Wolf in King’s Clothing

by Parker Foye

  Kent checked the air and found the faint traces of woodsmoke. He ignored Hadrian’s sceptical look. Kent might be half-nothing, but his nose was his strongest sense. He crooked his claw for Hadrian to follow. “Come with. We find telegram after.”

  Four words in that sentence. Hope you fucking choke on them.

  But Hadrian’s commentary on Kent’s spoken vocabulary seemed to be done for the day, as he followed Kent in silence. Kent worked the Hadrian problem over in his head, thinking how he might get Hadrian onside, returning to the present when the ground beneath his feet turned soft with vibrant green things. Riverbank. He dropped his coat, and kicked off his breeches, making sure his knives were on top. Wounds twinged with every movement.

  “So you’re—Very well,” Hadrian mumbled. “I’ll sit over here.”

  Peeling off his shirts and tossing them aside, Kent watched Hadrian perch on a nearby log and stretch out his legs. He pretended not to see, but his attention flashed to Kent as he jumped into the river.

  Dressed in only collar and scars, Kent scrubbed his hair until it dripped rust-coloured water. The afternoon sun had yet to burn the chill from the river, but Kent ducked beneath the surface and rubbed at his limbs until cuts reopened and bled clean into the cold freshwater. He broke the surface with a gasp, catching Hadrian’s spark of interest and the way he turned quick like Kent wouldn’t see him looking.

  An idea unfurled in Kent like a night-blooming flower, something dark and secret. He cupped it in his hands as he turned in the water, considering Hadrian from under the wet mess of his hair. He saw how Hadrian watched Kent like prey, like he wanted to pounce and sink his teeth in Kent’s throat. Hold Kent still and take him like Kent would roll over and beg at the first touch of greedy wolf eyes. Hadrian thought he was sneaky, stealing glances as Kent washed, but Kent knew that look. Hadrian watched Kent like he wanted him in a cage. Maybe only for one night, one day, but a cage nonetheless.

  Hadrian didn’t know the thing he hoped to catch. Couldn’t, to want Kent the way his eyes said he did.

  I could show him.

  He’d follow Kent home, then, wouldn’t he? All the way back to York, compelled strong as any warding in Tabitha’s arsenal. Hadrian would surely follow his prick if Kent was sweet. Kent could be sweet. For one day. One night.

  Evidence suggests otherwise.

  Shaking his head, Kent ducked under the water, roughly scrubbing his hair and brain clean of ridiculous thoughts. Bubbles escaped his nose in a thin trail of exasperation as he cursed himself for an idiot. He couldn’t manage even an hour of being anything other than himself.

  Coming up for air, he turned onto his back and pulled himself through the water with sure strokes. Farther from Hadrian and the muddled thoughts he created. At the far bank, Kent tried to drift like clouds, like Hadrian didn’t matter, but his stomach knotted tight with want-to-move and need-to-run. He took a careful breath through his nose and expelled it. One. Again. Two.

  When Tabitha took him in, Kent had forgotten almost everything about being a person. He’d clawed little pieces back over time, but more effort went to unlearning Matron’s teachings than gaining any new knowledge. And some things Tabitha hadn’t ever spoken about, like how men sometimes hungered for other men. In the alleys such hunts had seemed straightforward, but Kent couldn’t imagine Hadrian ever going to his knees in the same places rats and beggars went to die. Hadrian would have carpet. Cushions. Soft things.

  Kent took in a mouthful of river water and gargled, spat. Yanked at his collar to remind himself not to think thoughts too big for his mutt’s brain. Kent couldn’t give Hadrian soft things. His claws would tear them apart before Hadrian could touch them.

  Frustrated at the turn of his thoughts, Kent twisted in the water and swam to Hadrian’s side of the river. The long strokes stretched out the ache in his back, and he stood tall on reaching the shallows. Wringing the excess water from his hair, Kent ignored Hadrian’s darted looks and scrubbed himself dry with his outer shirt, pulling his breeches and shirts on roughly, letting them hang open as he dried. From the corner of his eye he saw Hadrian’s gaze turn predatory, saw Hadrian lick his lips and cross his legs to hide the interest in his trousers. Like they’d never fought at all. Or maybe he wanted to invite Kent to a different type of fight.

