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

by Parker Foye

Smoke tightened his grip enough Hadrian’s lazy expression stuttered. Shadow flickered across Smoke’s face. “I’ll cut his throat before I let him go with you.”

  “Hang on just a minute—”

  “Now you,” Kent repeated.

  “He does that,” Hadrian said, raising his voice like he couldn’t bear to be ignored. “Repeats himself, I mean. Then the violence. I’d release me if I were you.”

  Smoke scoffed. “Dead or alive, they said. And their pockets are deeper than your stray’s, I’d wager. I’ll be taking you back with me, sir.”

  “Wonderful as it is to be valued so highly, I’m worth precious little to you if this maniac ejects you from the train like he did your charming companion.”

  Too much talking. Kent flexed his feet, claws scoring into the carriage floor. The train swayed and Smoke staggered, pulling Hadrian with him. His claws nicked Hadrian’s skin and the scent of blood peppered the air. Slaughter at sea.

  “See what you made me do?” Smoke said, voice harsh. He yanked Hadrian’s head to the side, cutting off Hadrian’s grumbles. “One more move and I’m taking him with me.”

  Kent could scarcely hear him. His nostrils flared at the scent of Hadrian’s blood, and he licked his lips to taste. Again to savour. Collar tightening around his throat as he took huge breaths, chest heaving like he’d ran for the train, Kent struggled to hold on to his mind even as he sank inexorably into the black heart of himself. Not here. Not here. No room for this here.

  Rage didn’t pay attention to his pleas. It never had.

  Seconds passed in bright flickers of motion. His knife catching the light, knocked aside by Smoke. Hadrian stumbling. His sharp cry. A crate corner digging into Kent’s kidneys and bruising deep. Smoke’s sneer shattering when Kent tore it apart with a backhanded strike. The hot sting of a wound on his face. And all the while Hadrian’s charged scent driving Kent forward, a call to madness he scarcely needed. Driving him to protect.

  When Kent came back to himself, panting in the centre of the carriage, Smoke was gone. In the corner, holding a scrap of fabric to his throat, Hadrian eyed Kent warily. As he should. Kent would eye himself warily if the carriage had a mirror.

  “Are you back with us—with me?” Hadrian asked. Kent grunted and tension dropped from Hadrian’s shoulders. “And do you plan on forcibly disembarking me from this carriage? As I sense something of a theme.”

  Kent grunted again, half-listening. He cracked his neck from side to side and shoved his hair out of his face, wishing he had something to tie it with. Patting himself down he discovered three knives were missing. He dropped into a crouch and scanned the carriage. Hadrian edged backward as Kent advanced, trailing his blood-sea-scent. Kent breathed shallow.

  Finding one of his knives, Kent tucked it into his ankle holster. He spoke to Hadrian, but didn’t look at him. “Cover wound. Smells.”

  Hadrian made an affronted noise. Vain wolf. “So dreadfully sorry I smell. If only you’d thought to provide bathing facilities when you abducted me.”

  Another knife. Kent wiped the blade and strapped it away. “Rescue.”

  “As I said, I didn’t need rescuing.”

  The last knife was gone, possibly out the door with Smoke. Kent shook his head, the post-rage feeling leaving him thickheaded and drained. Like rage had driven him, and its absence left him a hollow shell. A scarecrow without stuffing, no good for anything.

  He shook his head again and bared his teeth in a grin he didn’t feel, gratified when Hadrian belatedly quelled his instinctive reaction to retreat. Kent hadn’t forgotten lunatic or creature. He gestured to the open wound of the door.

  “No rescue?” Kent snorted. “Claws to your throat.”

  “So you can speak more than two words at a time.”

  Kent hoped the dark disguised his flush. He tugged his hair around his face, just in case, and busied himself moving broken crates away from the door. None of the personal luggage seemed too badly spoiled. Good. He carefully moved bags and cases to the side, righting them and checking the seams for damage.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Hadrian asked, seeming to realise Kent wasn’t going to rise to his comment. “And where are we going? And how did I get here, I mean to—”

  “Rescue,” Kent snarled. Did the fool not listen? Running off at the mouth and filling his ears with his own words. Wolves.

