Slings and Arrows 7

Slings and Arrows 7

Scott rolled over and shut his eyes against the faint light in the room. Sleep was better; he didn’t have to think when he was sleeping. Sleep was a safe place where no one told him he was a werewolf, where no one threatened to hit him or shove him into corners.

“Awake?” The word was spoken softly; the hand that moved over Scott’s hair was gentle, almost tender.

“Do I have to be?” Scott asked, not looking at Monty. He could smell Monty; he didn’t have to see him. He knew Monty was sitting on the bed, his long legs swinging loosely. He knew Monty’s black hair would be framing his face and shading his dark eyes.

“I would prefer it.”

“Why don’t you just yank me out of bed and beat me? You seem good at that,” Scott spat.

“Do you need to fight all the time?” Monty wrapped his big hand around Scott’s neck and squeezed. “Do you need me to force you because we don’t have much choice here. You are my mate. You are a werewolf. We are not a democratic species; we do not coddle the weak or the ill-behaved.”

Monty’s hand wasn’t creating pain, but the threat was blatant. Scott swallowed, feeling the fingers against his delicate windpipe. He’d entered a world he didn’t understand, a world with different rules and expectations. He felt his heart race in his chest, his body throwing blood to all the vital organs. Fight. Run. Do something. 

Give in. Curl at Monty’s feet. Lick his face.

“Get up.” Monty pulled Scott from the bed. “We’re going for a run.”

“No.”

“You have no choice.” Monty wrapped his hand around Scott’s wrist and pulled him down the stairs. Scott flailed against Monty, landing inconsequential blows against the hardened mass of a man. “Dress.” Monty threw Scott toward his crumpled jeans from this morning. “Socks and boots.”

“No!” Scott cringed at his own voice. It was high and whiny, pleading instead of demanding. 

The slap was hard against his thigh; the violence controlled only by the narrowest of margins. “I don’t care anymore.” Monty said and manhandled Scott into his jeans, no kindness or gentleness, big hands grabbing Scott’s waist, powerful thighs trapping him in place. “Boots.” Monty pushed Scott down onto a wooden bench and shoved his foot into his boot.

“No, I’m not going!” Scott screeched. He grabbed Monty’s hair, wrapped the strands around his fingers, and pulled.

The slap was swift and brutal, Scott’s head snapped back, banging the wall behind him. He struggled for balance as he was tossed over Monty’s knees. 

“So this morning wasn’t enough.”

Monty was swinging something at Scott. The boot. The boot Scott had refused to put on. It beat a tattoo across his already aching flesh.

“Stop. Please. I’m sorry,” Scott blubbered as the blows rained down. He couldn’t move, pinned between Monty’s knees, his arm jammed against his back. “Please.”

The boot continued to fall, horrible heavy whacks from his hip to his knees. Scott dropped his head and sobbed unchecked tears of fear and pain and raw submission. His voice was the high yelp of a screaming puppy. Finally Monty stopped and threw the boot across the floor. Somehow Scott could hear Monty’s ragged breathing even over his own whimpers and feeble cries.

“You idiot.” Scott didn’t know if the words were directed at him or merely to the space around him. He didn’t care; his only thoughts were to remain still and limp. “I’m too close to the shift. I can’t react like a human. I’m sorry.” Monty’s voice broke. 

Scott could hear the nearly silent sound of choked back tears. Monty’s knees had loosened, and Scott twisted from Monty’s hold without resistance, He knelt on the floor, his arms wrapped around Monty’s legs. Getting up was impossible. His muscles howled, and his head spun from the raw force. He’d been defenseless, completely at the mercy of a far bigger, stronger, and fiercer man. Scott buried his head in the knees of his punisher and cried, bitter tears of freedom lost and fear known. He was the captive; his place was groveling on the floor beside the stronger.

“Pup.” Monty’s fingers tangled in Scott’s hair, a gentle tug. “Look up.”

Scott obeyed. He forced his head up and studied Monty’s face. Monty’s eyes were deep and shadowed. Slowly Monty traced the stinging handprint on Scott’s cheek.

“I’m not a man. You can’t do those things. I’d rather not hurt you.”

“Yes, sir.” It seemed like the safe answer, like the appropriate answer.

“You’re hurt. You’re scared. I am too close to the shift for games. You must obey. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded and licked his dry lips. 

