Slings and Arrows
Chapter 6
Monty pulled his jacket tighter around his neck. Even in the relative warmth of the barn with the steam rising in the air from each breath of the crowded heifers, it was cold. He’d broken the skim of ice in the troughs and managed to get more than his fair share on his jeans and slopping over his rubber boots. The blasted water was frigid. He hurried across the muddy drive past the steaming pile of manure to the second barn.
Monty’s father was leaning against the faded red siding, seemingly oblivious to the wind, his head bare and his thick gray hair mussed by the sharp wind. This had been his farm until he and mother had moved to the cottage at the far end of the property. Monty’s father still drove the tractor in fine weather, but he now spent more time at the local feed store jawing with the two elderly brothers, who owned it, as they poured over their yellowing ledgers. His father was more comfortable in human society than Monty would ever be. Maybe this was a function of not being an alpha, or maybe this was the reality of having a fully human wife.
“I assume you’re here to ask about Scott,” Monty said, not pausing as he hurried across to the other barn.
“He’s not in your room.”
So much for pleasantries. Monty’s father might mix with human society, but he’d never been anything but blunt and demanding with his son. It hadn’t been all bad. His father had never neglected or ignored him, and he now served as a loyal beta, but undoubtedly having a son who led the pack was both a source of pride and of biting jealously. Skipping a generation between alphas was a common custom when a werewolf child was sired young and when the alpha continued to be vigorous into his older years, but it was still difficult for the skipped generation.
Gibson Wallace would have been a good alpha. Even now with his gray hair and deep furrows around his eyes and lining his forehead, he projected strength and unwavering commitment. He was a man and a wolf to be respected and with whom only the foolhardy trifled.
“You do not deny it?”
“No.” Monty stopped, his boots crunching on the loose gravel that was doing nothing to reduce the encroaching mud.
“You must take him.” The brown eyes that stared at Monty could easily match Monty’s own for intensity.
“I’m busy. We can talk about this later.”
“No.” Monty’s father reached out and caught Monty’s jacket. If any other member of the pack had touched him this way, it would have meant a true fight, but this was his father. Monty snuffed his instinct to snarl and turned rigidly toward his father, not hiding the displeasure on his face.
“My mate is my business.”
“It is the pack’s business. As lead beta it is my responsibility to question if the alpha is not serving the pack in the pack’s best interest.”
“Scott is in the pack’s best interest,” Monty snapped, drawing himself up to his full height and letting a low growl rumble in his throat.
“Son, you do not intimidate me. The rest of the pack may scatter when you get snarly, but I do not. I will have answers.”
“I take it you and Brent have been conspiring.”
“We do not conspire. Brent is concerned about the welfare of the pack as is Victor. Brent may be my friend, but he is your beta, and he is loyal to you, and I know you do not question Victor’s loyalty. He has also approached me.”
Monty shook his dark hair back and held his father’s gaze. They clashed, but they were also loyal to each other. “Scott’s not ready.”
“Make him ready.”
“I will not rape him.”
“Your sentiment is noble, but I cannot mute the disquiet forever. You must appear as a mated pair at the next gathering. It is difficult enough that you have a male mate.” Monty’s father said the words in a neutral tone, but Monty knew what it had cost his father to admit that Monty was different as he politely put it. It was Monty’s grandfather who had insisted the alpha status pass to Monty despite his unusual proclivities, citing the ancient examples.
“I’m aware of the requirement,” Monty said softly. “We will appear as a mated pair.”
“Has he shifted?”
“The first day.” Monty watched his father’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I see Brent has been spying. He wouldn’t have known; it happened inside. Scott shifts if I have an aura of the shift. The timing isn’t exact, but I believe he needs my presence.”
“He doesn’t shift on his own?”
“He can’t control it, and it makes him ill.”
“The ancient legends hinted of unusual properties of the omega’s shift. The mating should stabilize his shift,” Monty’s father said, his eyes softening. “He worries you?”
