Once he tossed the shirt aside, Ari dropped his arm, staring up at the thick shadows of herbs dangling over their heads.
“Ari—”
“Don’t.” Ari’s voice barely sounded like one, and he pinched his mouth together. “Don’t,” he repeated more clearly. “We were venting.”
Re-learning human language and all of its nuances had been a bewildering, frustrating journey in the last twenty-four hours. Learning how unsaid words filled the room until it clung like a stubborn mist, how much simple words could change a mood and change everything between them, and now how much lay buried in what was said.
This was a mistake, Ari seemed to say. I was stupid, I stopped thinking, please, he begged him in the silence. Please.
Ari rolled upright, wincing a little against his hip, suddenly looking very naked and vulnerable. When Sorrel continued to not say anything, he speared him with another one of his sharp looks.
Sorrel swallowed, hating every fiber of this.
I’m sorry, he could say, but that wouldn’t be the truth.
It won’t happen again, but he didn’t want it to be the truth.
“Okay,” he whispered, head feeling hollowed out of everything.
All briskness, Ari gathered up the mess of discarded clothing and stood with the sense of a man shaking himself off, like the flap of a blanket to clear off dust. He paused, towering over where Sorrel still slumped on the floor. “See you in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
Sorrel slowly tucked himself back into his pants, feeling the leftover stain of their pleasure now turned cold from the draft. The winds outside still pushed against the shop as if trying to topple it, but the rain had died down.
When he entered the little apartment attached to the shop, the bathroom door was shut, the sound of the shower on the other side of it.
As he lay there listening to the water, his traitorous heart whispered the same feeling that meant many things, the same he’d heard on the mountaintop, that feeling that at once sounded like Ari, like home, like love.
Chapter Six
Though the night seemed like it would never end, the winds died down, the clouds broke, and the sun crept back up over the horizon. The world moved on to another day.
Sorrel sprawled on the floor, tangled up in the blankets, same as always. The room still held the faint scent of Ari’s breakfast, and the sink was crowded with dishes to be cleaned.
Sorrel shuffled over to the window, rubbing sleep and scattered stormy thoughts out of his eyes. His entire body felt abused, especially his chest, his heart still stumbling over any regular, non-squeezing rhythm.
Outside, the world looked scrubbed clean. The sky was glass-like, and the grass itself still glistened. Everything looked real and achingly immediate.
He glanced over at Ari’s bed, just as untidy and empty as his thoughts.
Memories shivered through him, of his heat, their voices, the pleasure.
Sorrel shoved his head under the kitchen faucet, first, gulping down water until his stomach couldn’t take anymore, and then he splashed water onto his sleep-crusted face. Sighing deeply, he clutched the edge of the sink, letting the water drip off him as he tried to sort himself out.
Moping didn’t sit well with him. He was a man of action, even if the action was “running away.” His world had gone topsy-turvy, lifting him up and shattering him in the space of a day, a day where he did nothing until he did too much. One day.
He took a deep, shuddering breath against the shifting that still wanted to happen and the limbs that wanted to not be human.
Glancing at the door separating apartment from shop, he turned to the chest of drawers and carefully picked through it for pants and a t-shirt that didn’t look too loved. The entire drawer smelled thickly of Ari and cedar and laundry, a combination that made his head spin even worse, like a hangover.
With fresh clothing in hand, he locked himself in the bathroom, stripped, and scrubbed off in the shower.
The water was harsher than the rains he would find himself trapped in, no fur to dampen it. A charm dangled from the showerhead, its purpose unknown as it swayed back and forth in the gentle steam.
He scrubbed until he felt as clean, as simple again as the storm-scrubbed world outside his window, as if he could chase away the lingering guilt and dread. They had gone too far, and any lingering bliss at the feel of Ari was haunted by Ari sprawled in the dark, arm tossed over his face. He scrubbed until “we were venting” didn’t sound as loud.