  Intent on his task, Kent sidestepped Hadrian at the last instant, retreating from his outstretched hand. He growled in warning, hoping Hadrian didn’t hear the confusion in the noise; Hadrian shouldn’t have been able to get under Kent’s guard, not so soon after a rage blackout. But Kent’s awareness was stretched thin with hearing the passengers in the next carriage, the susurration of rain against the roof, the mixed scent of luggage and goods.

  Hadrian raised his hands, showing them empty but for his bit of bloodstained fabric, and didn’t move. Light from the next carriage sliced across his face, highlighting his sceptical expression, and bruises Kent hadn’t noticed made his eyes dark.

  “Apologies. I saw your collar and wondered—”

  “Don’t touch.”

  Hadrian scowled. “You put a compulsion on me. The least I’m owed is your damn name, dog.”

  The strange feeling stirred by Hadrian’s blood dampened with his attitude, becoming a cold knot under Kent’s breastbone. Dog. How many people had spat such things at him? The word had no meaning.

  Keep telling yourself that.

  With a wary eye on Hadrian, Kent finished righting the nearest luggage case. He stalked to the side, keeping Hadrian in his peripheral vision, and pulled on his coat with its heavy pockets. The dark warding itched against his chest, but he shoved the idea away. Nonetheless it would be a long journey, keeping his eyes and ears open for trouble within the carriage as well as without. He could give Hadrian something.

  Not his true name. Hadrian didn’t deserve that. Since he’d gone for Kent’s collar, he could have the name stitched on it and choke.

  Kent worked his jaw. “Prince.”

  “What?”

  “Name. Prince.” Hadrian’s eyebrows rose as his hands lowered, the one with the scar hitching slightly higher. Like he didn’t believe Kent. Not Kent’s problem. What was the other question? Where they were going. “Go to York.”

  “And what awaits me in York? More of this regal hospitality, Prince?”

  Kent gritted his teeth to repress the shudder on hearing the hated name. In truth, the sound was no more than he deserved for using the compulsion. And anyway, if he took Hadrian safely to Tabitha, she would take the name from him forever. Days from freedom after years in chain. Kent could carry the name a little longer.

  Wrapping his coat around him, Kent settled in a cleared corner of the carriage. He opened the bottles of pop, keeping one and setting the other between him and Hadrian.

  “Boss,” he said. “Will explain.”

  “Yes, I rather get the impression you’re going to come up short on the explanation front.” Hadrian ran his fingers through his hair, grimacing on finding something—blood, mud—and wiping his hand on his frock coat. He picked up the bottle and drained half. “And you wouldn’t have gone to all this fuss if they wanted me dead, I suppose.”

  If Tabitha wanted Hadrian dead after all this shit, Kent would be annoyed. He rumbled a growl, making Hadrian laugh.

  “I suppose that’s something of a comfort.”

  * * *

  Hadrian sat close to the pup—the stray. What dark deed had led Hadrian to be rescued from his own kind by such a creature? Gratitude warred with despair. The pack who had encouraged Hadrian to travel north, speaking of treaties and unification, had held claws to his throat; he recognised the two, summarily dispatched by “Prince,” as part of his guard. Not high enough in the hierarchy to have acted of their own vol
ition against someone of Hadrian’s status, they would have worked on orders.

  As Prince worked on orders. Hadrian glanced at Prince from under his lashes, disguising his interest with a sip from his bottle. Bubbles soothed his sore throat and he swallowed carefully. The collar around Prince’s throat, black as mourning, made Hadrian’s injuries bright in his awareness. He’d never seen a collared wolf before. Heard stories, of course. They’d been told tales as children, he and his siblings, gathered under the waning moon as elders spun history into legend. Terrible acts of betrayal, or suffering for forbidden love, resulted in a wolf bound into human form and cast into a cold world alone. To never again run with the pack. Never to serve an alpha they could respect.

  Perhaps Prince had used a compulsion on one of his own pack and been collared for it. Nausea roiled in Hadrian’s gut at the flickering memory of his will consumed by another, before the fire had risen and taken away all sensation. He knew of wardings, and had seen minor magic enacted, but in recent years the craft had faded. To have something as powerful as a compulsion, Prince had resources beyond Hadrian’s.