Monty nodded and drew a deep breath. Scott was irrationally afraid of his werewolf side. He feared the loss of control. He feared the swimming vision and the rising nausea of the shift. He feared the beast within him that longed to lick Monty’s face and turn belly up. Scott was a submissive. It showed readily enough on his human side, but there he could make excuses with his convoluted logic. On the werewolf side, he was left only with his unshielded feelings.
“He fears the bond; he fears the submission even as his soul craves it.”
“Son, I know you want to be kind; that is your nature, but Scott may need a strict master before he can have a kind master.”
“I won’t scare him more.”
“Will you kill him and you with your inaction?” Monty’s father nodded once as if passing an acquaintance on the street and walked away, following the path between the two fences. He didn’t look back and soon disappeared into the pale light of the dawn.
Monty turned and marched across to the other barn. He had work to do; the livestock wouldn’t wait while he argued with his father. He had two weeks; he wouldn’t force Scott. Submission was a gift to be cherished, not a right to be wrenched from a fearful, quivering creature at his feet. Monty saw enough fear in his lower gammas when he exercised his function as pack leader even when he tried to shield them from the worst of his dominance. He didn’t want to see that fear in Scott’s eyes, the fear that Monty was more than capable of physically forcing submission. He wanted willing and loving submission.
****
“Scott, we’re going running tonight.” Running was a euphemism that all the pack used to indicate they were going to shift into a wolf and roam through the countryside. It was a word that could be overheard in mixed company with no fear of repercussions.
“I don’t want to.”
Scott could whine and pout. Monty refrained from his first instinct which was to cuff the disobedient whelp across the back of his head. He could feel the fear in his mate; punishment wasn’t an antidote for fear.
“You need the practice, and it’s not healthy to remain in one form for too long.”
“It makes me sick,” Scott dropped his eyes to the book in front of him. He’d spent most of the last few days lying on the sofa with a book in hand. Monty had tried to cajole Scott into taking some interest in the farm or at least going outside for fresh air. Victor had been less cajoling. He’d grabbed Scott’s hand and forced him out into a miserable drizzle for a walk. The words that Scott had used to describe the experience were not fitting for polite company and had ended with Monty sending him upstairs to get a grip on his temper.
Maybe Monty should have made the point clearer then; his grandfather would never have allowed such a public airing of foul language and equally foul temper. At least Victor had shown the good sense to vanish during the tirade, and therefore could claim to know nothing of Monty’s domestic strife if pressed. Monty suspected he knew all the grim details of Monty’s home life and had shared some of the juiciest details with Monty’s father. That would certainly explain the interrogation today.
“You need the exercise and the practice,” Monty said, striving for a tone of calm authority, again resisting the urge to imprint his will on the backside of his stubborn pup.
“Fine. I’ll go for a walk with one of your jolly minions. You ought to hire them out on the party circuit; they’d be hit entertainers with their ready smiles.”
“Their job is to protect you, not entertain you.”
“I don’t want their protection!” Scott shouted, whipping his book across the room. “I want to go home. I want my life back.”
Monty watched a stray tear trickle down Scott’s cheek. He wanted to wrap his arms around Scott and kiss the tears away, but he knew Scott wanted to pretend the tears didn’t happen; he’d see Monty’s comfort as patronizing.
“Pick up your book,” Monty said in a flat tone. It was a tone that would have had most of the pack scrambling to obey. They knew the flatness of Monty’s voice signaled the divide between control and anger. Monty was fighting to keep the worst of his temper at bay.
Scott stared at Monty. Was that an open challenge in those blue eyes? Did he want Monty to force the issue? In one of his few moments of lucid conversation when he wasn’t either retreating for all he was worth or hurling insults at Monty, he’d admitted he self-identified as a submissive, not that it had gone much further than that. Monty had the impression that Scott’s few attempts to explore that side of himself had been tentative and unhappy.
