Jack was the Old Man’s son, and the only thing he’d ever wanted was to take Da’s place one day. He’d been willing to kill his brother for it, because he knew he’d be the chosen one. Everyone had.
It didn’t matter that he’d changed his mind. Who else was going to step up and lead the Pack through the Winter?
Jack let himself look at Danny for a second longer and then turned his attention back to his wolves.
“We have until the next full moon,” he said. Then he nodded to Bron. She instinctively curled her arms around her stomach and scowled at him. “And we have what the prophets want.”
Or at least what one mad old wolf wanted. They just didn’t know why.
Chapter Fourteen—Jack
THE SHOCKof snow-melt water against his skin made Jack’s balls tighten between his legs and his toes curl. Wolves might not let the cold bother them, but that didn’t make it pleasant. It was still better than the stink of smoke and the hackle-prickling offense that the prophets’ monsters reeked of. Even secondhand, mixed with Jack’s own blood, it made anger scrape at the back of his throat and tighten his fists.
He grabbed the half-melted bar of soap from the sink and scrubbed until his skin was raw and all he could smell was the sharp, antiseptic smell of tar. Blood and suds dripped down his legs and made pink puddles on the old gray slate tiles. Jack leaned over the basin and splashed a handful of water into his face. He raked his fingers through his hair and down to cup the nape of his neck.
It was a shame he couldn’t wash the inside of his brain clean.
“That’s a smell that takes me back,” Danny said from behind him.
Jack snorted, unsurprised. Even at his worst, his nose stuffed with rot and the wrong smell of the monsters and the last dregs of energy carved out of his bones to keep on his feet, he would know when Danny was there. He knew how Danny walked, the sound of his breath, and the rhythm of his heartbeat.
“Why’s that?” he asked as he straightened up. There was a mirror on the wall. It was old and specked with wear, but good enough to shave in. Jack ignored his own reflection and looked at Danny’s in the glass instead. The dark-haired man was propped against the frame of the door, and Jack felt a twinge of surprise as he took in the shaggy hair and the old sweater, ragged at the collar and cuffs, that Danny had unearthed from some cupboard. At some point Jack had forgotten that Danny could look like he belonged here. Danny didn’t meet Jack’s gaze through the glass, but his eyes had drifted lower than courtesy demanded, down the lean lines of his back to the curve of his ass. Jack couldn’t complain about that. “They’re too soft for carbolic down over the Wall?”
He reached for the towel and scrubbed himself more or less dry on the bleach-rough cotton.
“Not as much blood to scrub off,” Danny said.
Jack snorted.
“So I was right. Too soft.” He turned around the lobbed the towel at Danny. “Catch, Danny-dog.”
It was an old trick. Danny caught the towel, looked annoyed with himself, and tossed it down on the tiles to sop up the water. It annoyed him enough that he finally looked up to meet Jack’s eyes. Jack waited for it. He knew Danny hadn’t missed what happened out on the moors, in front of the ruins of the prophets’ house. That was the disadvantage of taking someone smart to bed.
Then Danny let his breath out on a ragged laugh, stepped over the discarded towel, and pulled Jack into a kiss. With one hand he cupped the back of Jack’s neck, fingers tangled in the damp, dirty-blond hair, and his mouth was mint-fresh and determined.
For a moment Jack was too caught off guard to respond. He’d expected anger, even if it was Danny’s quiet, precise version of it, not a tongue in his mouth and a rough thumb grazed along his jaw. He stumbled back a step, the curved porcelain edge of the sink cold as it dug into his hips, and Danny nudged his thigh between Jack’s legs. The scrape of denim against his cock made Jack hiss against Danny’s mouth with a jolt of unexpected sensation that knotted in his gut.
It wasn’t how it was done.
Danny was a dog, bottom of the pack hierarchy from now until eternity. He had the right to say no to Jack, not that he ever had, but he was meant to wait to be asked. That was how it worked.
Not like this, with Danny’s hunger chewed over Jack’s mouth and Jack left flat-footed and breathless.
Jack’s pride spluttered up from under the crap of the last few months, the cocky young wolf who thought he could just turn up and take what he wanted. Except thiswaswhat he wanted, and the raw honesty of Danny’swantsomehow made him into the supplicant even as he shoved Jack back into the wall.
That didn’t mean Jack was going to go along with it, just that he didn’t exactly object to being wanted that much.
Jack grabbed a handful of Danny’s hair, grown out curly and shaggy enough to tangle around Jack’s fingers, and pulled his head back. He admired the taut line of Danny’s throat and the hunting-fit sharpness of his jaw. Danny had always been lean, as lanky in human form as he was in his dog skin, but he’d gotten soft down in Durham. A layer of good living had softened his jaw and sheathed his muscles. It was gone now. He was no wolf, but he didn’t have to be dangerous.
The pulse point in Danny’s throat fluttered erratically under the skin, uncertain and aroused. Jack scraped his teeth over it, bit down on the bubble of it hard enough to make Danny squirm at the warning.
“I just need some time,” he said. It was a lie—they could both smell that on him—but maybe if he wanted it enough, it could become true. “Da would have listened, but the wolves need to be led. And after what happened with Lach, with the prophets, I need to be what they expect for them to follow.”
“I get it,” Danny said. “A Numitor wouldn’t be mated to a dog, especially one with a dick.”
That made the pulse between Jack’s teeth flutter in nervous anticipation before Jack had the chance to growl. Danny wasn’t wrong, but the truth wasn’t what Jack wanted right then.
“Danny—”
