A Season of War: M/M Wolf Shifter Mpreg Paranormal Romance (The Last Omega Book 3)

by Apollo Surge

  "What a treasure was hiding in that lowly hound!" Goldenrod praised, turning Sawyer around to look at him. Sawyer, still shaky from the forced change, could do nothing to stop him. "Such a sublime shape! And so well decorated."

  Sawyer's breath caught as Goldenrod's too warm fingers traced a long scar near his ribs. He squirmed quickly free, resisting the urge to punch the stranger.

  "That's one," he said, his voice rough.

  "And a favor well spent," Goldenrod laughed, eyeing Sawyer with undisguised desire.

  "You always did favor the dark ones, didn't you?" Amaryllis said, but she was staring at Sawyer too. "But this one's not so delicate as your usual tastes. A ripe fruit is this one, all juicy and dripping. What is it? You're hiding more than your curves, aren't you, Red?"

  Sawyer, scarlet faced, hands in front of himself, didn't answer.

  Goldenrod chuckled and took a length of silk from among the pillows.

  "Then do us a second favor," Goldenrod said, holding out his hand, the silk extended. "I request a dance."

  Fiddlehead smothered a laugh and from the corner of his eye Sawyer could see the mountain spirit's distressed look.

  Sawyer snatched the silk out of the stranger's hand first, wrapping it around his waist to preserve his modesty.

  "Fine," he said. "But I'm not a very good dancer. And we quit as soon as I want to quit, all right?"

  "Of course," Goldenrod said, smiling widely, his teeth even stranger to look at up close. "And don't worry. I am a delightful dancer. You'll never grow tired of it."

  Sawyer didn't like the sound of that, but he took Goldenrod's hand as Amaryllis bent over the harp again and began to play. Goldenrod pulled him uncomfortably close, especially considering he had nothing but a strip of silk between them. But he was, as he’d promised, an excellent dancer. Sawyer’s feet barely seemed to touch the ground as Goldenrod supported him, spinning him in a graceful, dizzying waltz. It was strangely thrilling, to be handled so easily and delicately, practically floating at the end of the stranger’s hand. He’d been ready to say he was done after only a few seconds, but now he found himself putting it off. He could at least give his guest a full song.

  The tempo of Amaryllis's strange music increased and Goldenrod spun him faster, light glinting on his wild corn silk hair. He really was beautiful, Sawyer thought, blinking to try and clear the dizziness from all the dancing. They all were, of course, but it was more than that. Something about the stranger was more captivating than mere physical beauty. When Sawyer looked into his eyes, eyes he couldn't quite seem to describe, it became difficult to think about anything else. That smile pulled at him like gravity. It would be easy, he thought, to forget himself entirely and dance this way forever. It was the fact that this thought didn't entirely repulse him that made him realize something was wrong.

  He needed to stop this, now. He started to say as much, but he couldn't speak. He tried to pull away and could barely move. Goldenrod effortlessly turned Sawyer's mild resistance into just another step in the dance. Sawyer's heart began to race. He'd fucked up. Goldenrod spun him again and golden afternoon sunlight shone on his perfect face, his fathomless eyes. It took a moment for Sawyer to realize, panic gripping him, that he'd come up the mountain in the morning. He'd been lost in this dance so long the sun was setting. He had no doubt they'd keep him dancing like this forever if they could. He had to get loose.

  The only problem was that he could barely think straight through the haze of giddy bliss that was gripping him. He felt almost drunk, struggling to focus, everything foggy and distant. If he could just get his bearings... Wrenching his eyes from Goldenrod's stare felt nearly impossible. Especially when anytime his thoughts drifted he'd forget what he was doing and have to start over again. It took every ounce of willpower he had just to move his eyes a few inches to the left. But once he did he saw the mountain spirit in the tree, staring at him, waiting. As soon as it saw Sawyer looking at it, it raised its hand slowly and deliberately, opened its mouth full of tombstone teeth, and bit down, hard, on the space between its pointer finger and thumb. Sawyer stared, confused, trying to interpret the strange gesture through the fog on his brain. If the music wasn't so loud, if Goldenrod's body wasn't so warm and close against his, if he could just think-

  He realized, abruptly, what the mountain spirit had been trying to say.