“What do you want?” Monty asked, propping his hip against the edge of the sofa and crossing his arms.
“I want to go home.”
“No, what do you really want?”
“To not be a fucking werewolf!” Scott slammed the sofa with his fist. “Why do I have to be the freak? The computer nerd, the gay teenager, and now a fucking werewolf. Who wrote the script to this movie? I want out.” Scott’s face was red with anger and repressed tears. “You can’t fucking fix any of it! You star in this same crazy movie.”
“I do,” Monty said softly. “I can’t change any of those things, but I can make this world very black and white. Pick up the book.”
“No!”
That was open defiance. This was a challenge. If Scott wanted an uncompromising dominant at home and hearth, Monty was happy to oblige. “Now,” he growled.
Monty saw the effect of the growl on Scott. His eyes flew open, and he drew in a sharp breath, but he didn’t move toward the book.”
“One.”
“I’m long past the age of Sesame Street and this program is brought to you by the number three and the letter z.”
In one long step, Monty jerked Scott off the sofa and swung him sideways. His hand crashed down on his mate’s hip. Three hard blows, all in precisely the same location. “More?”
“Fuck you!”
Monty sat down on the sofa and pulled Scott into a sprawl across his lap. Monty had the benefit of both surprise and superior strength. He trapped the wildly kicking legs between his powerful thighs and pinned Scott’s arms behind his back.
“You want dominance. I’ll give it to you.”
Monty brought his hand down hard, completing two circuits over the target before hauling a startled Scott to his feet and jerking his jeans and briefs to his knees. The howls and curses were louder as his hand pounded the flesh in front of him. Monty knew from the crimson color that it had to hurt like hell; his hand was complaining bitterly, but Scott still hadn’t started to whimper or cry freely. His pup needed to give it up. Monty focused on the top of the thighs, his hand beating a steady drumbeat on the red flesh. Finally he heard the change: the shaking sobs and the whimpers of a puppy, frightened and wanting protection.
Monty slid Scott to his knees and encircled the shaking man with his arms. “Cry.”
Scott cried, soaking Monty’s shirt with bitter tears. Finally the wracking sobs slowed to hitching breaths, and he lifted his head from Monty’s lap, his cheeks stained red from the crying and from the embarrassment.
“Sorry.”
“Get the book.” Monty kept his tone uncompromising. He knew it was harsh, but he’d started this, and now he needed to finish it properly or it would be worse next time. Scott would learn to submit.
“What?” Scott looked pitiful, his blue eyes swollen and rimmed with red.
“Book—now.”
Scott didn’t move. Maybe he was paralyzed with fear, or maybe he was openly defiant. Monty couldn’t be absolutely sure, but he was absolutely sure that submission and obedience required performing the task no matter the mood or the fear. His mate must obey. Monty dragged Scott sideways, exposing his hip and landed two thunderous smacks.
“Book.” Monty grabbed Scott’s hand and dragged him toward the book, ignoring Scott's effort to find his balance as he tangled in the jeans around his ankles. “Pick it up.” He pushed Scott down.
Please, let Scott pick it up. Monty didn’t want to spank anymore. The flesh was crimson and starting to streak with purple. Monty wanted obedience, not terror induced by physical pain. He was walking mighty close to that invisible line.
Scott’s finger’s closed over the book, and he collapsed in a heap.
Monty didn’t ask Scott to carry the book back to the table or to put it in the shelves. He picked up his mate, making sure the book stayed in Scott’s fingers and carried both his mate and the book to the sofa. He stroked his fingers through Scott’s sweaty hair.
"I'm an idiot," Scott mumbled, leaning into the caress.
"Stubborn." Monty continued to stroke the soft hair. "Stubborn can have its benefits, but not with me. You won't out stubborn me."
Scott squirmed and reached back to run his hand over his crimson flesh. "It hurts."