Clean, dripping, and steaming now, he bent over the bathroom sink and rubbed toothpaste onto his teeth. The flavor stung, watering his eyes more than even Ari’s spicy food had the night before. He stared at the shaving razor in its little cup to the side, then carefully picked it up, frowning at his foggy reflection.
It wasn’t until he’d shaved, slicked his wet hair back, and dressed that he steeled himself for the day.
The shop held the mellow silence of morning, the scent of freshly cut herbs curling throughout it. The front door had been propped open, letting in the dewy morning air. Sorrel glanced reflexively down as he walked over where they lay the night before, but there was no trace left, at least not one that could be seen.
Ari was in the greenhouse again, the room flooded with light. He glanced up at the door creak, his hands full of a tall plant with flat white flowers, and his eyes snagged. As he openly looked Sorrel up and down, a complicated emotion twisted his mouth and brow downward. Ari lingered on the many little nicks left from Sorrel’s shaving attempts.
“Morning,” Sorrel said.
Ari’s eyes left his jawline, face carefully neutral again. “I’m not giving you those clothes.”
Sorrel reflexively tugged on the collar of the shirt but nodded once. “That’s fine.”
Ari’s gaze flitted around Sorrel’s body again, restlessly unable to settle on a single point.
With another bracing breath, his heart pounding wildly, Sorrel added, “Let me help today.”
“Help?”
“With the shop.” He gestured at the plants in Ari’s arms, keenly aware of how closely Ari watched him. “Give me something to do.”
A joke twitched on Ari’s mouth, but once again, he carefully composed his face. “Okay.”
The joke was the last Sorrel saw of any warmth or affection while they talked. Ari calmly, patiently, showed Sorrel what to do—a strange process of pouring jars with intense leafy aromas over a cloth, squeezing the cloth for every last drop, and funneling the liquid into a smaller jar. It stank, and his hands tingled from whatever was in there, fingers already staining.
But Ari remained subdued, telling him only what he needed, then disappearing back into the shop.
Squeezing the lump of cloth, Sorrel sighed, loosening his chest and hoping his heart would soon follow.
The worst part—talking again after last night—was over, he told himself. If only it didn’t feel like Ari was already cutting the cord between them.
He studied the waiting army of jars to be emptied and squeezed, gleaming in the bright morning light.
By the fourth jar, his fingers grew stiff. The sixth, his wrists began to ache. The tenth, his entire forearm felt the strain of unused muscles getting heavy use. He leaned into that ache, though, relishing in the motion, the simple external pain with its simple reasons.
It certainly calmed his need to shift, too. When his insides trembled with that need, his muscles cried out in protest, already unwilling to go through the effort.
The sun beat against his back, drawing sweat along his neck.
Ari came in a couple of times for more cut herbs, giving him just a quick glance before moving on.
By the time he finished, his hands were mottled purple as if he’d just dug through a berry bush. Flapping them at his sides to shake off some of the pain, he stepped back into the shop and under Ari’s cold gaze.
“All done?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t know w
hat to expect when he’d offered to help Ari. Or maybe, he’d expected some push back, and had been ready to explain how he needed something to do or else he would go crazy, or expected Ari to be protective of his work in a way that had no room for a second person.
But no, Ari used him to his full extent.
He had Sorrel scrubbing empty tins, putting up new line for herbs, re-soiling pots, and sweeping. The sweeping was harder—his eye-hand coordination was still a tricky, inconstant thing, and more often than not, he swept his own feet or tangled the broom with grasping herbs.
But like with the jars, it felt good to move with purpose again.
Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could feel where Ari was. Ari’s voice as he spoke to customers sent tiny stabs of pain through Sorrel’s chest. If in the same room, he felt his presence like a heat from a roaring fireplace. His neck burned with whispering memories of flesh.
The only times he felt Ari had been affected similarly were when he watched him place his gaze very deliberately onto neutral territory when they talked—not meeting his eyes, but looking at his cheek, or maybe his shoulder, or not on him at all.