“Obedience, it’s not just a word; it’s a requirement for life as necessary as eating or breathing. We do not live in a kind world.” Monty stroked his finger over Scott’s lips, pressing inward and demanding entrance. Scott opened his mouth and obediently and passively let the digit enter. “I would prefer to show you kindness, but that is not our world. Without obedience you die.” Monty pulled his finger from Scott’s mouth and kissed his forehead. “Put your boots on. We must shift.”

Their boots crunched down the cracked and decaying sidewalk and onto the gravel of the barn lots. Scott could smell the wet animals huddled in the barns. Steam rose off the manure pile, mixing with the mist that was already heavy in the air. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was heavy with moisture, and the clouds merged with the rising mist. Monty marched Scott through the pastures, the mud and wet grass squelching against their boot soles.

Scott wanted to rest; every stride drove the ache of his ass deeper into his soul. He wanted to collapse against Monty into a whimpering, pitiful ball. Monty took no notice; he strode relentlessly forward. They crossed an empty field, the animals already secure in the barn at the approaching dusk, and climbed over a metal farm gate. The brush was immediately thicker at the far side of the gate, and the wet vegetation slapped against Scott’s legs and brushed his face. He ducked and slithered through the thickets of multiflora rose and honeysuckle. Monty seemed undaunted by the vegetation and continued his quick march forward. They scrambled up a hill and through a grove of cedar trees. Victor had insisted that Scott learn the names for the vegetation as they had trudged around the field in some demented form of exercise.

Scott was panting by the time they entered the small stone building hidden in the hillside. Scott flopped on the stone bench and groaned as his ass met the hard surface. He could hear the drip of water outside and the branches banging against the roof. His nose captured a faint odor of wet fur and mildew scrubbed away.

“Strip. You will shift soon. The aura is heightened here,” Monty said, already unlacing his boots.

Scott’s eyes jerked around the tomb like structure. “Please, I don’t want to.”

“You must,” Monty growled, reaching for the buttons on Scott’s coat. Monty’s voice had deepened to a rich gravel sound. He clumsily ran his hand over Scott’s head. He was losing his coordination as a man. “Follow my lead. The shift will be easy here.”

Scott felt goosebumps rise on his arms and chest as his torso was stripped bare. The hair on the back of his neck rose in an insulating fur. He scrambled for his boots, his feet feeling trapped inside the wool socks and leather.

Scott’s nails clicked on the roughened stone floor; his tail brushed against the stone wall. Monty stood in front of him, nearly a head taller and magnificent with his massive chest and ruff, the silver in his coat visible even in the dim light. Scott rubbed his head against the great body and nuzzled the broad face with a patchwork of faint scars across the muzzle. Scott’s tongue flicked across Monty’s mouth in a gesture of subservience. Monty stood with his body perpendicular to Scott, his great head resting over Scott’s back. He growled softly, and Scott turned, flattening his ears and licking his lips.

Monty trotted toward the door, not looking back. He knew Scott would be at his heels. The forest was alive with scents and sounds. Scott followed Monty in a slow lope as they crested the hill and scrambled down a ravine to a creek rushing below. The scent of deer was heavy on the rocks; the herd had been gone only a few minutes. Following Monty’s lead, Scott plunged his muzzle into the cool water and drank deeply. He pawed at the small rapids, catching the water in his mouth and snapping at the small shower. Monty growled as the water splashed his shoulder and slapped his front paw into the water sending a larger spray over Scott. Scott shook, the water flying from his coat, but Monty had already bound to the safety of the other bank, and with a yip and a flick of his head, he seemed to be indicating for Scott to follow.

 They galloped through the forest, circling a copse where the deer had obviously slept this morning. They soared over the fallen logs, Scott’s muscles working in ways he never imagined. He gulped in air and marveled at his strength as he followed Monty cat like onto a large rock. They sat silent for a moment, studying the forest around them. They were king of the forest, the top predator.

Suddenly Monty froze, his ears erect in a perfect silhouette before leaping off the rock in a massive bound. Startled, Scott scrambled after him trying to find the long, flat stride of a running wolf. He didn’t see it, but he heard it, a high whine and a bang, followed by a ricochet of wood. Gunfire. Beyond the hollow dead tree, Scott saw a flash of camouflage and heard the snap of a twig. He strained every muscle, leaping forward in a thicket of rose, ignoring the thorns against his coat. He skidded half falling into an empty fox den. He threw himself flat in the dense undergrowth, the only motion his frantic lungs, sucking in the cool damp air. The hunters’ boots crunched close, and Scott saw a flash of silver fur against the boulder. Monty had circled back; he was trying to draw the men away from his mate.

 Hide! Run! It was safe here in the impenetrable in the thorns.

