by Beast
Wren kept close on his heels, curling his fingers in his clothing and trying to still their shaking. Connaught had followed them all the way here…he must have gone mad, possibly feral, and Wren couldn’t stand the thought of Ero hurt if Connaught tried to turn silver on him. He quickened his stride as that scent grew stronger; they had to intercept Connaught before he got close enough to hurt the people of the settlement.
But the guards at the gate stopped them, eyeing them suspiciously as Ero stepped through with Wren huddled close against his side.
“Late for an important meeting?” the guard sneered, hand tight on the butt of his spear. “Look like you’re running from something you shouldn’t have done.”
“Trouble followed us here,” Ero said grimly. “I aim to keep it away.”
The guard looked him up and down, assessing, before nodding—acceptance but also clipped warning. “See that you do,” he said, and stepped aside to let them pass.
They weren’t two steps outside the gate before Ero took off running, long legs flying over the dry earth and scrub grass; Wren bolted after him, struggling to keep up, taking great deep gasps of air that smelled too much like Connaught and the poison of silver. And they didn’t have to go far, before a distant silhouette took shape: a man marching resolutely forward, a bow slung to his back, the quiver filled with arrows. Wren knew those arrows, that bow; they’d once rested in the hall at Neg Keep, a silent reminder of what happened to wolves who were so far gone they endangered the entire pack and had to be disposed of, instead of just run off.
He felt sick to his stomach, as he stopped next to Ero, watching that silhouette and waiting. Ero stood tall and resolute, his chin lifted, as if he would use his entire massive body as a barrier to prevent Connaught from passing.
Connaught neither slowed nor accelerated his steady stride as he approached them, burning yellow eyes alight with madness and vengeance. Wren curled his fingers against his mouth, sucking in a faint breath. He really was gone, so obsessed that his single-minded focus had eaten away his reason. Wren…Wren couldn’t stand to see his former mate like this, for all that he had no love for him. He was still a part of Wren’s life, a part of his past.
And he had a feeling that Connaught wouldn’t stop until he’d either killed them both, or Ero was forced to cut him down.
As Connaught drew closer, he stopped, standing several yards across from them and looking them over with a disdainful gaze. “So you came out as the welcoming committee?”
Ero folded his arms over his broad chest. “We came to make sure our problems don’t become the city’s problems. What’s your business here, Striker?”
Connaught curled his upper lip. “I came to take back what’s mine.”
Ero’s eyes narrowed. “There’s nothing here that belongs to you.”
Wren winced. “Connaught, please—”
“Don’t speak, whore.” Connaught’s hateful yellow eyes few to him, cutting and dark. “You were my mate. But I can smell his filthy rutting all over you.”
Wren recoiled, stung, aching. A growl darkened Ero’s otherwise even voice, heavy brows lowering. “I’d watch your tone,” he said, low and deadly. “We can end this peacefully. There’s no need for this.” He took a single step closer—but it might as well have been a threat, the way Connaught bristled. “You challenged me, Connaught. And you lost squarely. There’s no revenge to be had here for your own choices.”
Connaught bared his teeth in a feral snarl, slinging the bow down, nocking an arrow to it. Its steel tip was dipped in silver, gleaming deadly in the moonlight, its scent foul. “You humiliated me!” he roared.
“No.” Ero remained firm, unwavering, unmoved by the sight of the arrow. “You humiliated yourself, because you can’t see yourself as more than what you are.”
Connaught’s eyes narrowed as he lifted the bow, sighting down the arrow, right at Ero. “I was their alpha for four hundred years,” he spat bitterly. “And they put me out. Because of you.”
“Because of you,” Ero countered softly. “They’re likely better off without you.” He flicked Connaught a once-over look, those blue eyes almost pitying. “And you can start fresh. Right here. Meridian is a good place for that. Put the bow down and you can find a new life here. A new community, where you can be something more than an alpha.”
