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

by Parker Foye

  Kent wasn’t a stray. Wasn’t a pup or a mutt. He might have a collar at his throat and gladly go to his knees before the only alpha he’d ever claim as his own, but he wasn’t anyone’s dog to call to heel. No one whistled for him.

  He reached for the fastening of Hadrian’s trousers, his claws indenting the fabric. Hands resting at Hadrian’s belt, he looked at Hadrian from under lowered lashes.

  “Wh-what is this?” Hadrian asked, voice hoarse. Not testing, that time.

  Kent nosed at the soft bulge of Hadrian’s prick, hidden behind the fastening of his trousers. “Suck job.”

  “I don’t—”

  “No lie. You want.” Kent glanced up, worry suddenly catching in his throat. “You do want?”

  “God help me. I want. Please. Please, I—you don’t know how you look, Kent.”

  Repressing a snort—who cared how he looked—Kent licked his lips and unfastened Hadrian’s trousers, untucking his shirt and withdrawing Hadrian’s prick, already red at the tip. Letting his eyes fall shut, giving himself to his appointed task, Kent suckled Hadrian’s prick, nosing deeper until coarse curls tickled his face. He steadied himself with one hand around Hadrian’s calf, careful with claws, the other tangled in the tails of Hadrian’s shirt.

  Taking a breath through his nose, Kent swallowed around Hadrian’s prick until he thought he’d choke, a strangled whine escaping his throat when his airways caught. Heart rabbiting, he heard the fabric of Hadrian’s fine shirt tear, and the savage satisfaction at ruining people things made Kent’s hips jerk. He released Hadrian’s calf to press his hand to his swollen prick, easing the pounding pressure even as he gasped off Hadrian to gulp air.

  “What are you—Oh, fuck.” Hadrian groaned thickly as Kent swallowed him down again, not as deep, working him with his other hand, disentangled from the shredded fabric. Kent bobbed his head and rocked into his own hand, going too far and too fast, gagging when Hadrian moved at the wrong moment. He heard himself whine, and his face lit on fire but he didn’t stop.

  “Kent!” Hadrian made a bitten-off shout as he came in thick pulses into Kent’s waiting mouth. Kent swallowed greedily around Hadrian’s twitching prick, getting messy as spend ran down his chin, into his stubble. He wanted to rub his face in Hadrian’s scent, to claim him, but instead wiped himself and Hadrian clean with long strokes of his tongue until Hadrian twitched away.

  “Sensitive,” he said. Apologised.

  Kent shrugged. He licked the corner of his mouth again, and the side of his hand, and pressed his face into Hadrian’s thigh, gulping lungfuls of Hadrian’s scent as he fisted his own prick, pulling fast and hard the way he liked it. Chasing release. He was close, breath coming harsh, and when Hadrian stroked Kent’s hair with too-warm hands and whispered his name, surrounding him with scent and sound and touch, Kent lost himself in a white-hot rush. He panted against Hadrian’s leg without embarrassment until Hadrian pushed him away, only to drop to his knees beside Kent.

  Hadrian’s cheeks were flush with colour. “That was—That was something. Wasn’t it?”

  Something. Everything.

  Kent wasn’t good for farewells. Didn’t want to linger. He cupped Hadrian’s face and drew a long kiss from his lips, something to remember, and rolled to his feet. He stepped back once. Twice—Hadrian grabbed Kent’s hands and yanked him down to worry the skin around Kent’s collar, skin no one but Kent had touched kindly for years. Kent swayed, kept strong by Hadrian’s grip on his hands, pinned to his waist. But he didn’t feel trapped. He let his head loll back, eyes shut, a moment of indulgence. Surrender.

  Softly, Hadrian smoothed Kent’s hair back and rested his pointy chin on Kent’s shoulder. Under the weight of his gaze, Kent opened his eyes but couldn’t meet Hadrian’s. He glanced away, to the scar on Hadrian’s eyebrow, the cut on his lip, not wanting those clever eyes to read more from him than he wanted written.

  Hadrian sighed shortly. “Stop running, Kent.”