  Kent could fight all sorts of ways. But Tabitha said sometimes Kent let his fists talk because words made him a coward. Kent didn’t want to be a coward.

  He approached Hadrian like he was a judge, ready to pass sentence. He fidgeted with the shredded ends of his shirt.

  “I give you,” he said, speaking slowly, careful. “For the gun.” Kent mimed the shot. “For my life. I want to—to repay.”

  Hadrian frowned. His trousers softened their interest. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Village. Telegram. For you.”

  “Do you mean—Fine, fine,” Hadrian said, raising his hands at Kent’s growl. “Very well, if you insist, I’m not going to argue. Do you know the way?”

  Kent flashed his fangs in something bearing passing relation to a smile and started toward the village, following his nose. After a few moments, he heard the second set of feet after his own and allowed his shoulders to drop from around his ears. If Hadrian kept following, Kent would find a way to keep him. He was resourceful, Tabitha said, though sometimes it hadn’t sounded like she wanted him to be.

  Fuck it. Kent whistled.

  * * *

  The village scarcely deserved the name, but it had a telegraph office tucked inside what passed for the local inn. Carriage house, really, with stables around the side and the stench of horses strong enough to make Kent’s eyes water, like the future hadn’t caught up with them yet. Though he vastly preferred their animal smell to the automobiles that had started to travel around York, and they helped wash Hadrian’s scent from his nose.

  Kent gestured for Hadrian to go and make contact with his home pack, viciously quashing worry over what they might say about Tabitha’s stray. Or if they had taken out the contract at all. Strange to think he’d never worried about the origin of a contract before. Tabitha would tell him she didn’t pay Kent to think.

  Hadrian cleared his throat. When Kent looked at him, he smiled. “I’ll want to wait for a reply, which could take some time. Do you think we might stay here for the night?”

  The longer they waited in this shitty place, the longer Kent had a collar around his throat. He bit his tongue, tasting blood, to remind him to stay it. No growls, no snarls, no beast. Just man. Hadrian wouldn’t stay close for an animal, and he hadn’t yet moved out of striking distance since they’d left the riverside.

  Kent lowered his head in something like a nod, the best he could do with muscles locked tight, and swallowed his mouthful of blood.

  “Will find rooms. Somewhere,” Kent qualified, thinking of his empty pockets, of the softness he wanted to give Hadrian. He shook his hair to cover his ears and collar as best he could, since neither would help his cause. “Send message. Meet here.”

  Surprise flickered briefly across Hadrian’s face, like he’d expected Kent to refuse the request, but after a moment he made for the telegram office. What he would pay with, Kent had no idea. Not his problem. Just as long as he didn’t run.

  The brief touch of Hadrian’s fingertips to Kent’s arm as he left wasn’t Kent’s problem either.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  Kent cast a wary eye over the village dwellings. He dismissed the inn. They’d be unlikely to take trade for lodging since lodging was their business. Farmsteads would be more amenable to the offer of labour for a night’s rest and some scraps of food. Might not be Hadrian’s usual standards, but they’d do in a pinch. They’d have to, or else Hadrian could fuck off.

  Wrong answer. Be a good dog.

  Kent bit back his growl and headed for the ne
arest farmhouse.

  Three farms later he’d negotiated a few hours digging postholes in exchange for a bed for the night and a full meal for Hadrian. The old woman had even offered use of her claw-footed bath, a luxury in these parts considering the pain in the arse it would be to draw and heat enough water. Hadrian might like the option, though. He’d liked the river, hadn’t he? For its own purpose, not just to rinse off blood and scatter their scent trail.

  Kent’s ears burned at the thought of Hadrian reclining in the oversized bath, pink from heat and scrubbing. His thoughts had turned strange, like he really was the valet he’d feigned to be when the old woman eyed his collar and arched her grey eyebrows in question.

  Promising to return to dig the accursed holes once he’d conveyed his news to his master, Kent returned to the inn. Hadrian sat outside, perched on the window ledge and picking at his nails, like the thought of running had never crossed his mind. The sunlight brought out the red in his hair and growing beard, and Kent stared for longer than he should before approaching.

  * * *

  “Prince! I thought you’d abandoned me.” Hadrian smiled congenially. Good manners, and so on. “I’m waiting on a reply but I’ve let the family know I’m on my way back. With company.”

