Bind Me in Steel

by Beast

  Ero spoke hoarsely, as if his voice had been worn out during the change. “All you all right?”

  “Yes, just…” Wren closed his eyes, trying to just feel his body and let it feel normal again. “Not used to that. It’s different. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain.”

  Low and lazy and almost sultry, that growl of the wolf still in his voice, Ero chuckled. “Did you enjoy that?”

  “…I did.” Wren risked letting himself peek over his arm at Ero; the man stretched shamelessly naked in the grass, only the piled leathers in front of him affording the slightest hint of decency—but doing nothing to hide the flat, hard planes of his abdomen, the powerful bunching of strong-thewed thighs, the tight cut of his calves, the thick musculature of his arms. Wren flushed, unfocusing his eyes so he was looking at him without quite seeing him, save for the glow of those blue-moon eyes. “I…it felt…” He tried to find words for the feeling singing through him, making his blood feel charged. “I feel like I’ve been asleep my whole life, and I’m just starting to wake up.” He smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

  Ero’s lazy smile faded, but he watched Wren so intently that Wren was suddenly painfully aware he was lying here naked with his hair sheeting over him, the leather thongs binding it lost in the change, the dark cloak offering him some decency but exposing him in ways he should never be exposed to anyone but his mate. He buried his face against his forearms with an embarrassed little sound, until Ero seemed to realize and looked away.

  “Don’t thank me,” Ero said. “Wolves aren’t natural, Wren. We’re…we were made by some strange force. Something unnatural. But for some of us…” He sighed, a deep and almost pleasured sound. “It’s like being reborn into the right skin. And if it’s right for you…just feeling the moon on your fur can be the most beautiful thing.”

  So, too, could listening to Ero when he spoke this way, as if describing dreams. But Wren made himself focus not on Ero, but on dragging his robes across the grass and over him, draping them like a blanket before wiggling his arms into them and managing to get them half-on. Sitting up, he pulled them quickly closed around him, and kept his eyes on his hands as he bound his rope belt around his waist, listening silently to the sounds of Ero beginning to wrap himself back into his leathers.

  Only when Wren felt decent again did he speak, knotting his belt as he murmured, “I’ve learned more in two nights with you than I did my entire life with my pack.”

  “Have you learned who you are, then?”

  “Not yet.” Wren smiled to himself, pushing to his feet and dusting himself off. “But I think I want to.”

  Anything Ero might have said in response was cut off by the sound of a snapping twig; they both froze, heads jerking up, looking toward the forest. Distant, the sound of thrashing movement came—movement and cursing. The noises painted a picture of someone who had been stealthy, creeping closer, closer, their movements undetected, their scent strangely gone, but Ero was bristling and baring his teeth in a snarl and the person was swearing and fighting against the trees and they must have scraped themselves on a twig, on bark, on something because suddenly the air was filled with a hot, strange scent, teasing from so far away and yet crawling inside Wren like a parasite.

  Blood.

  Not like the blood of the rabbit, not like his own blood, but something else, something that screamed at him and pulled at him and his mind wasn’t working but his body was moving, shifting, bulging, claws protruding from his fingers, his teeth lengthening, his tongue salivating, jaw dislocating and he hurt, he hurt as his legs twisted into haunches but the pain would end when he could make that scent explode all over him, bathe himself in it to soothe the agony of his raging body, he just had to find it find it find it kill it kill it kill it swallow it whole—

  “Wren.” A large, hard body slammed against his back, thick arms wrapping around him from behind, and he snarled, arching, thrashing, but those arms wouldn’t let him go, pinning him in place; he clawed at them, raising blood in red lines that didn’t smell the same as that siren song calling him, calling him, wanting him, begging to be devoured, his vision filling red and this thing that had him wouldn’t let go when he just wanted that pulse and throb and splash and bleed of crimson everywhere everywhere everywhere.