  He squeezed the hand on Goldenrod's shoulder into a fist, though every finger was an effort. His nails bit into his palm, and the first spark of discomfort made it easier to continue, to squeeze harder, until they were digging in almost hard enough to draw blood and his mind began to clear. But it wasn't enough. It could barely keep him from losing track of his thoughts every few seconds. He needed more. He wished he could shift, even partially. His claws would be far more effective at this than his hands. But Goldenrod's magic was keeping him in this shape, holding the change just out of reach. And that was the solution, he realized.

  Closing his eyes, he reached for the wolf.

  Learning how to shift was the first thing the pack had taught him. It was not as easy as just letting it happen. The body knew how to do it instinctively, but the body knew how to breathe instinctively too, and it could still fuck that up if you were panicking or trying to force yourself to breathe a different way. Trying to shift while panicked, or severely injured, or inebriated, could maim or even kill you. Craig, who'd been part of the pack when Sawyer had first joined, had been permanently disabled by a botched first change. His right hand had been blackened, twisted and useless, caught forever somewhere between human and wolf. In either form, it would be with him forever. He'd told Sawyer he'd run after the pack told him what he was, tried to handle it on his own. The full moon had come around and Craig was alone with no idea what was happening to him, and he'd tried to keep himself from changing. Sawyer's first lesson had been that you never fought the change when it was coming, and you never tried to force it when it wasn't. Which was exactly what he was trying to do now.

  The pain was instantaneous and agonizing. It felt like liquid fire in his veins as his bones, his muscles and organs, tried to move apart, to rearrange themselves, and couldn't. Trapped just slightly out of place, they screamed under his skin.

  All at once Sawyer's mind was crystal clear. With a shout of pain and defiance he shoved Goldenrod away and stumbled clear, making sure to back away from the circle. His breathing was harsh, his claws and fangs bared, as he tried to bring the change back under control. Slowly, the pain receded and he could breathe again.

  He could also now feel how exhausted he was. His legs ached. "I think I've had enough dancing," he said, still trying to catch his breath.

  "Indeed," Goldenrod was looking at him with new curiosity. "I'm surprised. It's been a long time since I've had a dancing partner who could stand to tear themselves away from me so soon."

  "Yeah, I'm one in a million," Sawyer grumbled.

  "You truly are," Amaryllis said, watching him with the same intense interest. "I wonder if you even realize just how rare a thing you are. I don't think even Goldenrod here has guessed it."

  Goldenrod frowned at his companion.

  "I have eyes, darling," he said. "I can see he's an omega."

  Amaryllis just smiled wider and Goldenrod's brow furrowed in consternation like a thundercloud appearing over the horizon. His eyes snapped to Sawyer, chilly as a cold breeze on a summer day.

  "What are you?" he demanded.

  "Is that your third favor?" Sawyer asked, eager to be done with this.

  "Don't waste it," Amaryllis said quickly. "He doesn't know."

  "Fine," Goldenrod sighed, as though this were all too troublesome. "I'll simply make sure he keeps us company long enough for me to find out. Or for you to tire of hiding it from me."

  Sawyer didn't like the sound of that. He glanced toward the fir tree for advice, but the mountain spirit had vanished. Sawyer had a feeling it had something to do with Fiddlehead, whose hair was now curled around those branches.<
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  "One last favor," Goldenrod said, stepping closer to Sawyer again, smiling. "Gracious host, would you kindly give me a kiss?"

  Sawyer tensed, anger and disgust and guilt flashing through him in quick succession.

  "Are you sure you couldn't ask for something else?" Sawyer asked hopefully.

  "Nothing that you would like better," Goldenrod said with an amused chuckle. "Now do come closer, friend."

  Sawyer's body dragged him closer almost against his will, the compulsion a physical tug like a hook in his stomach.

  "I have someone," he blurted out, though his face turned red with embarrassment. "A- a boyfriend. I have a boyfriend."