"It was deserved. You don't fight me just to fight me. Petty temper tantrums will not be tolerated." Monty knew his words were harsh and uncompromising, but he was making this point only once. Effective punishment should happen once and with overwhelming force; gentleness would only result in having to be harsher later.
"You're a bastard." The words were said without anger, more an acceptance and maybe a self-mocking humor.
"No argument here," Monty replied in a gentle tease. "But I'm your bastard."
"Did you have to do it so hard?" Scott flinched as he probed the heated skin with his fingers.
"I wasn't playing." Monty pulled Scott to his feet. "Step out."
Scott dropped his eyes to his tangled pants, a fresh blush rising on his neck and cheeks. "I'll be half-naked."
"I didn't ask for commentary." Monty landed a checked swing that he was sure felt anything but checked to Scott. A brush of a flower petal would be painful if color was any judge.
Scott rolled away from the slap and scrambled to slide out of his pants. His eyes were huge and still shiny from the recent tears, but at least in Monty’s mind he was seeing more than fear in his mate. Yes, there was fear: fear of the pain Monty could cause and also fear of Scott’s own submission. In the wolf form, submission had come naturally; after all it was an integral element of Scott’s personality, but in the human form he fought it. Today he tasted that Monty wanted it from Scott as a wolf as well as Scott as a man.
Scott turned away from Monty; his face was a matching shade to his scorched rear. Desperately he tried to hide himself, his hands an inadequate covering. His shirt hung down, brushing the reddened flesh, but not long enough to hide the stirrings of excitement in the front.
“Corner.” Monty pointed to the corner in the kitchen. “Hands on your head.” Monty wanted to take Scott in his arms and then to bed, but he needed to make this point now. Scott must be submissive and obedient. Scott must find that submission in itself could be satisfying. Monty had seen the slight stirrings in Scott as his hands had gone to cover his front. He was a submissive, not only in his relationship with the pack but within his most private moments. Scott was going to need a hard push, but it was there. Pain, pleasure, fear, and excitement all sat in a tangled jumble. Monty with Scott would have to try to find a path through that jumble.
Monty piddled in the kitchen, more watching Scott than preparing the stew for later today. Scott was quiet despite the fierce sting that had to be emanating from his battered flesh. He’d twitched a few times, but he’d mostly stood still, his eyes fixed on the pale green paint.
“Go upstairs to bed.”
“It’s not noon,” Scott said, turning and tugging his shirttails down.
“I’m aware of the time.” Monty kept his voice hard. “I do not expect to be questioned. Did I not give you a sufficient demonstration?”
“Asshole,” Scott mumbled under his breath.
Maybe it hadn’t been meant to be heard, but Monty heard it plain enough, and from the sheet whiteness that that spread down Scott’s skin, Scott realized it had been heard and feared the consequences. Monty kept his voice steady; too much fear and he’d send Scott spiraling into a defensive panic. He didn’t want terror. He didn’t rape his mate, and he wouldn’t brutalize him into obedience.
“All right, more corner time it is.” Monty hooked his arm around Scott’s shoulder and steered him back into the corner. “Hold the tails of your shirt up.”
Scott spun around, his eyes wide, angry, and more than a touched aroused. Yes, this pup needed this. Scott might fight, but this was him buried under the layers of false behavior.
“Do you need another demonstration of force?”
Scott shook his head and reached for the edge of his shirt.
“Good pup.” Monty steered Scott back toward the wall, a gentle hand on his shoulder. He bent down and kissed Scott’s neck, letting the smell and taste of his mate fill his senses. He wanted Scott. He could throw Scott over the table and take him now. The pup wouldn’t fight now. Scott was tired; Monty could smell the exhaustion from his mate’s pores. Monty slid his fingers over the warm ass, enjoying the shiver and the heat broiling off the seared flesh. “I sent you to bed, not to punish you, but to let you rest. It will hurt to sit.”