A second gunshot ripped through the forest, followed by a frantic yip and the sound of breaking underbrush. That was a wolf running with no thought of concealment. Scott could smell the blood sweet and thick in his nostrils. He scrambled from his thicket, a howl rising unbidden in his throat. The hunters paused and turned searching for a new victim. Scott raised his head and howled once more before plunging hard down the embankment, tumbling for the sheltering rocks of the creek. He could hear the faint snap of branches far away. Monty was moving and running for safety. A third shot bounced off a rock and flew by Scott’s ear. They’d seen him. He flattened himself to the ground, galloping full speed through the shallow water and off a small waterfall. The water deeper below soaked his coat as he charged under the overhanging cliff. Above him he could hear the men, but he couldn’t make out the words, or he couldn’t understand them. He ran, not hiding the noise of his feet splashing through the water and clattering against the rocks. Let them hear him. They wouldn’t have a good shot. Let them go away from Monty. 

The scent of blood had disappeared along with the sound of the men as Scott slowed to a ground covering trot. He scrambled up the bank and sniffed the air. No men here. He peered down over the hillside. In the darkness, he could only just make out the lights of the farm below, the security lights over the barn doors and the distant glow from the kitchen in the house. He froze, ears erect trying to hear either his mate or the sound of destructive men. Only the normal forest sounds surrounded him, muted by the presence of a wolf. He studied the landscape, searching for something familiar. As a wolf his vision was far more suitable to the darkness, but he wasn’t versed in the lore of the woods, and one tree and rock blended into the next. 

He needed help, but phones and cars and emergency services all depended on him being a man. He’d never shifted without Monty; he wasn’t sure he could shift without Monty. The stone building was his only hope. Monty had said it made the shift easier, and Scott hadn’t felt sick this time--no spots in front of his eyes or terrible nausea. He thought the building was to his right above the trees that jutted into the pasture. He trotted down the narrow deer track, his nose searching for their scent as men and ignoring the prevalent deer and rabbit that would have usually tantalized his nasal passages. He stopped, raised his head, and sniffed the wind. Scott carefully sorted through the scents assaulting his brain: cow manure, leather, the spices of the kitchen, Monty. He plunged off the narrow trail, zigzagging in the undergrowth. Those were Monty’s boots.

Without his nose he wouldn’t have found the well hidden stone structure. He nosed the boots, wishing for the man who had worn them only a few hours ago. He paced across the small room. He needed to shift; he’d never shifted alone. Think about himself as a man; that’s what Monty had said. He needed fingers to punch the cell phone keys and a voice to sound the alarm. He wanted his feet inside boots, and he wanted to stand upright. 

Scott whimpered and struggled to stand on his hind legs. A wave of nausea buffeted his body, and he gripped the wall with cold fingers. Fingers! He was back in human form. He stumbled on shaky legs toward his coat and fumbled for his phone. He squinted trying to read the numbers, his vision not totally shifted from its lupine form. Victor had given Scott his number. Scott clumsily pressed the buttons. Please, let him hit the right numbers. 

“Hello,” a voice said from somewhere warm and safe.

Scott swallowed and tried to find his voice. He started with a yip before the words tumbled from his mouth. “They shot Monty! I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he is alive.”

“Where are you?” Victor’s voice cut through Scott’s near hysteria.

“The stone room.” Scott didn’t know what else to call it.

“Stay. We’ll be there shortly.”

The phone clicked off before Scott could say anymore. He stared at the blank screen, watching stupidly. He wanted to hear a human voice. He shivered, the cold biting into his naked skin. He dressed, the clothes unfamiliar against skin that only moments before had been covered by a rich red fur. He paced the floor, listening to the clack of his boots on the stone. He ran his fingers down the damp wall; his fingers traced the stones and stroked the thin layer of moss that seeped from the cracks.

Monty, he wanted Monty. This wasn’t his world. He didn’t know of woods and hunters and blood. He lived in the world of bright lights and blinking computer screens and where even the meat in the supermarket was hygienically packed in plastic wrap and shipped from some far away processing place.

“Scott.” The voice was rough and unfriendly. 

Scott spun around to stare into the hard, unyielding eyes of Brent. He loomed over Scott, the thick ridge of his brows somehow reminiscent of prehistoric man.

“Where is he? You left your mate. You left your alpha.”

“No,” Scott said, pressing back into the rough stones. “He led them away. He was protecting me.”

“Enough,” Victor snarled. “Brent, it is not your place to discipline Monty’s mate.”

“He’s only a mate in name. You can smell it; he hasn’t mated, and now all is lost.”