“There is nothing more than alpha,” Connaught swore, and Wren’s heart stopped as his finger tightened on the bowstring. Ero wasn’t moving. Ero wasn’t moving, that big brave idiot willing to take a silver arrow to make his point, and Wren couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand it, and time seemed to slow as Connaught let fly, as the bowstring twanged, as the arrow shot forward. He tasted the coldness of fear, and heard the whispers of the dryads, telling him to be brave.
He flung himself against Ero, shoving him out of the way with all of his strength. They went tumbling down, but his world went red, then dark, then quiet as pain exploded in the back of his shoulder, burning like corrosive chemicals against his skin, searing through him and dragging him into the dark on Ero’s last desperate cry of,
“Wren!”
T
Ero felt the change ripping through him even before the arrow struck, and Wren’s blood fountained across the dirt as the omega—his omega, the beast inside him snarled, his wolf his mate his life—crumpled to the dirt in a limp heap, his expression caught in a stunned, transfixed O, blood pouring from his right shoulder to mat down his chest.
Ero dove to catch him, even as his body warped and shifted, leathers unraveling and sloughing away in strips as his flesh bulged, bones realigned, his entire body twisting into a raw hot demon of rage and anguish and loss. He let out a rough, aching howl in the back of his throat as he caught Wren’s limp weight, easing him down, and immediately ripped the arrow from his shoulder. Wren arched, crying out in pain, his head tossing back—but Ero had to do it quick, before the silver poisoning soaked in too deep.
“Wren,” he growled, his muzzle struggling with the name, but he had to say it, had to hear Wren’s voice answering him. “Wren, Wren, Wren…”
No answer. Wren flopped limply, unconscious, and Ero stared at the wound in his shoulder, the ragged hole in his flesh. He wasn’t healing. He wasn’t healing, the silver tainting the wound, and if Ero didn’t get him to a doctor quickly…
Wren would bleed out.
He tensed at the sound of the bowstring nocking behind him again. Connaught. Connaught the madman; Connaught who would become a murderer if Ero didn’t cut him down now. If he took Wren, Connaught would shoot him in the back and leave them both to bleed out.
He couldn’t let that happen to Wren.
Ero turned slowly, shifting into a defensive crouch in front of his mate, baring his teeth at Connaught. The scent of Wren’s blood filled his nostrils, surging through him, giving him new fury, new strength—but his mind was still his own, hot and clear with rage. With hatred. He was in control.
And the fact that Wren’s blood had no effect on Connaught said that he was no true alpha.
Eyes wild and hot with loathing and madness, Connaught drew back quickly and let fly another arrow, straight at Ero’s chest. Snarling, Ero skidded back, then snatched the arrow out of the air, catching it by its haft and clenching his fist to crunch it in half, snapping it, flinging it aside. Only one moment for Connaught’s eyes to widen, as Ero braced back on his haunches, tail lashing.
Before he flung himself forward, ducking beneath the bow’s effective range and tackling into Connaught to drag him to the dirt.
Connaught shifted in a scrabbling of claws and teeth, body thickening, strengthening, shoving back against Ero as the bow when skittering away into the grass and the arrows spilled from the quiver to scatter everywhere. They grappled, rolling, shoving each other down into the burn of silver-tipped flat edges and then kicking and rolling away, jaws snapping at throats, claws raking, churning up dust as they fought for dominance.
Ero had gone easy on Connaught last ti
me—but this time he was racing the timer of Wren’s draining heart, and he had no mercy for this broken, abusive, lying wolf who claimed to be an alpha. He bucked his hind paws into Connaught’s gut, shoving him off, deliberately raking his claws down over his belly to cut deep, exposing muscle, sending blood splattering everywhere. Connaught flew back, tumbling to the dirt, and Ero lunged after him, shoving him down with his greater bulk and planting a hand on his throat.
Minutes ago he would have let Connaught walk away. Minutes ago he would have felt pity for the fear in those wide golden eyes, the pleading, the moment of realization that Connaught wasn’t going to escape this.
But minutes ago Connaught hadn’t fired a silver-tipped arrow into Ero’s fragile little mate, called him a whore, left him bleeding out on the grass.