Now, with the shadows growing shorter and shorter, Sorrel tied up the final bag of herbs to be disposed of, mentally running through Ari’s directions to the compost pile. With a grunt, he kicked open the greenhouse door and hauled the bags outside. His skin prickled as he passed under the warding expertly painted into the doorframe.
From outside, the wards placed around the greenhouse did funny things to his vision. Whenever he tried to peek through the windows, his worked as eyes should work, but it was as if his mind slid right off, much like daydreaming while staring at nothing. It made it impossible to see anything inside the greenhouse other than vague impressions of green, though his eyes claimed the windows were clear. Only the sliver through the open door made any sense.
Sorrel heaved two bags over one shoulder, grabbed the third, and began trekking across the swath of grass toward the trees.
The first shadow of trees overhead jolted through him, the familiar hand of an old friend. Belonging, acceptance, simplicity—trees were familiar territory to him, and there were only trees for as far as he could see. Dappled light sparkled along the forest floor, over the wilted dead leaves and random bursts of weeds and bushes. A young forest, one that had reclaimed its land right up to where human civilization drew its own line.
Sorrel breathed the scent of it in, no dust or emotions around to muddle that earthy smell.
The compost heap sat just inside the treeline, carefully contained with somewhat smudged lines of magic around it, meant to keep wildlife away and possibly encourage the fertilizer process. Some of the plants in it had already faded to obscurity, streaks of earth now.
One by one, he emptied the bags out onto the heap, kicking the occasional stray plant back into the circle.
It wasn’t until he draped the bags over his shoulders and took a last long look around the forest that a sudden realization hit, sending a second thrill through him.
Here he was, outside and under trees, still far too much animal in him, but for once … not only did he feel human, it didn’t feel like an effort. Like he could stay on like this, as if the constant impulse to run, run, run into the wilderness had finally faded. His body and heart hurt, but they weren’t distant ideas knotted up with a sliding consciousness.
His first impulse was to rush back and tell Ari this, but the moment he imagined Ari’s reaction, he could only picture Ari’s anger. More warnings, more cutting words like “we were venting.”
With a small sigh through his nose, Sorrel stepped back into the sunlight and began striding to the shop, head down in deep thought.
“Hey, man.”
Sorrel nearly jumped a foot, immediately dropping into a half-crouch, ready to pounce.
It took a moment for Sorrel to recognize him—Darryl from yesterday, eyes sleepy and smile crooked, hands held up as if to say “I’m unarmed.” Twin spots sat in the middle of both palms.
“What?” Sorrel snarled, not feeling very charitable.
“You got any o’ that allum on you?” he slurred. Whenever he blinked, one eyelid shuttered slightly slower than the other.
With a soft growl that could almost be a grunt, Sorrel straightened, already turning back to the greenhouse door.
“Aw, don’t be like that.” Darryl stumbled after him, keeping pace a half-step behind him. “I’m like you, see?”
He glanced down at him, at the many tattoos that bristled along his pale skin.
That was question enough for Darryl, whose grin grew broader. “You know, ’m a raven, see, and I’m having a hard time at work. All them bird thoughts, you know?” To demonstrate, he pivoted his head toward Sorrel, uncannily bird-like, a bird eyeing potential food. The look faded immediately, replaced by another sleepy smile as Darryl leaned in, practically breathing on Sorrel’s arm.
Allum wasn’t a chemically addicting substance by nature, much like gambling wasn’t. But someone with the right mental ticks, the right needs and insecurities, could find themselves pushing too far, whether as an animal or for the sleepy meditative state allum put you in, and becoming an addict anyway. Just one of the several reasons allum was illegal.
Sorrel shoved Darryl away with his elbow. “He doesn’t have any.”
Darryl made an odd creaking noise, like a raven coughing. “Psssh, no.” If Sorrel had hackles, they would’ve bristled then. “Ari’s the only one who grows them here, see. He can’t…” He squinted, poking the air as he sorted the phrasing out. “Not, not grow it, you know?”