“No,” Scott shouted, “He’s alive. I heard Monty in the forest.”

“Where were you?” Victor asked, stepping forward and shielding Scott’s body with his own bulk. 

“On the hill. By the big rock. I don’t know the woods.”

“I do,” Victor said. 

Victor moved toward the door and into the darkness of the woods with Brent at his shoulder. Scott trailed behind, his stride half the length and his unfamiliarity with the woods hampering his pace. Scott struggled to keep the thin beam of Victor’s headlamp in sight. It had looked different on four legs; the branches hadn’t hit him in the face. As a wolf, he’d leapt over the logs and small crags; as a man he struggled with every lump and undulating surface. Scott was desperate for breath as they crowned the hill by the big rock. Victor bounded onto the rock and stared off into the darkness and mist. 

“This way.” Victor pointed toward one more identical tree.

They slid and scrambled down a steep bank. Brent broke a branch from a sapling and sniffed the edge. “Blood. See the broken bushes,” Brent said to Victor. “Monty’s always careful, and he wasn’t careful here.”

“This way.” Victor ran hard, looking more wolf than man, even though he was still in a man’s body. He placed his feet without fault, never slipping on the treacherous ground.

“Monty!” Scott threw himself down the hill. Monty lay huddled under a rock ledge, his head resting unmoving on his paws. Blood pooled underneath him and soaked the usually sleek hair of his shoulder. “Monty.” Scott ran his hand over the Monty’s broad skull. “Please.” 

The scent of blood was overwhelming in the tight space. Sticky, warm, and almost black it trickled onto Scott’s pants and splashed onto his boots. Scott traced his finger over the erect ears; he’d never touched Monty as a wolf, not in his human form. Scott had made Monty hit him today. Brent and Victor had probably seen the bruise on Scott’s cheek. Scott would never know the caressing hand of his mate. Tears dripped from Scott’s eyes and splashed on the soiled fur. Monty shuddered, his ribcage rising and falling.

“He’s alive,” Scott screamed. “Don’t die.” Scott covered the gaping wound with his fingers, uselessly trying to stop the flow of life forces.

Victor’s headlamp swung down, bathing Scott in a white glare. Brent landed on the narrow shelf with a single jump from above.

“Keep pressure on it,” Brent snarled, stripping off his sweater as a makeshift compress. “Keep your hands on him. His life depends on it.”

Brent knelt and swung the weight of the great wolf onto his back. With a grunt, he rose to his feet with Monty draped around his neck like a macabre shawl.

“Keep your hands on him,” The same instruction repeated with desperate energy. 

Scott pressed the sweater into the wound and wrapped his fingers into the dense fur of the neck. They scrambled up the bank. Somehow Brent had this incredible strength to scale the rocks and mud with the weight of a full size werewolf on his back. They charged down the hill, a blind run in only the flickering light of Victor’s headlamp. Scott thought only of touching Monty. He had to keep his hands against his mate. Thorns tore at Scott’s pants and stabbed his face. His blood was trickling onto Monty as they ran. His lungs refused to work any harder; the air a precious commodity in far too short of supply.

A truck stood at the bottom of the hill, the throb of the diesel engine out of place in the world of the forest. Brent laid Monty’s body in the bed and hoisted Scott up by his belt loops.

“Lay against him. He needs to know you’re there. Let the legends be true.”

Scott didn’t understand the words; he didn’t even try. He wrapped himself around Monty, burying his face in the fur. The house was a blur. Men with blankets carried them both into the house. White sheets were spread across the kitchen floor and a woman in a melange of floral house coat, heavy boots, and a wool shawl bent over Monty.

“He can’t shift back.” That was a woman’s voice. “Even with his mate he can’t shift?”

“No.” Scott couldn’t tell if that was Victor or Brent or one of the other pack members who now circled around the room, mostly big men with the smell of farms and woods on their clothes. 

“Is he going to be all right?” a soft voice asked. Gregory had inched his way forward, his face chalk pale as he looked down at his alpha sprawled on the floor.

Scott wrapped his fingers tighter in Monty’s fur. He had to be all right. He couldn’t do this without him. Should he pray? Humans did in this situation, but Monty wasn’t a human. Scott wasn’t a human.

“Monty is strong,” the women said as she bent over the wolf, her fingers probing the wound. “And he has his omega. He lives for his omega right now.”

Someone was clipping Monty’s leg and shoulder. The wound gaped jagged in the newly clipped skin. 

“He needs blood,” the woman, the doctor, said as she pressed on Monty’s pale gums.