  Had the warding come from Prince’s boss, whoever they might be? If so, they held a powerful hand in a game Hadrian had only recently been dealt into. He knew no wolf leaders based in York. No key players came to mind from the territory.

  Hadrian pressed the scrap of cloth to his cut until it stung. Only habit prevented him worrying his lip like a child. In truth, he knew nothing. His alpha had never trained him to be a leader. There were others in line to inherit responsibilities and all more powerful. Born leaders, every last wolf of them. Hadrian had planned to support from within, to keep his own counsel and secrets, until the Titanic changed so many plans. His pack had lost three high alphas and their supporting seconds in one night. Months later, the pack were still crawling under the weight of their losses.

  And now he owed his life to an exile.

  At least he could trust Prince to keep him alive. For such a scrawny thing, Prince had overcome the other wolves like a dark dervish, almost beautiful in economy of motion as he danced with claws and knives. Hadrian had seen ballet once, when his father had been alive, and the memory had come to him unbidden as he’d watched Prince fight.

  If that creature had been Prince at all.

  The rocking of the train increased abruptly, jolting them both. Catching his eye, Prince offered Hadrian a squashed bread roll. Hadrian tried not to look ungrateful. Evidently he failed, as his captor—rescuer—temporary ally narrowed his eyes.

  “When do we reach the city?” Hadrian asked, to forestall a second display of magnificent temper. The train wouldn’t survive it. Nothing to do with Hadrian’s nerves or the way Prince seemed to sway more than the train did, as if longing to lie down and rest.

  Prince shrugged, savaging his roll in quick bites. “Noon. Sleep.”

  “I rather think not.”

  “Need to—Quiet.” Prince rolled to his knees, holding out his hand for silence and setting down his empty bottle. Hadrian didn’t argue. If there were more enemies coming, he’d rather be prepared.

  * * *

  Kent stretched his hearing, trying to find the out-of-place sound that had caused his heart to stutter in his chest in warning. Tilting his chin, he inhaled deeply, letting his mouth hang slightly open to capture more of the thick blood-and-earth scent. Tabitha called it “going gundog” because Tabitha was a streak of shit.

  He needed her to free him, though, so what did that make Kent?

  Didn’t matter. More wolves were on the train. Had they caught the train with their loping strides? Or maybe boarded at one of the stations and waited like nightmares, until Kent thought he was safe.

  Should know better. Knees protesting, Kent shoved to his feet. He peeled off his ragged coat, standing in breeches and thin layers of shirts. He checked his knives, one-two-three, and gathered the wardings from his coat pocket, tucking them inside his shirt. His skin prickled at contact, but they were too valuable to lose. Too dangerous. He licked his teeth, comforted by the point of his fangs.

  Apparently exhausting his patience, Hadrian crept to Kent’s side. “What is it?”

  Couldn’t he scent them? “Wolves,” Kent said. “Three. Four.”

  “Four?” “You’re barely upright as it is, man!”

  Lies. Kent stood tall or, at least, as tall as he could stand next to a giant like Hadrian. If he swayed, it was with the train and not the tired weight of his limbs. He could still fight. Still run. The moment he could no longer do either he might as well lie belly-up and whimper for someone to put him out of his misery.

  Four wolves was nothing.

  A shriek in one of the fore-carriages meant the wolves were on the move. Hadrian must’ve finally been able to scent them, as a grimace slashed his face. He shifted his weight, gaze darting to the open door looking onto the next carriage. Passengers, Kent could’ve told him, the car for the poorer classes, where they crowded three deep and no one gave a shit about howls from the luggage compartment. Hadrian should’ve been able to guess as much from the resounding silence of not my business after Kent threw two wolves from the train.

  “We should jump.”

  What? “Wh-what?” Kent stuttered, feeling his ears burn when his words tripped over themselves. He curled his hand in a fist so as not to touch his collar. “Jump?”

  “Hark at you, with your one-word sentences. And I said, we should jump. You made it look so much fun with the others, you see, and I—erk!”

