by JL Merrow
Martin breathed in sharply. It was too soon. Too fucking soon.
“I’ll tell them, Martin,” Calum said softly. “If you don’t—you know. I’ll find some way to tell your family you’re dead. I know it’s the worst thing, not knowing.” His head suddenly whipped round to Aggie Campbell, as if she’d given some sign that she knew what he was talking about. Whatever it was, Martin had missed it. Not that it mattered.
Hesitantly, Calum’s gaze crept back to Martin. The sorrow in his eyes, the tension around them, was impossible to ignore.
Martin took a deep breath. “Kiss me?”
“What?”
“Kiss me.” Martin could feel that his smile was crooked. “It’s not that much to ask for, and it’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
Calum’s face was twisted in pain. “Martin, didn’t you hear what I just said? You could be about to die, and it’s all my fucking fault! That bitch there may have been the one to bite you, but I was the one who dragged you into this!”
Martin spared a glance for Aggie Campbell. She was just standing there, watching them. He didn’t feel threatened by her any more. He walked up to Calum and took his face in his hands. God, he was gorgeous. And no more perfect than Martin himself. “It’s all right,” he said softly, and it was, somehow. He leaned forward.
For the barest second, as their lips touched, Calum was stone—and then he seemed to ignite, pulling Martin to him, crushing their bodies together even as he devoured Martin’s mouth. There was a moment of pure bliss—and then Martin felt something twist inside him painfully. He staggered backward. Calum was watching him now with savage intensity. Martin realized with a strange thrill that Calum’s eyes had changed, his pupils become slits. “Let it come,” Calum hissed with a roughened voice as Martin doubled over, his stomach cramping convulsively. “You have to let it come.”
Martin’s vision was fading—no, changing—and his whole body was itching unbearably. There was a horrible feeling of pressure on every inch of his skin, and inside him—not pain, precisely: the closest thing he could think of was the sensation in your stomach when you’d been throwing up so long there was nothing left to come. Was this what labor was like? His sister had told him how the pain had lessened at the end, when she’d finally felt the uncontrollable urge to push his nephew out into the world. And wasn’t this a kind of rebirth? Martin shivered at the thought he might be stillborn.
For a moment he was taken back to when he’d walked the knife-edge arête of Crib Goch; there were two ways to fall, and while one way might possibly kill him, the other certainly would. It had been the first holiday he’d taken alone, without Jonathan, and he’d walked along that ridge in Snowdonia with his gut clenched from nerves but determined to prove himself. He’d made it through that trial; he’d make it through this. One way or another. The difference was that this time, he had to fall. Suddenly calm with the knowledge, Martin stepped off the precipice.
Nothing could have prepared him for the rush of sensation that ensued. It felt like being flayed alive, whilst simultaneously experiencing the strongest orgasm he’d ever had. His vision blurred and changed, and his skin rippled uncontrollably whilst his muscles clenched and his limbs contorted themselves. It seemed to take forever, not the eye-blink transformation he’d watched Calum undergo. Did that mean it had all gone wrong? Martin cried out—and it was like no noise he’d ever made before: a yowling sound he cut off quickly, unsettled.
His vision cleared—and everything had changed. The world had grown, and was suddenly a richer place, alive with tantalizing scents and sounds. Martin sniffed, tasting the air, his whiskers quivering. There were other cats here. He tensed—and was suddenly bowled over as a weight slammed into his side. He rolled and scrambled to his feet, snarling, still a little ungainly in this new form. Another cat faced him, but its teeth weren’t bared in challenge. Not rival, his nose told him. Mate.
More cautiously this time, the Calum-cat padded over to him and rubbed its cheek against his. The contact sent a frisson of excitement through Martin—but his nose told him there was a threat here. He circled, his gaze locking on a third cat that stood watching them. Martin hissed his defiance at her. She hissed back half-heartedly, then turned tail and ran. Triumphant, Martin turned back to the Calum-cat, his eyes half-lidded. His turn to pounce. He leapt upon the Calum-cat, and the two of them rolled over and over on the grass, mock-snarling at each other. Exhilarated, Martin feinted, making as if to pounce once more—then turned tail and galloped off across the field, looking back every now and then to be sure his mate was following. He turned once more, and the Calum-cat was upon him, play-biting and nipping at him.
Feeling drunk on moonlight, adrenaline, and life itself, Martin twisted out of his mate’s grasp and ran once more.
They ran all through the night, it seemed, occasionally pausing to rest, panting, side by side, before one or the other of them would lead off on the wild chase once again. They hunted together, and the rabbit downed, they feasted together; and when they were done, Martin licked the blood from his mate’s fur before darting off tauntingly once more.
It was life. It was more than life; it was living itself, distilled into one perfect night.
WHEN Martin awoke, it was to a hard, cold bed that he realized after a moment was the grass-covered earth beneath a tree. Calum was nestled up against him, looking wilder and more beautiful than ever, a brownish stain beside his mouth betraying where Martin had missed a spot the night before. Martin had the strongest urge to kiss it away, and after a moment’s reflection, he did so.
Calum woke as Martin kissed him. He blinked in the daylight and stretched his long limbs. His face broke into a slow, languid smile when he saw Martin smiling down at him—and then he grinned widely and rolled them over, straddling Martin and cupping his face with both hands. “You did it, Martin! You fucking did it!” He laughed out loud, his head thrown back, then bent down and kissed Martin, only breaking off to laugh once more.
Martin knew he was grinning back. Something of the wildness of last night still seemed to course through his veins. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me how bloody marvelous it is?”
Still with a broad smile upon his roguish face, Calum only shook his head. “How does it feel then, Martin? How was it for you?” He raised both eyebrows in mischief.
Martin struggled to find the words. “It’s like—it’s like I’ve never really lived before. Like I’m more than human, now. I feel—I don’t know. Strong. Invincible. Alive.”
“Better watch out for the farmers’ snares, then, or you’ll be none of those things.” Calum’s smile was wicked.
Martin’s blood ran cold as he remembered Calum, caught in that snare the day he’d come here. “Christ, yes. I don’t fancy seeing you snared again.”
Calum laughed. “Ah, Martin, Martin. Don’t you know?”
Baffled, Martin stared at him. “Know what?”
Lazily, Calum pulled him closer, their groins pressing together distractingly. “You snared me the day we met, Martin Lowrie. You snared me the day we met.”
About the Author
JL MERROW is a very English mother of two who finds writing the only way to stay sane, except of course when a plot is driving her crazy. Having grown up on an island, she can’t remember a time before she could swim and prefers to remain close to water at all times. Luckily, the weather in her native land being as it generally is, this is not difficult.
She enjoys reading, martial arts, and surprising people who judge a book by its cover.
Visit JL’s blog at http://jl-merrow.livejournal.com.
Copyright
Snared ©Copyright JL Merrow, 2010
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the p
roduct of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Catt Ford
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Released in the United States of America
May 2010
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61581-426-8