“He needs a hospital.” Scott heard himself say.

“We’re werewolves.” Brent’s voice was harsh. “We must provide for our own or die. Helen is skilled.”

The women pushed her gray hair back from her lean face and smiled slightly. “High praise from you, Brent dear. There’s a blood collection jar in my bag. I need it. We need blood from the omega. His blood will match, and it’s his blood that Monty needs now.”

“His name is Scott,” Brent said. “You can at least use his name.”

“I need blood,” the doctor said, not lifting her eyes from Monty. “The wound is repairable, but he’s in shock from blood loss.”

“Scott’s our alpha’s mate. He deserves respect,” Brent snarled.

“Brent,” Victor warned. “Do as you’re told.”

Brent lowered his eyes for a split second in a gesture of deference to Victor, but Scott could still see the anger in the dark depths of Brent’s eyes.

Scott stroked Monty’s muzzle. He wanted those eyes to open. He wanted to see the man again who was hidden in the wolf’s body.

“Put them up on the table. We’ll need to get the bottle lower than his arm,” the doctor said. Scott started to move to his feet, but was picked up and placed on the table by Brent. Two men lifted Monty who remained limp and unconscious. 

The doctor moved toward Scott with a giant needle; it glittered in the bright light of the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” Brent said, intercepting the doctor’s hand. “You work on Monty.” Brent’s hand brushed over Scott’s knee in an awkward gesture of affection. “Don’t pass out on me here.”

“I hate needles.”

“Think about Monty. You are carrying his life forces now. You love him.”

Did he love Monty? Monty had beaten Scott twice today, and it was a beating, but they had run together. Scott had stood and gazed at that magnificent wolf. He’d basked in the few gentle touches of affection.

Scott flinched as the needle slid into his arm.

“Be brave. Monty deserves bravery,” Brent said.

“I thought you hated me,” Scott said and looked up into Brent’s eyes.

“I protect my alpha; I protect what is his.”

“I’m his.” That was all Scott was, an extension of Monty. He wasn’t a person or a werewolf. He was Monty’s possession. 

“Scott, that’s not an insult. Monty wanted you. Be proud of that. Now don’t stare at me. You have no manners.”

Scott dropped his eyes. Manners. Brent spat on the truck floor. Who was he to talk about manners?

Brent touched the bruise on Scott’s cheek, his blunt finger surprisingly gentle. “You’re a hothead like I am. We will probably not get along, but I will protect you. It is my duty and an honor.”

Scott watched his blood trickle into the bottle. He didn’t understand. He was too exhausted and shell shocked to think clearly. Brent had hated Scott. The beta had done nothing but snarl and growl at Scott. He’d treated Scott as the enemy, as a usurper. Scott studied Brent through his lowered lashes. Brent’s eyes were on Monty with an intensity that almost hurt the soul. Brent loved Monty, not as a mate, but with an intense bond. Scott was the stranger, the man who didn’t know the customs, who clashed with their worshiped leader. He was taking a piece of Monty from them, and Scott hadn’t even wanted it. He’d fought it. No wonder they hated him.

“I’ve taken more blood than the usual margin of safety.” The words sounded as if they were coming through acres of cotton wool, and Scott’s vision blurred. He slumped against Monty, only knowing that he should keep at least one hand on his mate. He’d give up his blood for his mate. Monty was his alpha. His life was Monty’s. That’s what Monty had been trying to tell Scott. He’d been so stupid.

“Sorry,” Scott whispered, his throat too dry to make more than an almost inaudible sound. “I’ll do better. I understand now.”  

Slings and Arrows 6

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.

Slings and Arrows 5

Slings and Arrows 

Chapter 5

Scott stared at Monty. God, the man could be gorgeous; no, he was gorgeous. Monty’s eyes trapped Scott in a hypnotic gaze. Scott wanted this man. He was an idiot; he wanted this man who was going to own his soul.

“Don’t panic.” Monty’s voice was warm, a balm to Scott’s shaking nerves. 

“Right, don’t panic,” Scott said with an attempt at self-deprecating humor. “I turn into a flipping wild animal, and I’m not supposed to panic. I practically up chuck in a stranger’s sink. Ah, yes, still no need for panic. I’m the whipping boy of a group of those same said wild animals. Me panic—never. It’s a walk in the park.”

“Stop.” Monty wrapped his arm around Scott’s waist and pulled him close. 

“I’m just supposed to stop. I’ve landed in the middle of a fucking computer game, but the only problem is that it’s real. I can’t power down or pull the plug. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“You’re supposed to obey me,” Monty said in a steady voice. “You’re my omega.”