  “Am not—”

  “You run away without even moving. I’ve seen it. I see it now. Please, stay with me.” Hadrian traced something on Kent’s collar. Maybe a ghost of a name. “Or, if you can’t stay, let me be the thing you run to. Allow me to be that for you.”

  Promises meant shit. Kent knew that. But he’d never wanted to make one before.

  He pulled away. Hadrian let him go. If Kent hadn’t needed to leave, he would’ve stayed for that alone. That concession.

  Making a concession of his own, he took Hadrian’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm, folding his fingers around it. Another secret for Hadrian to keep, if he wanted.

  I’ll come back, he didn’t say. He didn’t say, No one’s ever asked me to stay.

  He touched his throat instead, fingertips cool on the worried flesh, and took a step back. Another. A third.

  Hadrian let him go.

  As grateful as he was, Kent kind of wished he hadn’t.

  * * *

  Kent took the long way to the boarding house, out of sorts as his skin hummed with echoes of Hadrian’s touch. Like the shiny skin from healed wounds, his body didn’t feel like it belonged to him yet. Like he was as new as the city seemed after rain.

  He scratched his shoulder where the shot had grazed him and frowned when it barely ached. About to tug away his shirt to check, his ears flicked as someone shouted his old name in anger. Yelling how Prince had ruined their deal. Following the harsh voices, Kent found a group of men arguing in the narrow alley between the back-to-backs. He scaled a nearby coal shed, wincing when his claws scraped, and settled to watch.

  An old man spat at the ground, splashing into a shallow puddle. “The prince in the south will get his comeuppance for betraying the north.”

  Not me, then. Kent shifted in place. But maybe Hadrian. If it’s Hadrian I will kill them.

  A woman washing clothes in a tub nearby hissed out a breath between her crooked teeth, though she said nothing. The young woman beside her, wringing out the wet clothes, tilted her chin at the man.

  “He’ll get it soon. I heard the stray brung him back. Our Anthony saw him, didn’t he? And last night too. So the pack know where they are. He’ll be on trial with the moon.”

  “You know this how?”

  A thin kid walked out of a nearby house, a hitch in his step. The scent of strawberries trailed in his wake. He sniffed. “Seen the bastard, didn’t I? Back at the Shambles. Both of them. The prince and the stray. Carter seen him too. Came back early, he said.”

  The old man spat again. “I’ll let the pack know.”

  When he left, the kid started hanging the sheets, brows furrowed, like that hadn’t gone how he hoped.

  Kent narrowed his eyes. He recognised the kid. His scent. More nervous, perhaps, less self-assured. He pressed his memory, finally recognising the kid from the meeting with Tabitha. The kid in the waiting room, who’d eyed Kent’s collar like it was a curse. The guard had called him Anthony. Little fucker had been listening at closed doors. And he knew that fool Carter.

  More importantly, the bastards knew Hadrian was in the city. Kent hadn’t made him safer at all.

  I’m coming for you, Hadrian.

  And it’d be a real rescue, this time.

  Chapter Seven

  The wan sun stripped colour from the streets as Kent stole through the city, but people stayed indoors, wary of the gathering clouds. Kent didn’t have time to spare on trepidation. He needed to get his knives, whatever wardings he could scrounge up, and some boots. He had a feeling he’d need all the armour he could procure. “Trial,” the kid said. Kent didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but no court in the land could be just all the time. Besides, he had a feeling the wolves from the train might be on the jury. That’d do Hadrian no favours.

  He recognised the Luger, now. It had been the one in Ha
drian’s cabin. The wolves from the north had followed them to York. Refused to let their stolen alpha go.

  One night and day left before the full moon. Kent upped his pace.

  He slowed on the approach to Annie’s house. Tabitha’s hands had dragged him from the door less than a day ago, but he’d become someone else since then. He no longer wore the skin of the pup who hid in his crawl space. He had a new coat, one he’d made for himself, and Hadrian’s hands had helped with the fit.

  Kent cracked his neck from side to side, nudging the collar with his knuckles to resettle it, and let himself inside. He slowly paced toward the silent kitchen, not realising his hands shook until he heard his claws clatter on the doorknob.

  Annie should be in the kitchen, clanging pans, muttering to herself. But Kent couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t smell anything. And when he opened the kitchen door, the room was cold and dark.