Scott shifted unconsciously so more of his body was against Monty’s. He might not ask for it yet, but he wanted comfort. Monty leaned forward, letting his chest touch Scott’s back and kissed his neck again, his tongue savoring the salty flesh.
“It hurts,” Scott whimpered, his voice sounding close to tears again.
“You don’t defy me in this relationship. You’re a natural submissive. This will not be a hardship for you.”
Scott didn’t seem to agree. He hadn’t spoken, but he stood rigid, his back tense under Monty’s caressing hand.
“Scott, I’ve seen you as a wolf. I know you’re a submissive. You can’t hide that from me.” Even from the back, Monty could see the tight jaw muscles as Scott swallowed and feel the corded muscles in his mate’s neck. “Don’t fight me. Fighting will do nothing but hurt us both.”
“You’re not the one with a fire pit for an ass,” Scott spat, spinning around, his blue eyes shimmering with anger.
“I’m also not the one pouting on the sofa and throwing books around in mini tantrums, hardly acceptable behavior in any company.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“I invited you for a visit.” Monty reached forward to stroke Scott’s hair, but he ducked away.
“Last time I checked kidnapping led to the FBI and arrests; no one calls the FBI for a tossed paperback.”
“True,” Monty said catching both Scott’s wrists in his larger hand. “But no one will come after Paul or another enforcer when they come after you for living outside of the code. You don’t have a choice, and we don’t have much time.”
Scott stared into Monty’s dark eyes, his face a collage of emotions: fear, hatred, submission, and resignation.”
“Scott,” Monty said in his gentlest voice, “I want you to come to me on your own free will, but we have no choice. We will both be hunted as dangerous rogues if you do not accept your place at my side.”
“Why?” Scott’s voice was plaintive and reflected a shattering of hope. “I’m screwed.”
“Only if you want to think of it that way.”
“How else am I supposed to look at it?” Scott shouted. “I’ve lost everything, and what have I gained? A chance to get beat for throwing a book on the floor.”
“I didn’t beat you,” Monty said, trying to keep the tiredness and the feeling of failure out of his voice. He hadn’t succeeded. He’d wanted Scott to find his submission on his human side, and all Monty had done was create resistance. As a werewolf it was easy; the hierarchy was instinctive, but Scott saw submission with all the human baggage and implications when he stood in front of Monty in his two legged form. Scott wasn’t a werewolf in his human form; he’d spent a quarter of a century not knowing of his werewolf side. This was a human submissive. What did Monty know about managing human submissives? Nothing or more pointedly nothing modified with a few colorful adjectives. Monty was an alpha werewolf. He understood the pack dynamics. This was all new. Scott’s wildly swinging moods were not something he saw as head of the pack. It wasn’t tolerated in the pack.
Monty felt a growl building in his throat. He knew how to handle disobedience. This was disobedience and pure obstinacy. Scott was defying not only Monty, but his own inner self. This was Monty’s responsibility. This was his omega, his mate, a crucial link in the pack. He would make this work.
“I don’t want this.” The confession was whispered, almost a silent confession and a plea of despair. “Why me?”
Monty rubbed the tense shoulders. “Your father was a werewolf. The genes are a gift or a curse, depending on your mindset. I prefer to embrace them as a gift.”
“I’m the omega. How is that a gift?”
“You’re submissive in a world that has taught you to fear and hate your submission. With me, it will be cherished as a gift.”
“You took it. You hurt me.”
“You want me to take it. You must accept that I will take it. The other is unspeakable.”
“What is the other? What is the unspeakable? You keep hinting at some great horror.” Scott spun around, fresh tears tracking down his cheeks.
“We will be killed, I at the hands of my own betas, you by Paul or another bounty hunter.”
“Why?” Scott asked after a long pause. Monty could see the emotions storming across Scott’s face: horror, fear, and finally anger. “That’s barbaric.”
“I know,” Monty said quietly. “We are not human. You must accept that.”
“I didn’t choose this.”