“That’s what I keep being told.” Scotts voice was spiraling higher in frustration. He was dangerously close to tears. Great, he could be nauseated and tearful. Those were great manly qualities. “So I follow you around like a good little boy and all will be well. Do Brent and Victor get to fuck me too? It that part of a beta’s rights?”

The snarl from Monty’s lips was frightening. Scott lowered his eyes and resisted a strange urge to flatten his ears. His ears weren’t mobile. Of course as a wolf, they would be. If Scott had ever watched the National Geographic Channel, he’d probably know something about wolf behavior. He wasn’t a wolf; he didn’t care about wolf behavior.

“No one touches you but me. You are my mate.” Monty stepped closer, pushing Scott back against the counter. His lips touched Scott, at first gentle then powerful and claiming. Scott stood panting as Monty eased back, a fierce look on his handsome face. “Mine.” 

Monty’s. It should be overwhelmingly frightening. If Scott though about it rationally, it was overwhelmingly frightening. He was a pawn in a game that he didn’t understand, but, God, it felt good. Scott could still taste Monty’s lips on his. Scott rubbed his hand over his face. No, he wasn’t falling into some crazed sexual haze. He had to keep his wits about them, no matter how addled they currently felt.

“What is the omega?” Scott had to ask the question. It didn’t matter how fucking handsome and breathtaking Monty was in his faded flannel shirt and worn jeans that did little to hide the well defined and impressive package; Scott wasn’t the hero in a romance film or worse a porn flick. There was more to life than the physical sensations that seemed to be overwhelming him.

It was Monty’s turn to run his hand over his face and brush the shiny, black strands of hair from his face. “I know little of this role,” Monty said slowly. “It’s surrounded by myth and lost in the legends of time”

“This is my fucking life, not some fucking game,” Scott shouted, jerking away from Monty and immediately regretting the flare of spots and the curl of nausea that churned his guts. “You’re not some game master.” Scott gripped the counter, trying to swallow the waves of bile that kept threatening to launch from his mouth. “Lost in the mist of time doesn’t do shit for me.”

“You and Brent have an equally delightful vocabulary. I’m surprised you didn’t hit it off.”

“How can you be joking?”

“Scott,” Monty said, gripping Scott’s chin in a calloused hand. “I have no more control of this than you. I am trapped in the tides of destiny and tradition. As alpha I must take you as my mate. Each touch of your skin, every whimper and shout from you, drives my heart faster. I can taste you in my mouth; I can feel you on my hands; I can hear you in my ears. You are my mate. I can no more change this than you can. You aren’t my serf or my slave; you are my other half. Come.”

Monty’s grip around Scott’s wrist was too strong to break. Scott followed in Monty’s wake, nearly running to keep up with his long strides. Monty opened a heavy, wood paneled door and dragged Scott into a study, a library, or maybe more correctly a lair. Book shelves rose high to the ceiling, the volumes old and smelling of leather and dust and time. A small fire crackled behind a heavy screen, real, not a gas log. A sheepskin rug filled the floor space in front of the hearth looking both inviting and somehow primitive or even revolting at the same time. A large desk battered by time and heavy use took the remaining space. It wasn’t modern. There were no blinking monitors or scattered smart phones and iPods on the table. 

The room was dark without outside windows. The only light was the fire and the narrow band from the open door. Scott opened a desk drawer and drew out a box of kitchen matches. He struck the match, the flame brilliant in the still air, the acrid smell of smoke and phosphorous assaulting Scott’s nose. Monty lit the wick on an antique light, watching the flame for a moment before replacing the shade.

“Don’t you have electricity?” Scott asked.

“Tradition. The house is wired, but this room holds our memories. Electricity is not a part of our heritage. We must be more aware of the earth than those out there. We are tied to the world in very different ways than those who cannot shift.”

Great. More history mumbo jumbo, Scott thought to himself. 

Monty turned to the shelves. His finger traced the volumes until he pulled out two. “These are the records of the omega.” He flipped to a page, marked with a gold ribbon. “Here.” Monty tapped the page.

Scott peered down at the book. It was a handwritten, tiny cursive with elaborate loops filled the page from margin to margin. Scott read print; he’d been taught to write cursive in elementary school, but it was an art he soon forgot, and reading this was nearly impossible. The letters all looked the same, and the words refused to become more than loops and curves of elegant script.

“What does it say?” Scott asked in frustration.