  His family disapproved of someone of Hadrian’s status travelling alone, no matter their strength. Always considering status. Hadrian didn’t think Prince worried about that kind of thing. He likely had more to consider than the missing retinue of a half-competent alpha.

  Prince inclined his head to acknowledge the update. He pointed over his shoulder. “Farmhouse said you can stay. That way. Red.”

  The way Prince moved his head exposed the long stretch of his throat. Perfectly captured flashes of memory stuttered in Hadrian’s brain. Prince’s lithe body slicing through the water. His hair floating like spilled ink. Pale slices of his stomach, somehow more sensual when half-covered by ill-fitting clothing. Like glimpsing a secret.

  Aware he gaped like a fish, Hadrian re-collected himself and cleared his throat. He gestured for Prince to lead the way. Accommodation had always been someone else’s responsibility; Hadrian wouldn’t interfere.

  “I’d like to return tomorrow and check with the office, but there’s no merit in waiting,” he said, to cover for his wavering thoughts. “The pack don’t know to expect my message, after all, and a watched pot never boils, as they say.”

  Prince’s silence made Hadrian even more flustered than the track his thoughts had taken. He fell silent in turn. As they walked, crossing a well-trodden path through the fields, Hadrian let his palms brush against the long stalks on either side. He missed the country. London had become his life after the Titanic went down and the pack closed ranks, but he missed running with only the moon and stars to light his way.

  “Big—big pack? At home?” Prince asked, unwittingly following Hadrian’s thoughts. Hadrian started, glancing sharply at him, but Prince played with the ends of his hair and didn’t look up.

  Dismissing the coincidence, Hadrian smiled to think of the wolves waiting at home. “There are nearly a hundred of us, if you can believe it. More, in all likelihood, since I’ve been travelling these past months. After April, we had to—we had several expecting mothers when I was last home, you know.” They’d been run ragged, preparing places in the nearby hills for expanding families. “I wonder if there are many children.”

  Digging through the hills with his pack, Hadrian had felt connected to the land in a way he hadn’t since he was a child. Burrowing into the heart of the earth to carve their own place, impatient as pups watching a half-full moon. Making the hill a home.

  Had Prince a place that fit him perfectly? Had any alpha made a place for him?

  Fire burned beneath Hadrian’s skin at the thought. None of his concern, of course, what a stray did with himself. But the fire burned nonetheless. Prince’s sudden movement, pointing toward a farmhouse with a red door, snuffed the budding flame.

  “Here,” Prince said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Prince rolled his eyes and nodded. Hadrian suppressed a grin. Sure enough, it would seem. Approaching the house with caution, Hadrian questioned his actions with every step. How far should he trust Prince? Enough to go inside the house? You utter fool. His step faltered. Behind him, Prince waited like a spectre. Hadrian couldn’t decide if his continued presence was a comfort or a threat.

  Would being apart be worse than being together? Again, the frames of memory played. Darker. Faster. The bright flash of teeth, the curve of claws. Blood and rage. But directed outward. Not at Hadrian.

  Hadrian reached the door. At the threshold, he paused and glanced over his shoulder but didn’t raise his voice. Prince would be able to hear him.

  “Will you be by, later?”

  Prince shrugged. “Keeping watch.”

  The words gave Hadrian comfort. He went inside the house.

  * * *

  Kent heard Hadrian greet the farmwoman and exchange pleasantries, and he relaxed slightly. Hadrian was inside, safe, warm. Not that Kent gave a shit, but Tabitha would. Good dog.

  Shaking his empty head, Kent set off to start digging for Hadrian’s supper.

  Hours later, claws rimed with dirt, Kent dragged himself to the barn and returned the borrowed tools where he’d found them. Clods of soil marked his way as he crossed the musty barn toward the piles of hay and horse blankets calling to his aching body with the promise of sleep. His lower back throbbed with heat as he lowered himself to the ground, trying to find the flattest position with the least amount of little rocks worrying into his spine. He shed his coat and shirts, bundling them to create a lumpy pillow, and tucked himself into the blankets.

