Ket tugged a mock forelock and rocked forward, the chair’s legs loud as they hit the floor. He rose easily to his feet and stepped around Somerset. Before he could head through the door, Somerset caught his arm to stop him.
“I didn’t get a chance to ask,” he said. “Was there any word on the street about the wolves?”
Ket paused and shook his head. “Not in Belling,” he said. “Some people claimed there had been sightings out in the country, but nothing solid. Why?”
“Because they had to be somewhere,” Somerset said, “and that means they had to be with someone. Wolves weren’t made to pump gas or go to Walmart.”
Ket shrugged. “Well, wherever it was, it wasn’t around here.”
He took his arm back and left, his footsteps echoing off the half-decorated walls.
Somerset supposed thatwouldhave been too easy. He turned to look for Dylan and found the other man had turned around, arms crooked up behind him onto the door, to watch him. The stubborn tilt of his chin suggested that he expected them to end up at odds over something.
Again.
“You were right,” Dylan said.
Somerset paused mid-step as he raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting.
“Go on,” he said.
Dylan snorted and pushed himself off the door. “I should have given it up. My job. My apartment. My…life, I guess. If I was going to do this, that’s the price I was supposed to pay. Instead I tried to have it all, and Alice is the one who is going to pay. Alice and Irene.”
There was a note of grim resignation in his voice.
“We’re going to find them,” Somerset said.
Dylan’s mouth twisted into a not-quite-a-smile.
“Are wolves better at keeping people alive than they are at pumping gas?” Dylan asked. “Because they’ve got three of them, and only care about one.”
“Alice will survive a wolf’s indifference better than its attention,” Somerset said. “And the wolves won’t survive me. Not this time.”
Dylan didn’t look convinced. Before he could argue himself into more guilt, Somerset took him by the arms and pulled him into a kiss. The plan was to be gentle, to console him, but the aftertaste of violence and recently shed blood was too close to the surface. It made Somerset’s grip tighten on Dylan’s arms, fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, and roughened the kiss.
The thought that he should rein himself in occurred to him. Before he could Dylan made a low sound in the back of his throat and met the kiss with the same pitch of hungry desperation. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Somerset’s jeans, his knuckles warm as they grazed against the flat of Somerset’s stomach, and pulled him closer.
As far as reasons not tothinkwent it was as good as any, and better than most.
Somerset pushed Dylan back into the wall of the stable. The bridle strung up on a hook next to the door rattled with the impact, the strung bells ringing softly. Dylan gasped and then tilted his head back as Somerset chewed his way along his jaw, the scruff of stubble rough against his lips, and down his throat.
For twelve months Somerset had been careful not to leave any marks. None where they could be seen, anyhow. Now it didn’t matter. He worked livid bruises onto Dylan’s pale skin with teeth and tongue.
Dylan tilted his head back, throat pulled tight, for easier access. His hand grazed up over Somerset’s lean leather-clad thigh and under his shirt. Warm fingers against cool skin left a trail of prickling heat in their wake, until Somerset tightened his grip on Dylan’s biceps to limit their range.
“Please?” Dylan protested, in a borderline whine he’d deny when he wasn’t half-drunk with lust.
Somerset lifted his head from Dylan’s throat and kissed the plea off his mouth.
“Wait,” he said as he leaned back. Dylan looked at him with dark, dazed eyes and swallowed hard. He flicked the pink tip of his tongue over flushed, bruised lips.
“I did,” he pointed out.
“So you know how,” Somerset teased, as he brushed a featherlight kiss to the corner of Dylan’s lips. He lifted one of Dylan’s arms over his head and pinned it to the wall. The well-oiled supple reins of the bridle made a good makeshift cuff. Dylan’s eyes widened in surprise as Somerset tugged the strap tight, but his fingers remained loose and relaxed. The leather looked very dark against his skin, the tarnished glitter of the bells right. Somerset slid his hand down the other arm, from bicep to wrist, and then paused. “I’ll stop if you want me to do that. If you don’t want me to do this. All you have to do is say it.”
Dylan, very deliberately, tilted his head back against the wall and bit his lips together.
The right hand joined the left, mired in a web of leather and metal fittings. Dylan tightened both hands around the straps. the tendons in his wrists pulled into tight wires under his skin.
