bringing his brain to order.
“Berserkers. You have heard of them, then?”
“Question?”
Another knock of their feet. “Conversation.”
Kent waved his hand, like he could wave away his nature. “Stories.”
“And this?” Hadrian held out his hand between them, concentrating. Fire ran in his veins, a promising simmer he could call forth at will. He’d never been one to show off his gift, however, finding it crass, and so it took a moment before smoke and sparks began to spit from his skin. His fingernails rimed red with heat. He caught Kent’s eye. “Stories?”
* * *
Fire travelled under Hadrian’s skin like blood. Kent wanted to press closer and take the heat for his own. Hadrian’s centre a furnace and Kent the old dog curled up before it. That would be a future worth living long enough to see.
Kent blew out a breath that snuffed Hadrian’s budding flame. His eyes stung at the sudden change in light, and he rubbed at them with his knuckles until red stars blossomed. Opening his eyes, he found Hadrian’s hand had remained between them. Kent folded Hadrian’s fingers to cover his vulnerable palm, patting the top when he finished.
“Secret.” Kent took a breath. Concentrated. “Different to stories. Dangerous.”
Hadrian caught Kent’s fingers lightly in his hand and tapped Kent’s claw with his thumb. “I don’t know. I think stories can be very dangerous. Don’t you?” He looked at Kent from under lowered lashes. “What do you—”
“Question,” Kent interrupted. Matron never had managed to beat in proper manners, after all. And rudeness was better than letting Hadrian continue to look at Kent that way. “Ask.”
Hadrian looked affronted for a minute, like he’d protest, and Kent
reminded himself an alpha firestarter sat beside him. Humouring him. Sweat broke out under the leather of his collar. Finally Hadrian tilted his head in concession, settling against the wall. He tried to knock Kent’s feet again but Kent drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. Protecting his soft belly from pointed questions.
“You must know what I want to ask. It’s about your—what do you call it?”
Kent shrugged a shoulder, sinking farther into his knees. “Blood-rage.”
“Gosh, that’s gruesome. Blood-rage. Well. When that—that happens, I can’t help but notice you don’t go after me. The wolves on the train, and the men at the stables, but not—And I wondered, and this is my question, why that might be?”
You couldn’t have just asked me to suck your prick?
A question for a question. That had been the bargain. And Kent could shirk it, of course he could, what the fuck were gentlemen’s agreements to a stray? Tucked against his knees, he touched his collar, the worn place where the stitching used to be. Because the thing was, the secret thing Kent wouldn’t tell for any amount of money or wardings or beatings, was Kent didn’t want to be a stray. He hated it.
God and all his little pups but Kent wanted to be pack. And finally an alpha had been foolish enough to offer to make Kent wolf, to make him stronger, but Kent had spat in his face. Like it meant nothing. Never mind the bite wouldn’t take, couldn’t possibly. Hadrian had offered.
Kent bit through his trousers and into his knee, sharp points of pain to focus his mind.
“Kent?”
He hadn’t answered. Hadrian said he could refuse to answer, but Kent wanted to roll belly-up for Hadrian. Had wanted to even before learning Hadrian’s status. Something in the blood. Something animal.
And there was the answer to Hadrian’s question, or as close as Kent could get.
Probably wasn’t any truth to know besides Kent being fucked in the head.
Kent rolled his face against his knee to look sideways at Hadrian through slices of his dirty hair. Easier to see Hadrian half-obscured. Safer.
“Your scent. Wanted to protect you.” He licked his teeth, the points of his fangs. Should he say? Hadrian already had enough rope to hang him with. Kent let his lids drop. Dared to say. “Felt like pack.”
Hadrian’s teeth clicked together where he’d already opened his mouth to speak. His gaze went distant and Kent closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see Hadrian turn shadowed when Kent’s presumption sank in.
For three breaths he kept to darkness, ears twitching for the slightest movement from Hadrian, but the soft touch on his cheek still made Kent startle.
He opened his eyes and wished he hadn’t. No wrath but something far worse, and Kent bristled at the soft pity on Hadrian’s face. Yet he did nothing when Hadrian brushed Kent’s hair aside, tucking it behind his ear, like he wanted to see Kent without a veil between them.
What if it isn’t pity?
Kent studied the slope of Hadrian’s collarbones where they were visible through his open shirt. If he struck below, at the chest, he could shatter the bone protecting Hadrian’s heart and crush him to death. If he struck above, at the throat, he could snap Hadrian’s neck or obstruct his airway, let him choke. He could sink his teeth into Hadrian’s wrist, waiting foolishly close to Kent’s face. Strike any number of soft places with fang and claw. Kent ticked off the spots like a teacher at lesson and didn’t move an inch when Hadrian smoothed Kent’s cheekbone with his thumb like he was something precious.
“You could be wolf,” Hadrian said. He didn’t understand. “Let me help with your binding.”
Kent pressed his face to Hadrian’s hand, going hazy as he tried to memorise the touch. “Take you to York. Free anyway.” His eyes snapped open. He can destroy you now. “Wait—don’t—I—”
“I agreed to come with you. I won’t go back on my word, Kent. I promise you.”
Like breaking a promise made to Kent would mean something. Another gentleman’s agreement. Bargains and promises were too rich for Kent, but Hadrian dealt them like cards. Dealt Kent into a game he’d only ever watched through windows.