Ero met those yellow eyes for one moment, asking himself if he wanted this, if he could live with himself for killing this man.
If it meant keeping Wren safe…
He would find it in himself to deal with it.
And even as Connaught opened his jaws to beg, Ero tore his throat out in a single swipe, ripping with all his strength. Connaught gurgled as his neck fountained dark scarlet over his fur, darkening and matting it, the scent of death and crimson hot on the night. But his eyes were still bright, livid, alive with a furious life that promised that even this, too, he would survive.
Ero gripped the fur between his ears, dug his fingers in, and ripped.
Connaught’s head tore off with one last anguished, gargling howl, as those eyes went dark and blank. Breathing hard, Ero dropped the head next to the twitching, spilling body, pushing to his feet, staring down at the blood steaming on the grass for long and frozen seconds. He felt sick. He felt sick, but it had to be done.
And without a second thought he raced back to Wren, shedding his lycan form between one step and the next as he dropped to his knees and gathered the little omega into his arms.
Wren was pale, so pale, his breaths shallow, blue veins standing out against his skin, and Ero’s heart nearly stopped as he realized he had found his mate only to possibly lose him because Ero had been too stupid, too stubborn, to let Wren in. He bowed his head, pressing his brow to Wren’s, as he stood and turned toward Meridian, breaking into a ground-covering run.
Against him Wren shifted, but it was enough to give him hope as that weak, struggling voice moaned, “E-Ero…”
“I’m here, little one,” Ero promised, even as he threw all his strength into running. “You’re going to be okay.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wren’s world was pain.
The last thing he remembered was the anguished eyes of a great black wolf looking down at him, and the scent of his own blood, hot and somehow tainted, while the corrosive burn of silver ate into his veins.
Everything else…he knew nothing but a reddened darkness, agony, faint impressions of people around him. His body was on fire, and deep in the black he heard screaming and realized it was his own. Someone was holding him—holding him down, holding him close, whispering his name again and again; now and then the pain would ease as someone tipped something to his lips, and he almost came to, almost regained consciousness, only to fall down deep again.
The Echo whispered to him. The voice from the north.
Let go, it said. Come to me, and let go.
But he did not let go, because someone was holding him fast.
Someone was tethering him to life, and through suffering that felt like eternity, that person kept him close, refusing to let him go. That person was the reason why he had to wake up.
To see him again.
To see his mate, and beg him not to let Wren go ever again.
He didn’t know how long he stayed this way. Only that slowly, the pain began to ebb; that over time—years, centuries, days, seconds—his blood no longer felt like acid in his veins, calming to a slow and steady pulse. Smells filtered in, sounds, warmth. The weight of a blanket over his body. The coolness of something on his brow. The drenching of his own sweat, making fabric cling to him.
And the scent of warm fur and the sea, clinging to the heavy weight draped across his body.
He groaned softly, struggling to speak, to open his eyes, but his body didn’t want to respond. With a wince he tried again, managing to crack one eyelid open only to flinch and shut it again as firelight stabbed into his sight, too bright. Everything was too bright, the smells too strong, and he felt far too weak to do anything about it.
But he had to wake up, because…
Because Ero was here, and he needed Ero more than life.
“E-Ero…?” he managed to croak, opening one eye again.
Ero was sound asleep, settled in a chair next to their bed in the hotel room, his head pillowed on Wren’s stomach and his arms locked tightly around him. Even in his sleep he looked so haggard, so worried, that Wren wouldn’t be surprised if this was the first time he’d slept in a short forever, finally passing out from sheer exhaustion. It would be just like Ero, he thought with tired fondness. Just like his mate.
“Ero,” he whispered once more, and Ero stiffened, his head snapping up.
For a single lost moment Ero just stared at him, those calm, glacial blue eyes no longer calm or glacial; they were hot with emotion, wet, stark, almost frantic as Ero stared at Wren as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing.