  The word boyfriend felt unbearably juvenile in this situation. But 'partner' didn't feel any more accurate, and he didn't think he could make himself say 'lover' if there was a gun to his head. Goldenrod raised an eyebrow and, as Sawyer stepped into arm's reach, touched the spot where Sawyer's throat met his shoulder, where a bonding scar would have been.

  "You are not marked," Goldenrod pointed out.

  "We're not bonded," Sawyer explained, humiliated. "Yet. We're waiting. It's complicated. But that doesn't make it any less important."

  Goldenrod laughed and slipped an arm around Sawyer's waist, pulling him close.

  "I'll pay my debt to your mate if ever I see him," Goldenrod declared. "His weight in gold or a team of Seelie horses. It'll be a powerful boon, for stealing a kiss and stealing a heart all at once."

  Before Sawyer could say anymore Goldenrod pressed his mouth to Sawyer's, hard and sweet and hot as the summer sun. Sawyer's breath caught and he pressed his legs together in startled dismay as every brush of the stranger's lips sent waves of desire through him, tingling like electricity on every inch of skin. Goldenrod's hand slid from Sawyer's back to his hair, the other squeezing his hip as he tipped Sawyer backwards to lean over him. He tasted impossible, like wild honey and ripe blackberries. Sawyer felt fireworks, as he'd only ever heard of in stories. He could almost see them, bursting with color against a clear July sky. Anyone who felt such a kiss would be enchanted, literally and figuratively. It would be anyone's guess if they followed Goldenrod due to magic or the sincere belief that no kiss like that could come from someone who didn't love them.

  The kiss broke and Sawyer stepped back, eyes closed, a little dazed.

  Goldenrod took his hand, kissing the back of it, delight in his stormy eyes.

  "There now, my gracious host," he said. "Wouldn't you like to stay with us a little longer? I could share much sweeter kisses than that."

  Sawyer took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and pulled his hand away from Goldenrod's.

  "No thank you," he said. "You've had your favors. I'm going home now."

  He was glad he'd opened his eyes first. Goldenrod's stunned expression was worth seeing. Sawyer stepped carefully around the ring of snow drops back toward the path down the mountain, ready to leave without another word.

  Fiddlehead was laughing, loudly.

  "You're losing your touch!" he said. "I haven't seen a mortal escape one of your kisses in a thousand years!"

  "More than that," Amaryllis agreed. "And the dance too."

  "He must be really devoted to that mate of his," Fiddlehead assumed.

  "No," Goldenrod said sharply. "It's something else. Red! Wait!"

  Sawyer, nervous enough with his back to those creatures, stopped and looked back.

  "I am still owed," the yellow haired stranger demanded. "Or did you think you could steal my belongings?"

  Sawyer wrinkled his nose in confusion, then remembered the silk tied around his waist. He removed it, throwing it back at Goldenrod carelessly.

  "Take it back then," he said. "I never wanted it."

  "But you accepted it," Goldenrod snapped. "And so I am owed."

  "What's the price of a few hours rental?" Sawyer scoffed, then caught himself before Goldenrod could answer. "One question, answered as truthfully as I can manage. That's what you want, right? To ask me how I got away?"

  Goldenrod narrowed his eyes, jaw tight. His eyes scanned Sawyer's now naked form, searching for something. Finally they landed on his chest, widening as he noticed something.

  "No," he said. "I have a different question. That scar there, the white one that looks like the horns of a deer. Where did you get it?"

  Sawyer touched the scar in question where it sat low on his sternum. It was cold to the touch, even now.

  "It's pretty much the same answer," Sawyer replied. "I got it from the King of the Wild Hunt."

  The expressions of all three strangers went wide with shock. Fiddlehead knelt beside Amaryllis, and the two whispered to one another urgently. But Goldenrod was still staring at Sawyer.

  "He's a better kisser than you," Sawyer told him, then turned, shifted, and ran away.

  Goldenrod's kiss was sweet, but not the sweetest Sawyer had tasted. The Erlking's every touch had burned with all the fire of life and death. Next to the King, Goldenrod was a candle against the sun.

  But he would take Elliot's humble kisses over either of them any day.