“As I understand it, this page speaks of Richard and James. ‘The moon rose, the silver light streaking across the top of the trees. The water gurgled over the rocks, a twig cracked, and high above the screech owl declared its presence in the ancient hickory tree. James stood in the small clearing, the moons rays reflecting off his silver coat. He turned his head toward his constant companion. Beside him stalked a wolf, his coat erect down his spine, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He was always with James as wolf or as man. He was the shield to James’s spear,”

“And what does this tell me?” Scott asked. He wanted a straight answer, not riddles and legends and veiled warnings.

“Little if this is your only information. I have combed our ancient recourses. The references are all clouded, but the omega is not a doormat as you referred to it. He is a co-warrior. He shares mastery of the pack. He is submissive to the alpha alone. It is to me that you must yield. The pack is ours, not mine.”

“I don’t have machinations of greatness.”

“You are impossible, pup.” Monty cuffed the back of Scott’s head. First you complain of being a doormat and now you complain of having power.”

Scott let his eyes roam around the room. It was impossible to stare into Monty’s dark and intense gaze without it affecting him. He wanted to see approval in those dark eyes; Scott wanted to see that slight smile twitch at the corner of Monty’s lips. Scott could smell Monty, the scent assaulting his thought and his reason. He wanted to be closer, to breathe nothing but Monty. No. He stepped back and focused his eyes above Monty’s shoulder.

“Let me paraphrase,” Scott said, trying for a tone of abstract professionalism which in the circumstances was ridiculous. “Without my say or my consent, I am your mate, and I am your submissive, however by the taking of your name I am protected from the basest urges of your pack. I sure as hell can’t protect myself. I think your delightful Brent and Victor have proved that,” Scott continued, losing any pretense of rational professionalism. “You can pick me up like a troublesome fly. Would you like me kneeling and lavishing you with sirs and slobber on your boots?”

“Pup,” Monty said in a soft reassuring tone.

“Don’t start.” Scott waved his hand around in a useless dismissive gesture. “Just order me. I’m the omega to crawl on the floor and do your fucking bidding. I don’t need it fucking sugar coated.”

“Enough,” Monty snarled.

Scott jerked back from the tone and the eyes. Monty’s eyes were like obsidian discs, glittering in a way that Scott had previously thought possible only in the bad novels that his mother used to keep hidden behind the cook books.

“Yes, I’m a dominant, or a fucking dominant as you might call it, and you’re my fucking submissive.” Monty growled again and caught Scott’s collar, tightening the cloth around his neck. “I can thrash it into you. Is that what you need, pup?” Monty shook Scott hard at each word. 

Pulling away was impossible with his wind half cut off. Answering was equally impossible. Scott grabbed for Monty’s wrist. “Please,” he choked out. “You’re hurting me.”

“Yes, I am.” Monty practically threw Scott against the wall. “Hands on your head. Nose against the corner.”

“No.” Scott spun around. “I’m not standing in the corner.” He grabbed a book from the shelf and hurled it at Monty. Scott reached for a second missile, but the crash of a hand against his dress trousers sent all brain processes rearward.

“Hands on your head, pup, or I do that again.”

Scott jerked his hands up, interlacing his fingers in a clumsy imitation of what he’d seen on the cop shows. He wasn’t going to risk another one of those spanks. Fire had radiated off the blow. 

“So is this the type of submission you want?” Monty’s voice was a whisper in Scott’s ear: cool and menacing, and insanely causing a stir in Scott’s groin. “I can leave hot handprints on your ass. I can have you on your knees. I can make you the submissive fuck toy you’re so afraid of, or we can play it my way. I am your alpha. I am the pack’s alpha. My word is law, but that doesn’t mean you have no say. It means you advise and guide, but you must adhere to the final decision with exacting obedience. You do not challenge me alone or with the pack.” Monty ran his hand down Scott’s back, firmly kneading the ass he’d just swatted. “My omega is submissive to me, but it’s about a partnership, a generous ceding of your power to me to make us both stronger, not me brutally taking it. I can take it, have no doubt.” Monty stepped back, his hand resting on Scott’s neck. “So what will it be?”

Coffee, tea, or milk? Scott thought inanely. He couldn’t decide in two seconds. It was a choice he shouldn’t have to make. Obey willingly or obey because Monty would knock the shit out of him. This was the twenty-first century. He was a man. He wasn’t consigned to some forced obedience, cheerful or not.

“Scott.” Monty gently turned Scott and ran his thumb down Scott’s cheek. “I want to love you, not hurt you. Both of us have few choices here.”