  Tracking dirt through the house, Kent checked each room, even breaking into the locked clerks’ rooms in his search. A high keening noise followed his every step, until he bit his tongue.

  No Annie.

  After grabbing his knives and the few wardings he had tucked away, Kent dropped to the floor in his room, wrapped his arms around his legs, and tried to think. Thoughts were elusive. His mouth tasted like blood. There’s no time for this. Hadrian is in danger.

  But Annie—

  Your fucking alpha needs you.

  But—the scent of fresh-baked bread reached his nose and Kent darted to his feet. He ran downstairs and burst into the kitchen. Annie’s shriek nearly took off the top of his head. He ducked when she threw a pan at him.

  “For the love of Christ, boy, what’s all your noise about? Running in here like your tail’s on fire and giving me a damn heart attack.”

  “Last night—”

  Annie sighed and returned to unpacking the food she had bought. “I know, I know. Gave me a fright and all. Glad to see you back in one piece.” Turning her back on him, Annie clattered the cupboards more than they needed, her shoulders in a stiff line. “Was it her highness again? And are youse well, now?”

  Kent nodded. Well enough. He retrieved the pan and slid it onto the counter. “Need to find Hadrian.”

  “Then don’t you be lingering around here. Go on, off with you!”

  Allowing himself the briefest touch to Annie’s arm, shocking himself as much as her, Kent retreated from the kitchen. If he never returned, he wanted the memory of Annie at home, warm and safe, to take with him.

  Then he was outside, and running.

  Last place he’d seen Hadrian—all of Hadrian—was in his rooms in a hotel by Monk Bar, one of the city’s gatehouses, and Kent burst through the doors without stopping for the cries of the hotel staff. Waiting wouldn’t get him anywhere. Without Hadrian by his side, there was no place for him there.

  The door to Hadrian’s rooms was unlocked. Despite the faded scent traces, Kent let himself hope Hadrian would be inside. Hope he had made it in time. It hadn’t been long. Long enough. He opened the door.

  Sheets torn. Bed overturned. Mirror smashed, shards glittering in the light slicing through shredded curtains. Hadrian’s clothes scattered. No blood. No sign of a fight between wolves, just wolves versus furniture. Like they’d taken their frustration out on the room because Hadrian was protected and they hated having their paws tied. Kent knew the feeling.

  Soap and cologne and an uneven gait caught up with Kent and swore. “The hell happened here? Did you do this?”

  Kent glanced over his shoulder, past the dazed bellboy. More hotel staff were striding down the hallway, the tall helmet of a policeman following. Time to go. He crossed Hadrian’s wrecked room as a sharp whistle blew from the hall. The policeman. But there were no dogs to call to heel. Just Kent.

  Shouts clamoured, and pounding feet, as Kent heaved up the desk chair and smashed the room window. He tossed the chair back toward the bellboy, finally shocked into action.

  “Oi! What do—”

  Kent bared his teeth and jumped.

  His knees wobbled with impact and stones bit through the soles of his boots, but one of his carefully hoarded wardings protected him from broken bones. The card smouldered in his pocket as it activated, and Kent yanked it out before it could destroy the others, tossing it aside. One of Tabitha’s stronger castings, it hissed against the damp ground, steam curling like question marks.

  Two floors above, the bellboy and the policeman shouted at him, and Kent hunched his shoulders in case they chose to throw more than words, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Urgency beat in his chest alongside his heart with the need to find Hadrian. But where the fuck to look? The rain had washed away Hadrian’s scent. Curse English summers.

  Ducking around a corner, out of sight of the hotel windows, Kent concentrated. Pushing himself to the limit—and gaining a throbbing headache for his efforts—he managed to catch Hadrian’s ghost. Blood and earth and saltwater. The track was thin, but Kent followed it across the city, toward Clifford’s Tower and the remnants of York’s castle. There the trail faded entirely, subsumed by the stench of the prison beside it. And Kent could get no closer. The Tower sat within the prison walls.

  If Kent had hackles, they would have risen at the sight. The prison site consumed much of the surrounding land and stank of its sour history. He’d avoided the structure for years, after Matron told him he’d end up there sure as the sun set, and while the military had since taken it for a detention centre, he’d never been sure they wouldn’t make an exception and get him on the peg for something or other. Wardings lay thick on the walls, and though Kent itched with purpose, he couldn’t force himself closer. Not without being sure.