  The body at his back swore, hands grappling at him while he howled, he fought, he kicked; the blood was moving away, flesh crashing through trees, and he had to chase, to catch it before it was gone, rend it with his teeth. But the interloper shoved him down, using his weight to bear him down to the ground. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was Ero. It was Ero, holding him back from chasing the scent of human blood, stopping him from doing something he would regret. But it was like he was inside a glass box, screaming to Ero for help, while the wolf in his body took over and fought with raking claws and savage teeth and salivating, panting bloodlust that only built higher and higher until it was overwhelming, crushing the glass box he was in smaller and smaller until he would be ground to nothing, soon. He screamed—but his body howled, hot and raw with snarling need.

  Only to trail into a choking growl as the hands holding him down dragged over his body, gripped his hips, forced him down. Thick thighs pushed his legs apart, spreading them…before long, rough fingers speared up inside him, delving into his hot, slick folds and surging deep.

  He arched, thrashing, his entire world suddenly centering on those two thrusting fingers working inside him, twisting and teasing him until he was throbbing, so wet, his cock swelling and his folds dripping and his body surging with need. He clawed at the grass, raking up furrows, baring his teeth and rocking his hips back as those hands played him, teased him, a third finger joining, too thick, too much but so fucking good, better than the scent of blood, holding him prisoned and trapped in a cage of lust.

  He whined and keened, twisting his hips, begging for more, and Ero gave him more: thrusting his fingers harder, faster, fucking Wren so roughly that he felt every slam of rough knuckles finding home and filling him until he was clenching tight. His cock dripped and spurted as a coarse palm enveloped it, squeezing and kneading and stroking in feverish tandem with those fingers working in and out of his sheath, and he spasmed, spreading his thighs wider, lifting his ass and baring himself like a bitch in heat. He wanted more; he wanted so much more, wanted the thick cock he could smell swelling hot and slick against Ero’s leathers, wanted to be held down and fucked and mated and claimed, but Ero gave him only those stroking fingers, that thrusting penetration of caressing, demanding digits. Faster Ero pushed him, higher and higher, nearly savaging his body until Wren was whimpering, arching his back, lashing his tail, squeezing his thighs. So close…so close, and as a sudden breaking rush crashed over him and left him convulsing in the grass, spilling wetly over Ero’s fingers as his cock let out bursting drips of come and his tightening, contracting cunt flooded…

  He managed to gasp out “Ero” before a wave of weakness washed over him, making him heavy, so heavy as his body shrank in on itself, as fur and teeth and claws melted away, as the frenzy of bloodlust emptied out to leave him hollow and small and tired.

  But his head was clear.

  His head was clear, and he couldn’t smell blood anymore.

  He lay on the grass, panting hoarsely, while Ero gently withdrew his fingers and adjusted Wren’s robes around him, handling him so tenderly Wren’s cheeks burned with shame. He’d…he’d…something had come over him, and Ero had touched him so intimately and…he whimpered, curling up as Ero lifted him, carrying him gently against his chest. He tried to speak, but couldn’t find his voice, and could only look up at Ero wretchedly.

  Those pale blue eyes were once again unreadable, as Ero looked down at him, carrying him toward the trees. “Sleep, Wren,” he whispered hoarsely. “Sleep.”

  Wren tried to protest, but his body was too worn, too spent.

  And before he could make another sound, he passed out cold in Ero’s arms.

  CHAPTER FIVE />
  Ero sat and stared at the fire long after he’d moved them to a new location far from where the human hunter had tagged them, put an unconscious Wren to bed in the sleeping bag and set up camp for the night. He could still smell the slick fluids clinging to Wren’s thighs even after he’d washed his own hands clean from one of the water skins, and it took everything in him to ignore it when he had no right to feel this deep, throbbing lust that refused to quiet, making his entire body tight and hot.

  It was his fault that Wren had lost control. His fault that he’d had to violate Wren that way to bring him back down; to stop him from doing something he might regret, if he’d murdered that human in a blood-frenzy. At least the human had had the sense to run fast, run far, as soon as he’d realized he’d cut himself in his fall.

  Stalking a wolf never ended well for humans.