Kent surged forward like a man possessed. He saw Hadrian’s eyes widen in the instant before their mouths met, before Kent pressed words to Hadrian’s tongue that he might speak them instead. Clearer. Stronger. More eloquent. Kent was eloquent in touches, and he offered them to Hadrian, coaxing and cajoling until Hadrian lay out with Kent on top of him, aligning like a key in a lock. His hair fell in dark curtains when he drew back to appreciate Hadrian’s face.
Hadrian smiled at him. “I can’t say that wasn’t welcome. Will you kiss me again?”
Claws scratching the floor, Kent spoke and sang and gave speeches to Hadrian’s rapt audience. Hadrian’s scent crowded close, a blanket to replace the ones Kent lost when he moved, his warm hands migrating across Kent’s body. Their pricks pressed together in hot lines that made Kent gasp, and he hunted for more touch, more friction, until cold washed across him when Hadrian’s hands slid around Kent’s back to the secret he kept at the base of his spine. Stilled. Like waiting for prey to get used to his presence.
Kent stilled in turn, his prick going soft. His ears twitched. Move or stay?
One breath. Another. Kent nosed under Hadrian’s chin and took lazy lungfuls of his scent, laying heavily on him, seeking closeness instead of sex. He didn’t roll away. Didn’t shake off Hadrian’s touch. He traced patterns on Hadrian’s shirt and waited for the question. Allowed the question to be asked.
Eventually Hadrian’s thumb dipped beneath Kent’s waistband and brushed against the stump.
“What happened here?”
“Conversation?”
“Question.”
“You said one.”
A huff of warm air brushed Kent’s cheek. “Fine. Two.”
“Tail. Warden took it. Long time ago.”
Hadrian’s scent turned sour, and he laid his palm flat on Kent’s back, like otherwise he’d make fists. “Took it?”
“Feral, they said. Wolf. Fix me.”
“But—”
Kent nipped under Hadrian’s jaw. “Two questions done. No more.”
He laid his hand on Hadrian’s hips and curled up more tightly, reaching out to drag a blanket close. Hadrian grunted in defeat and took the far side of the blanket, helping to arrange it to cover them both. When they were done, his arm lay heavy on Kent’s waist. Kent didn’t move it.
* * *
The next day dawned strange, Kent unsure of his limbs like a pup with eyes still closed, Hadrian overcareful with words and action. Something had happened between them more difficult to understand than sex or violence, and Kent didn’t know how to navigate their new dynamic. Decided to ignore it instead.
Once or twice Hadrian seemed to be about to speak, but each time he changed his mind. He spoke in actions instead, taking breakfast and clothing from their hosts and leaving a promissory note in return. Kent shaved with one of his knives and dressed in the secondhand clothes. The cut was constricting, like Sunday clothes, but the way Hadrian looked at him made the tailoring easier to bear. He walked different in the clothes. Like a man might walk.
Hadrian hadn’t taken shoes and hadn’t explained his reasoning. Maybe they weren’t in Kent’s size. Maybe he knew Kent preferred to be barefoot and didn’t mind.
“I’ve never seen anything like you,” Hadrian had said. And “I won’t go back on my word.” He’d shared his fire. He’d held Kent close.
Better not to ask.
They walked brisk and quiet to the next station, the fattening moon keeping them company in the early morning. Hadrian charged first-class tickets to his pack account, all bold with his alpha status clear between them. The ticket attendant cast her eyes at Kent like he must be someone, travelling in such company, tho
ugh she stuttered when Kent flashed his teeth.
The train conductor, helping people find their carriage, had already started to bow before he noticed Kent’s feet. Holding the conductor’s gaze, Kent took the tickets from Hadrian and handed them over. His claws perforated the paper.
“First class. Please.”
Taking the pale conductor’s direction along the carriage, Kent peered into the compartments they passed, watching the people who owned the luggage he usually slept on.
“Not nice to taunt the locals. They don’t know any better,” Hadrian said, checking the compartment signs.
Kent didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to excuse their ignorance. No one had ever excused his.
Once they found the right compartment, Kent settled in to sleep on the short journey home. He wanted to reach York so Hadrian could stop looking at Kent like one of them had missed his chance.
* * *
The train reached York without incident, arriving early in the afternoon. Kent led Hadrian through the warren of the Shambles to Tabitha’s property. Familiar eyes narrowed as he passed, and Kent let his hair fall over his face, his borrowed clothes suddenly uncomfortable, his feet cold without shoes. He ignored Hadrian’s questioning looks. Too many questions asked already.
At Tabitha’s door, Kent shoved his paws in his pockets. Tabitha would be waiting. She’d have heard from her rats by the station and know to expect them. Kent could deliver Hadrian and collect his payment. Break his wardings. Be free.
Instead he tilted his chin at the door. Glanced briefly at Hadrian. “Inside.”
“I see. And will you be accompanying me?”
Kent shook his head. Turned to go. Hadrian shifted his weight; Kent flinched like a cur. With a hiss, Hadrian resettled into his original position. Apologies atrophied on Kent’s tongue. Like everything else did.
He waited with hunched shoulders as Hadrian made his decision. He wanted to turn around, before Hadrian walked away for the last time, and memorise the shape of him. Touch him the way their bodies had touched in the little cottage but Kent had been too damaged to continue. His fingertips stung with caresses never given.