  After the past few days, Kent expected sleep to come on swift feet, but the bastard eluded him. Sleeplessness didn’t even have roots in paranoia since he was certain he’d wake if another wolf or shifter crossed into the farmland that smelled so strongly of cows and shit. Instead his thoughts circled Hadrian, probably curled beneath a thick quilt and dreaming wolf dreams.

  Or—or not. Kent rolled to his feet at approaching footsteps, not relaxing when he recognised Hadrian’s scent. Hadrian had no reason to be outside, so if he’d left the farmhouse something had to be wrong. Maybe his pillow wasn’t fluffy enough. If that were the case, Kent would offer his lumpy coat and call it a good deal. As much as the weakness of his body irritated him, Kent could admit when he didn’t have the resources for more fighting. He’d been done-in four postholes before the end of his allotted amount and desperately needed sleep. Just a handful of hours. Just something to stop him from scratching off his own skin.

  Crouched low, he kept to the dark and waited for Hadrian. In the light of the fattening moon, Hadrian was a pale shadow. He stopped in the open side doorway of the barn, where Kent hadn’t enough strength to close the heavy door.

  “Those blankets likely have fleas, you realise,” Hadrian said, ponderous, like he brought wisdom down from the fucking mountain. “What on earth are you doing out here?”

  Kent scratched his ear. He’d been trying not to think about the fleas. “Sleeping.”

  Seemed he’d given the wrong answer. Hadrian’s lips thinned to a slash in his face and his scent turned sour. Belatedly, Kent remembered he’d said he’d be on watch. Damn it. He straightened from his crouch, racking his sleepy brain for excuses, and edged closer to Hadrian as if proximity to a working brain might help. Bones popped as he moved.

  “Things—things were quiet. Sleep light.” Kent felt his shoulders hunching in preparation to be hit, and he forced them down, raising his chin in counterpoint. Not enough to show his throat, and the effect was undermined by his collar, but he had to try. “Would wake if danger.”

  “That’s not what I—that isn’t what I asked. You shouldn’t be out here when there’s a bed inside.”


  Presumptuous arsehole. Did he think Kent would slip into his bed so easy? Contempt must’ve shown on Kent’s face since Hadrian all but fell over his feet rushing to clarify.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. Prince, you shouldn’t be sleeping outside. You’re not an animal.” Hadrian’s lips quirked. “Ill-mannered, perhaps, and a touch closer to the wild than I’m used to, but—I’m not saying this well. I was wrong to say as much earlier. I apologise, without reservation.”

  The dismissal already half-formed on Kent’s tongue snuffed out like a candle flame. No one had ever apologised to him before. Had they? Kent scanned his memory and found nothing, not even in the foggy years before the collar, the bright fragments he kept in a cave in his mind. No one had ever thought he had feelings enough to hurt.

  Kent felt sick. He worried his lip. Did he reciprocate? Accept? Refuse? Surely, if Hadrian could apologise then Kent could refuse his apology. Like a person might.

  The thought of refusing the apology made Kent feel sicker. Exhaustion turned his emotions upside-down. Hadrian did the same. He needed to be closer. Or much farther away.

  A divot sunk between Hadrian’s brows. “Of course, I realise the apology comes rather late, and was poorly given. But I assure you of my sincerity.”

  Needing reprieve from Hadrian’s words, Kent crossed the barn in swift strides, shoving Hadrian against the wall and flowing after him, bracketing Hadrian with his arms. Hadrian’s eyes flared wide, but he had no fear in his scent when Kent inhaled greedy lungfuls from the hollow space behind Hadrian’s ear where the waves of his scent crashed against his skin. Kent tried to be soft, to make an invitation of his body, more reliable than words. He accepted Hadrian’s apology without reservation. Of course he did.

  Nervous at first, like flighty birds, Hadrian’s hands alighted on Kent’s naked back, each fingertip a brand. Kent made an encouraging noise, not moving his own hands from their place on the barn wall, not trusting his claws when sleep dogged his step. Hadrian’s touches grew more confident as he mapped Kent’s back, the sensitive valley of his spine, tracing the ridges of scars and alighting on the misshapen lump of flesh at Kent’s lower back where his tail had once been. The mark of a not-quite-wolf. Hadrian’s hands stilled. Kent tried to press himself into Hadrian through his shoulder, tried to melt like a shadow. Pretend you don’t know. Pretend you didn’t see. Don’t spoil this.