  One drop of blood and they had not a frightened man or omega running for his life…

  But a monster, hell-bent on tearing them limb from limb.

  Ero shouldn’t have taken them near Chattanooga tonight. He’d wanted to take advantage of their little run to get the lay of the land, when he hadn’t been down this route in nearly a century. He had no idea how the humans at Chattanooga would respond to wolves, but he’d learned all too quickly when the alarm had gone up, sending them running. They wouldn’t be stopping to trade; he knew that much now.

  But he also knew the scent of Wren in heat, and he wasn’t quite sure how to get that sensation out of him when it hovered around him like a cloud, pheromones inhaled on every breath.

  He glanced over his shoulder, very carefully not looking at Wren fully. What he could see was enough—slender limbs, shapely and soft, flung restlessly out from the sleeping back, his skin still flushed in his sleep, pink lips parted…

  And all of that lovely black hair sheeting over the blankets, trailing almost longer than Wren was tall.

  Even without a pack for so long, even remembering so much of human ways, Ero knew that silken fall of dark hair wasn’t for him. Not by pack tradition—where omegas never cut their hair from birth, always wearing it bound and modestly secured in front of others, taking it down only in private with their mates. That vile lout Connaught had probably seen Wren with his hair loose again and again, claiming him against that bed of glossy black, taking that right rather than having it given to him of Wren’s own free will.

  Ero hadn’t earned that right, either.

  But he could at least look away, until Wren was awake to compose himself.

  He distracted himself by making thick black coffee from his supplies, heating it over the camp stove and letting the pungent aroma of it mask the lingering scent of Wren’s arousal.

  While he waited, he turned over alternative routes in his head, places that might still be friendly; he came up with very little, and was just concluding that they were likely on their own until Meridian when Wren stirred behind him with a soft, distressed whimper.

  Ero poured a cup of coffee laced with sweetener packets and shifted to kneel next to Wren’s bedroll, still looking just past him rather than directly at him. “It’s all right,” he said. “You’re safe. I’m here.” As Wren sat up wobbily, Ero pressed the mug into his hands. “Drink this. It’ll clear your head.”

  Wren clutched the cup in shaky fingers and took a tentative sip—then grimaced and jerked away, wrinkling his nose. “What is that?”

  “Coffee.”

  “It’s gross.” But he took another sip, then another—almost desperately, as if hiding behind the mug, and he peered over its rim at Ero with nervous, liquid eyes. “Wh-what…what happened?”

  Ero debated just how blunt he should be, then sighed, resting his hands on his thighs and stating, “One of the humans following us pick up our trail. He tripped in the forest, cut himself…” He didn’t need to smell the dismay, the shame in Wren’s scent to practically feel it radiating off him. “The scent of blood triggered you to go feral. While he ran, I…I did what I had to do to calm you down and bring you back.”

  Wren made a shaky, upset sound and turned his face away, thrusting the coffee mug at Ero. “Oh.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words were sick and heavy on his tongue, guilt a weighted stone in his chest. “That I had to touch you that way. It was the only way to bring you back without hurting you, and…I couldn’t bring myself to do that.”

  “It’s…it’s all right.”

  Yet Wren clutched his arms around himself, curling his fingers in his robe—before suddenly taking in a sharp breath of realization and grasping at his hair, gathering it frantically with his fingers and twisting it up into a knot with a deftness born of practice; the movement seemed comforting, at least, and now that his hair was bound, lashed in place with one of its own locks, Ero could look at Wren fully.

  But Wren didn’t look at him, as he dropped his hands listlessly into his lap and stared down at them, before whispering, “…thank you.”

  Wren’s upset was a tangible thing riding the air, making Ero want to pull him close, comfort him, soothe away the tension in his shoulders with a stroking touch. Not his place, he reminded himself, and he only said quietly, “Most people don’t thank others for uninvited sexual contact.”