  Chapter Six

  As he hurried off back in his wolf shape, he found his bag. He must have dropped it, transfixed by the music. He ducked under the strap and awkwardly settled it over his shoulders again, wondering if everyone at home had noticed he was missing yet. The sun was getting low. It would be fully down before he got back. He was going to get an earful from Alicia at the very least.

  He started running, galloping down toward the warmer, lower slopes.

  He hadn't been running long when a voice stopped him.

  "Did anyone ever yell you that you are the luckiest son of a bitch I ever saw?"

  He looked up at the sound and spotted the mountain spirit, scrambling down from a nearby tree.

  "Not lucky enough," Sawyer replied. "I would have been screwed without your help."

  "It's my place to protect this mountain," the spirit said, straightening up stiffly. "And the people that live on it. The whole soul of me exists for it. And their kind aren't allowed here, by rights. It would have been against my nature to let them steal you away."

  "What were they?" Sawyer asked, sitting down and awkwardly shuffling the bag over his head with his paws.

  "Seelie," the spirit explained. "Summer fae. And not any low gentry either. Those were lords of the court."

  "What are they doing on the mountain?" Sawyer asked, confused and unsettled.

  "Fuck if I know," the spirit replied, and for a moment sounded so normal that Sawyer almost laughed. "The treaty is meant to keep them off this land. Them and the Unseelie both. But since the King in the Mountain stirred, those rules have been looking a bit thinner. And the Seelie have been pushing all the boundaries they're able to. If they'd spotted me, they'd have bound me quick as anything."

  "Do I owe you anything for helping me?" Sawyer asked, wary.

  "Rude," the spirit sniffed. "Careful asking questions like that. Less gracious spirits would have your eyes for that kind of insult. I require only the same tribute I am usually afforded for my services."

  "Will this do?"

  Sawyer pawed open the bag he'd brought with him to reveal freshly baked bread and some of last year's homemade mead.

  "Aye," the spirit said immediately, hurrying closer. "That'll just about do it. What were you doing getting involved with those summer types anyway?"

  "I was looking for you," Sawyer admitted.

  The spirit hesitated, hand an inch from the bottle.

  "Why?" it asked, suspicious.

  "I wanted to ask you a question," Sawyer said. "Nothing huge."

  The spirit squinted at him, considering.

  "I'll bring you more mead next week," Sawyer offered. "And some of Jacob's lemon cookies."

  "Deal," the spirit said immediately. "Ask away."

  It uncorked the mead and drained what looked like half of it in a single swallow without spilling a drop.

  "About removing the uh, t
he fetus," Sawyer said. "Is there a limit to when you can do it? Human doctors won't take it out once it's so far along."

  "Oh." the little man laughed, took another swig from the mead, and flopped back against the roots of a nearby tree. "Easy. I can pry the little thing out anytime. Hell, I'll take it even after it’s been born if you like. Of course, earlier is more valuable, but it's a fortune to me regardless."

  He crunched into the bread with obvious relish. Sawyer released a held breath, relieved.

  “You want it out then?” the man asked.

  “Not yet,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. “I’m just glad it’s still an option."

  "Having trouble making the decision, are you?" the spirit asked, eyeing Sawyer knowingly. Sawyer looked away, not sure how to answer. The spirit shook its head. "If you want my advice, get it out and be done with it. You can always try again later."

  "You're just saying that because you want it," Sawyer pointed out.

  "True," the spirit admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Mortal girls have been coming to me with their troubles for longer than this land has had a name. I know a thing or two about children. And I know you can't treat having em like an obligation. The parasitic little bastards need too much, you understand? All the love and attention and patience, to say nothing of the money and the resources. You need to be ready for it, want it, give all of yourself willingly. If they have to drag it out of you unwilling, well. It's not good for either of you. Breeds nothing but resentment. Having children, dedicating yourself to that, it ought to be a choice joyfully undertaken. Not an expectation or a service you think you've got a duty to render. You can't love something that's been forced on you. Not the way you love something chosen."

  Sawyer's ears folded back, his head low between his shoulders as he considered the spirit's words. He didn't think the little man was wrong. He'd lived on the street with enough homeless runaways to know having kids before you were ready, or because you thought you were supposed to rather than because you genuinely wanted to raise a child, was a recipe for disaster.