  Hard for Hadrian to chatter when Kent threatened to choke him with his own shirt. In the dark, the whites of Hadrian’s eyes were very bright. The screams were getting shriller, louder, closer. Kent shook Hadrian, but gently, afraid his own brain would start shaking in sympathy and never stop.

  “No jumping.”

  “I only mention the option as we have precious few. You can’t fight, Prince. That is to say, I’ve no doubt you can, but you’re not going to deliver me to your employer since I shan’t carry your carcass south. And I’m afraid I’m not much for fighting.” Hadrian’s eyes turned soft. Or maybe it was shadows playing tricks. “Jump, Prince.”

  That fucking name.

  Jaw clenching, Kent worked the problem as quick as he could, nape prickling with imminent threat. The wolves had reached the carriage next to theirs, and in seconds they would reach the luggage compartment. If they were going to jump, and get enough of a head start to make the bruises worth it, they needed to go now.

  “Will hurt,” Kent said, grabbing his coat and pulling it on, transferring the wardings. “Tuck in.” He hunched his shoulders, ducked his head. “Like tortoise.”

  “How did I not guess you’ve done this before?” Hadrian muttered, but gamely drew his frock coat around himself for the protection it offered.

  Kent eyed the terrain, relieved they were crossing fields. Less coverage to hide but a softer landing than the last time he’d tried this stunt, much too recently. Pushing Hadrian ahead of him—not going to leave him behind—Kent steadied his breath. Tried to forget the hurt already setting up house in his body.

  He glanced at Hadrian. “You jump. Then me.”

  “See you on the other side, Prince.”

  A second before they jumped, the first wolf burst through the carriage door, howling in victory as she found her quarry, calling her companions. Kent stiffened instinctively, preparing to fight, but Hadrian grabbed his shoulder and yanked him from the train as the flash of gunfire seared through the morning like a second sun. Kent smelled burning hair.

  They tumbled head over feet over each other in a knot of limbs, Kent’s heart rabbiting and his ears ringing from the shot. Spots danced in his vision from the flash of gunpowder, cordite stench and Hadrian’s smell filling his nose as they fell. Breathing in a lungful, Kent closed his eyes and held grimly on to the bastard that’d
saved his life.

  Chapter Three

  Eyes open. Nose open. Ears open. Sun high in the sky, pastels softening the rolling fields. Tree ridges bruising Kent’s spine. Dew on the grass. Early morning. Kent remembered the wolves, the train, Hadrian.

  Hadrian.

  Scrambling to his feet, blinking when the world moved too suddenly, Kent tried to focus over the thrum of aches old and new. He fought back sleep, which wanted to hold him close for a few more hours. Later. There’d be time later.

  So long as he hadn’t let Hadrian disappear while he napped like an old dog in front of the fire. Stupid. If he’d lost Hadrian, Kent would have to live out in the woods like the wild thing everyone thought he was, never returning to the city lest Tabitha skin him for another of her coats. Or a rug. Probably a rug. Kent wasn’t purebred enough for a coat, but he’d be suited for people to wipe their shoes and—Stop it.

  He’d been doing so well, was the thing. Found Hadrian and took him from the pack in the north. Saved him from Smoke and Blade. Almost had Hadrian on his side, agreeing to go to York, but then the bastard went and saved Kent from a bullet. Were they even? If they were even, Hadrian could leave Kent in the dirt. If he hadn’t already.

  How long had Kent slept? The sun told him it was early afternoon. His temples throbbed, angry red searing at the corner of his eyes. Some of the hurts from his fight on the train had begun to heal, but the jump had created more. No time for that. He staggered forward, grimacing when his knee threatened to buckle, and curled his toes into the soft earth to steady himself.

  One step. A river waited over the hill. He could smell it. Rinse off the blood, find Hadrian’s trail, hunt. Kent could hunt. Two steps.

  He’d made it three steps before Hadrian crested the hill and ambled down like he hadn’t a care in the whole of fucking creation. He whistled. Some kind of tune like he was on stage. Kent chewed back his growls. Tearing Hadrian to pieces wasn’t in the contract. He scratched sharp red lines into his throat, the pain helping to centre him. And all the while Hadrian whistled down the hill, raising his hand to wave at Kent like they were neighbours, like any neighbourhood would house the two of them side by side.