  “No, I…” Wren shook his head quickly. His shoulders were trembling, yet for all that he radiated fear…Ero couldn’t help but admire how he sought to compose himself, his pride so very strong no matter how childlike he could frequently be. “That was…it was so frightening, Ero. Like I’d been locked in the back of my own mind, scared, while this other thing used my body to try to change me and make me kill that human.” He swallowed, his voice raspy, his eyes blank as he stared at slim white hands that curled tighter and tighter in the blankets draped over him. “I…I don’t understand why I wanted to kill that human so, so much. It didn’t make sense. There was no real reason other than that he was human, and I wanted to taste his blood so…so, so much.”

  “I know.” And Ero gave in, then—just a little, just enough to reach over and cover Wren’s hands with his own. “I’ve been trying to understand that part for centuries. It’s like it’s built into being a wolf. Whatever it was about the Disc that changed us…it put that inside us.”

  “Why?” Wren asked tremulously, his hands clenching into fists under Ero’s.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “But with what the Disc does to humans who come into contact with it…” He hated saying it out loud, admitting it, but it was hard to deny after centuries of seeing the same results, again and again. “It doesn’t seem to want them to survive. Discfall was almost a species-level extinction event. I think, if wolves hadn’t worked alongside humans before the rifts between us became too great…they would have all died, leaving only us and the dryads.”

  Wren lifted those pale, haunted green eyes to him. “What does it do to them? It doesn’t kill them like it does to us?”

  “No. You’ve never seen the howling ones before?”

  “I’ve heard stories. They’re why Connaught told the omegas to always stay inside the keep.”

  “He may not have been wrong about that,” Ero said grudgingly; even he couldn’t help a shudder at the thought of those shambling waists, vacant hanging jaws open on black hollow maws, their eyes just dead rotten shadowed pits, and that hideous Echo ululating from the backs of their throats as if rising from a radio transceiver. “They’re alive…in flesh, at least. Everything that made them who they are gets sucked into the Disc. They’re just soulless, hungry shells.” He squeezed Wren’s hand again. “They’re the other reason I go south with winter. The humans are more vulnerable to the Echo, during the idle months shut away and restless. More and more of them go north…and then come back howling and empty.”

  Wren pressed his quivering lips into a tremulous line. “Will we see them?”

  “I hope not,” Ero said, and pulled away to start on dinner.

  He could feel Wren’s eyes tracking him, as if the omega needed to see him to an
chor his world in place. And after several long minutes, Wren whispered, “Ero…?”

  “Hm?”

  “How did that human get so close to us last night? I didn’t smell him at all until he was bleeding.”

  “They mask their scents.” Ero started carving apart the chunks of leftover rabbit and tossing them into a stew pot. “They use chemicals that either completely eradicate their scents, or sprays that make them smell like the forest and other animals so it’s harder for us to notice.”

  “Why?”

  “To make it easier to kill us,” Ero said, and ripped off another chunk of meat.

  Silence fell between them, then, while Ero made dinner—and gave Wren a cloth dampened from the waterskins to clean himself before that scent drove Ero out of his mind. With an embarrassed sound, Wren burrowed underneath the blankets and disappeared into the sleeping bag, just a mix of sounds of cloth on skin and embarrassed little noises before he emerged smelling much less like the musky heat of desire.

  Ero pretended not to notice when he threw the rag into the fire, letting that scent burn away completely.

  And he pretended not to notice how the omega still watched his every move, tracking him across the campsite, letting Wren feel safe by keeping him in sight without embarrassing him by pointing it out. As he settled to stir the stew and let the water reconstitute the dried vegetables he’d doled in from the minimal supplies in his pack, though, Wren spoke again, voice soft and tinged with a touch of wonder.

  “You really can control yourself around human blood,” he said. “You didn’t change when I did.”

  “It doesn’t affect me,” Ero said. “The only one here who could make me go feral is you.”

  Wren smiled sadly. “Then I guess I’ll have to be more careful.” He looked away, then, reaching over for the small pack he’d brought with him from his keep. “I…I need to brush out my hair. If that’s okay.”

  It didn’t take much to catch what Wren was asking without words, and “I won’t look,” Ero said, as he shifted to turn his back to the fire—and to Wren.