They’d reached the greenhouse with its confusing window panes, both standing a few feet from the door now. Sorrel caught a glimpse of Ari through a shop window, frowning at them, but Sorrel shook his head once.
“He doesn’t have any,” Sorrel repeated, finally reaching for the door.
Darryl’s hand closed over his, yanking at the door handle.
The warding immediately woke up, changing from prickle to searing pain like fire. Darryl yelped, hand sliding off, but Sorrel elbowed him as hard as he could, pushing him even further back.
“Come on…” Still nursing his hand, the sleepy look shifted in Darryl’s eyes, a canny raven’s glint. “Wait, yeah. He said he doesn’t want money ’nymore, right?” As he spoke, he stumbled toward the partially open door, hands out, but Sorrel grabbed his shoulders and shoved him again. “Y’think you could put in a word for me? What’s he like, blowjobs? Maybe some—hey, man!”
Sorrel had shoved him again, and again, pushing him backward as far away from the greenhouse as he could.
“Hey, chill!”
His pulse pounded in his ears, anger wanting to shape into claws, but he’d earned this slice of humanity, and he intended to hold on to it.
“I’m a friend!” Darryl protested loudly, just once.
Sorrel hauled him by the collar until he had Darryl’s ear to him and his full attention. “You’re no friend, and you’ll stay away if you know what’s good for you.” He let things slip just enough, just enough to let teeth and claws in his voice, to let off the same warning that had saved him repeatedly in the wild: I am a predator and I will kill you with no remorse.
“All right, all right, all right.” Darryl pried him off his shirt and gave Sorrel two quick pats on his shoulder. “Down boy, we’re cool, see? I can go, and we’ll talk later.”
“No, we won’t.”
“That’s cool, that’s cool.” Darryl bobbed and backed away. Again, there was a raven’s glint of cunning in his eyes right before he nodded once to Ari, who had come outside and watched from the front entrance, arms folded. “Evening and all,” Darryl called.
They silently watched him go, Darryl’s walk a slow shuffle with random bursts of speed.
Ari ‘tsked’ once, lip curling with something snarky to say. Then their eyes met across the short distance, and all jokes immediately fled. In clipped tones, Ari said, “Thanks for h
andling him.”
Sorrel rubbed the back of his neck, trying to soothe his phantom hackles. His skin itched as if they were real. “Does he come here a lot?”
Ari’s shoulder twitched, barely a shrug. “Now and then. Never sold him anything.”
“Then how…?” At Ari’s lifted eyebrows, he realized. “Sid?”
“He brought most of my clients, yes.”
Sid again. The man responsible for their meeting, and apparently it had been business as usual for him. It definitely hadn’t been business as usual that last time they came together, when he had shifted into full bear form and destroyed everything his paws could reach before the wards kicked in. The last Sorrel had seen of him, a special police unit were carrying him way like an animal, shaking their heads and muttering how ETHO was going to have a field day with this.
Ari called his attention back with his name. “Don’t handle him again, though. Stay out of it.”
Sorrel frowned up at him. “Why?”
“One bad shift is enough.” His eyes lingered meaningfully on Sorrel, on how he still tried to rub the itch out of his neck.
Hastily dropping his hand, he shook his head, taking a half step closer. “It’s getting better.”
Ari only smiled, a cold smile that didn’t reach the uncertainty in his eyes. But he said nothing, only letting his smile do the talking for him, and stepped back into the shop, brushing the door on the way by like a friend.
“I won’t let anything happen,” Sorrel called to his retreating back.
“Big words.”
Frustrated with helplessness, Sorrel swung back around the shop to where the greenhouse door still hung open, the little slice of reality in the unreality of the greenhouse windows.
Chapter Seven
The day stretched on in deceptive peace. Nothing happened, customers came and went, and Sorrel continued to toil away at odd jobs while Ari spun a teetering stack of charms. Peaceful, of course, didn’t fit the tightrope they walked on, the tension that made some of the charms on the ceiling tremble.
Denying the Alpha: Manlove Edition Page 19