“I know,” Monty repeated. The words hardly seemed a comfort, but what else was there to say? They were bound by rules as ancient as time itself. Monty had already pushed the rules further than any living wolf could remember. By all rights, he should have a human mate. He should be focused on producing an heir and continuing his line as rulers of the pack; instead, he wanted Scott. He needed Scott; his body sang when he touched his omega. The alpha and omega pair was a legend; no one truly knew if they had existed. The records were sparse and intentionally misleading. Monty had made it sound more definite with Scott; he’d had plenty of practice, arguing with his father and convincing the pack. The pack had yielded, but the discontent lay only shallowly buried. They wouldn’t tolerate an alpha who lost his mate, who couldn’t dominate and control his own omega. This wasn’t a human mate who remained forever outside the pack structure and whose main function was to bear young. Monty wanted to love his mate.
Did Monty’s father love Esmerelda? Monty didn’t really know. He treated her decently, better than Monty remembered many of his school friends’ mothers, and divorce wasn’t permitted a mate of a werewolf. Once mated a werewolf was bound for life. The chemistry of the mates were changed forever. Biology demanded they stay together; human scientists would be fascinated by the process, but it was a secret intentionally left only half revealed. Monty’s mother could no more leave Monty’s father than Scott could leave Monty. He didn’t know if they’d still kill a fleeing human mate; no one wanted to test that tradition. Horrible deaths for both were amply recorded in the histories. Human fear of werewolves wasn’t totally a construct of smoke and mirrors. A human mate was bound to the master as Scott would be bound to him.
His mother submitted. He could see that clearly now. As a child, he hadn’t noticed, or maybe his brain only saw what it could process. His parents didn’t argue. Monty could still remember his first overnight visit to a human friend. He’d begged to sleep over, and his parents had finally relented. It was morning when the shouting had started—something about golf and paying attention to his son. The voices had shaken the home. Monty had hidden under the blanket and burst into tears. At eight he’d already absorbed that big boys didn’t cry, but he hadn’t been able to stop. His eyes had been red at breakfast, and Mrs. Chambers—Joey Chambers, that had been his friend’s name. Monty had thought he’d forgotten it—had clucked over him, assuming he was homesick. Terrified had been the correct emotion. From the noise, he’d expected blood or worse, and there was nothing. They acted as if it were normal.
Monty’s father led, but he was tied by the same rope that bound his wife. He wasn’t submissive, but he wasn’t free. A mated werewolf had to accommodate his mate. He would be hunted down, and a clean bullet would be a kindness.
“I didn’t choose either,” Monty said, “but I embrace my fate. I welcome my fate.” Did Monty’s mother understand that Gibson didn’t make all the choices, but followed a destiny of harsh expectations and even harsher punishments for deviation? Would Scott ever understand this? They were all submissive to their traditions and their destiny; choice and freewill were concepts alien to them. No, not totally alien, Monty had chosen not to take a wife. It hadn’t been as much choice as his body had rebelled as he came of age. He’d die before he’d bind himself to a wife. It was his grandfather who had spoken of the legends of the alpha and omega, his voice soft but always laced with power as they sat in a small hollow, the only light the stars and the dimming campfire. It was grandfather who understood and found the solution.
Grandfather would have liked Scott. His wife was a spitfire, not that she ever contradicted Grandfather in public. She knew and understood her role; Monty suspected she had embraced it as a cover for her real interests and an escape from a repressive family background. Monty hadn’t learned until they began to clear their home of his grandmother’s history. She was the first woman educated in her family, a daughter of an itinerant preacher with a passel of children. Her diaries had been added to the pack records. Monty would have to give them to Scott. She’d not been a simpering submissive, but a woman of strength and determination.
“What happens now?” Scott asked, his voice weak from the previous tears.
“You go upstairs and rest.”
Keep it simple. Scott wasn’t ready for anything more than simple, direct orders. The rest could be discovered later.