“Wren…?” he breathed—before suddenly he was gathering Wren up, colossal strength lifting him as if he weighed barely more than a feather as Ero crushed Wren against him with a hoarse, aching sob, a sound Wren never thought he would hear from the stoic wolf’s throat. “Wren,” he repeated reverently, burying his face in Wren’s hair while Wren clutched at him with what little strength he had, clinging as tight as he could as his heart leaped with a bittersweet and longing ache. “Oh thank god, Wren.”
T
Ero Wake had never seen anything more beautiful than the sight of Wren opening his eyes.
Nearly a thousand years of existence…and he’d never endured three days worse than the ones that had passed as he’d watched Wren suffer, kept unconscious by the teas and medications the apothecary gave him to help purge the poison from his body by sweating it out. The pretty little omega had tossed and turned in agony, not even aware that Ero was there, holding his hand, pleading with him to survive.
Pleading with him to come back, so Ero could make up for being such a stubborn asshole and show Wren…show him…
He loved him.
He didn’t know how, but he did. He loved that curious spirit, that sweet naivete, that pride, that bravery. He loved him for being fool enough to try to protect Ero when Ero meant to protect him; he loved the way he threw himself into learning new things with such wholehearted eagerness, sweetness. The way he wanted to stand on his own and yet wasn’t afraid to reach for Ero, even when Ero kept shoving him away.
It had been so long he’d forgotten this feeling. This rightness. He’d shut it out, while the wolf inside him had known.
Somehow—through fate, through happenstance, through the strangest of chance—he had found the one thing that could give a thousand years of life true meaning, and free him from his self-imposed purgatory.
And he had almost been fool enough to let it go.
But he held fast to Wren’s hand, now, as Wren began to stir with a low sound, his scent better, cleaner than it had been for days, the sweat just the sweat from the heat of the blankets piled on him rather than silver-tainted poison Ero had wiped away from his body for days. His color was looking better, too, and over the past twenty-four hours the hole over his shoulder had finally started to knit, smooth skin sealing it off in a thin layer.
His lashes fluttered open, looking up at the ceiling of their hotel room hazily; his lips worked soundlessly, before he straggled out, “Wh-what…?”
He choked off, his throat rasping, and Ero quickly caught up the flask of tea from the nightstand and tipped it to his lips. “Here, love. Here. Drink.”
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Wren sipped obediently, then coughed, lifting a shaking hand to wipe at his mouth. “What happened?” he rasped. “Connaught…?”
“Is dead,” Ero said grimly, and not without some sorrow. “You’re safe. Although I’d like to have words with you about throwing yourself in front of a silver arrow.”
Wren tilted his head back against the pillow, smiling hazily. “You didn’t move,” he said, unrepentant little wretch that he was…then frowned, gaze darting around the room. “How long have I been out?”
“About three days. How are you feeling?”
“A little less dead than I did three days ago.” Wren closed his eyes, slumping against the bed—then made a soft, upset sound. “…we missed the last boat, didn’t we. We won’t make it to the Silk Islands.”
“I don’t care about the Silk Islands,” Ero said, clasping Wren’s hand tight. “I don’t care about anything but you.”
Wren’s eyes snapped open, looking up at Ero in confusion; sweat and illness masked his scent, but a touch of doubt crept through. “Ero…?”
Ero bowed his head, pressing his cheek to that warm, soft hand in his own. “I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense. I haven’t slept in three days, sitting here begging you to come back to me, and it shouldn’t have taken this to make me realize I wanted you to stay with me. Whether we go to the Silk Islands, or somewhere else…it doesn’t matter. We can stay here. We can run away to the north. I’d go if you were there, Wren. I’d go anywhere.”
The sound of Wren’s startled heartbeat and racing pulse were like music—beautiful, emotive, and so very very strong. “I…what are you saying…?”
“What you’ve been trying to say to me for days, and I wouldn’t listen.” Ero pressed his lips to the back of Wren’s palm, his eyes burning, blurring. “You’re my mate. I knew the second I saw you standing on that wall, looking down at me…and I wouldn’t see it. I dragged you away with me and wouldn’t even acknowledge why, and you still put up with me and gave yourself to me and trusted me.” He took a shaky breath. “I’m really bad at this.”