  But what if Hadrian was in the Tower? What if the wolves had taken him there?

  Kent scrubbed his hands through his hair, considering his options. He grimaced at their scarcity. The Shambles were a quarter mile back the way he’d came. He could ask Tabitha for help. A favour. He’d be in her debt once more, and the moon would pass and take his freedom with it, but wouldn’t that be worth it? To find Hadrian? Better than staying by the prison and chancing someone thinking he stood on the wrong side of the walls.

  Kent hooked his fingers in his collar and tugged at it, as he’d done countless times before. Leather bit into his nape. His biceps strained as he pulled harder, as if he could tear it from his neck and not take his head with it. He couldn’t. He’d tried often enough.

  Letting go with a huff of breath, Kent closed his eyes briefly and shook his head at himself. For a man he’d met only recently, Hadrian had thoroughly fucked up Kent’s plans.

  Of course Kent’d go to Tabitha. Of course he would.

  As he turned, so did the wind. Blood and earth carried upon it. Blood and earth and the sharp metal tang of firearms.

  Kent looked down, the way he’d came. Carter, Webley and Luger looked up at him.

  Exposed by the prison walls, with the River Foss surrounding the far reaches, Kent had nowhere to run but the city. Or—Kent twisted around. Clifford’s Tower and the prison.

  Not an option in this life.

  Frantic for alternatives, Kent checked his pockets for wardings, hoping for speed, strength, stealth. Anything to get him past those clowns and free to find Hadrian. Instead he found a warding to amplify the firearms he didn’t carry. Very fucking well done. The hell can I do with that?

  Before any plans could be made, the wind carried a new scent to Kent’s nose. Acidic and bitter, like old coffee grounds and bleach. Kent’s lips curled from his teeth and a growl rumbled in his throat.

  “That’s right, sweetheart. Wolfsbane!” Carter yelled. He shook the unstopped vial with its pale liquid, his companions keeping their distance. In his other hand he held one of Hadrian’s shirts. “Just for you! You followed your master’s scent here like a bitch in hea
t.”

  Not a wolf, you idiot. Kent’s stomach turned all the same. Wolfsbane poisoned full wolves but had no effect on Kent. Matron had tried, when he was a kid, and been as frustrated with the lack of result as Kent had been relieved. The poison was rare. Carter evidently had contacts. He needed to be taken out. He couldn’t challenge Tabitha’s territory. Not while Kent had the responsibility of protecting it.

  If Kent stayed at the prison walls, he’d be pinned. And he couldn’t return to the warren of the city without risking a bullet. Cursing under his breath, Kent ran for the far side of the prison, where the site met the Foss. A beat later, the wolves and Carter set in pursuit. One of them howled, a hungry and confident call. Kent snarled but didn’t stop running.

  Rain had caused a slide at the riverbank and several trees from a recent storm lay broken. Kent almost lost his footing as he skidded to a stop. Scanning the ground, he grabbed a fallen branch and set his shoulders. The key would be to take out at least one wolf before they could come at him in force.

  And don’t get shot. Important, that.

  When Webley came into view, gun raised, Kent lowered his head and leapt. His claws screeched off the side of the gun barrel, and he managed to twist it from Webley’s grip, striking with the branch at the same time. Webley landed a blow in Kent’s kidney that would have him pissing blood for long enough to be bothersome, but Kent managed a pistolwhip and knocked the wolf out cold.

  One.

  Two and three weren’t as cooperative. Luger bellowed and let loose with his semiautomatic. Kent rolled aside and scrambled for cover as bullets ripped through dead trees. He lost both his branch and the gun.

  Fucking idiot. Should’ve gone for him first.

  Keeping an eye on both Luger and Carter stretched Kent thin. Out of desperation, Kent ran for the Foss and dived in, letting the water draw him down. Cold shocked through him, and bullets tunnelled through the water as he swam deep, air burning in his lungs as he returned to the bank and took cover beneath a tangle of weeds and debris. Gulped breaths tasted like mildew.