Scott was fucking crying. He couldn’t stop it. Tears were running down his cheeks, and his hands were still anchored on his head.

“Come here.” Monty’s arms were strong, the embrace unwavering. Scott buried himself in Monty’s chest. His tears soaked Monty’s shirt. “Shh. Put your hands down, sweetheart.” Monty’s fingers weaved between Scott’s, forcing the hands apart and down. “I’ve got you. Shh.”

Scott tried to make himself stop crying, but it seemed beyond any easy solution. He couldn’t just reboot his programming or force quit the errant application. 

“I’m an emotional disaster. Sorry,” Scott finally mumbled.

“The shifting leaves you vulnerable.” Monty fingered Scott’s short hair and kissed his forehead.

“Will I do this from now on?” Scott said, leaning into Monty’s strength, even as his mind was hinting he should pull away.

“It should lessen.”

“But not totally go away.” Scott pulled back from Monty. “I didn’t want this.”

Monty looped his arm over Scott’s shoulders and pulled him close again. “We don’t always get what we want.”

“Fuck you! You don’t even like me. I’m just some burden you have to endure—all for the good of the pack. Ah!” The swat was hard; It shot Scott up onto his toes and drove his voice several octaves higher.

“We will keep doing this until you get it right.”

“How can you be so fucking calm?”

“I’ve know my destiny, and—” Monty wrapped a big hand around the back of Scott’s head and brought their lips close. The kiss was scorching and claiming, and left Scott mind whirling in a tornado of useless thought. “I want you for mine. It doesn’t matter that the choice wasn’t mine. I was never fated to have that choice. What matters is that I want you. Neither part of me, the wolf or the man, can be without your.”

Maybe the conversation would have gone further and the world would have become clearer, but they both heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

“That’s Gregory. He’ll have your stuff,” Monty said.

“I look terrible.” Scott wiped his eyes with his sleeve. They had to be bloodshot and swollen. It wouldn’t’ take the investigative powers of Sherlock Holmes to know that he’d been crying. 

“You’re beautiful.”

“I’m red-eyed and tear stained. I look like a hormonal teenage girl.”

“Gregory won’t notice.”

“How could he not?”

“I think the term for it once was airhead.”

“Hey, anyone home?”

“Coming,” Monty called back. “You coming,” Monty asked Scott, “or am I dragging you? I can do that too.”

“Coming,” Scott said with a final swipe at his face. He didn’t doubt that Monty would drag him out to see whomever was at the door, tear stains be damned. 

Monty opened the study door, and a small bundle of black and white fur yipped and jumped and desperately tried to climb Scott’s pants leg. 

“Oreo.” Scott picked up the little dog and cuddled him close to his face. Oreo yapped and licked at Scott’s face, his pink tongue just making contact with Scott’s chin.

“Scott, meet Gregory,” Monty said over the frantic yipping. 

Gregory was thin and pale with his dark hair cut at a stylish angle that half hid his light brown eyes. He held out his hand, but didn’t lift his eyes to meet Monty’s. His handshake was quick as if he wanted to make as little contact as possible.

“Hi,” Gregory mumbled, pulling his hand away and shoving it into his pocket, his shoulders slumped and his body angled away from both Monty and Scott.

“Stand up and make eye contact,” Monty said, his hand grazing Gregory’s shoulder in a gesture of support or maybe a slight threat.

Gregory made a noise between a whine and the universal noise of teenagers and scuffed his socked foot on the hardwood floor.

“I expect you to greet my mate properly,” Monty said in a low growl.

“Yes, sir,” Gregory mumbled with a deeper slump to his shoulders. “Scott, I’m pleased to meet you.” Gregory looked miserable, his face mostly hidden by the fringe of hair, but a scorching pink shown along his cheekbones.

Scott nodded, feeling almost as awkward as Gregory. Scott hadn’t cared that Gregory hadn’t greeted him with whatever Monty defined as proper politeness. Scott wasn’t too far from his own teenage years to remember how it felt to be introduced to people that were as interesting as the trash blowing on the road and who tried to make awkward conversation about college or future careers.

“I see that I have two social butterflies,” Monty said, swiping a heavy hand over both Scott’s and Gregory’s head in an identical light blow. “Gregory is the youngest member of the pack and general errand boy.”

“I am not,” Gregory said hotly.

“You are,” Monty replied, unperturbed by Gregory’s outburst. Monty ruffled Gregory’s dark hair. “Are you staying tonight? You’re father is out of town?”

“I can?” Gregory looked up at Monty a fleeting expression bordering on adoration or hero worship raced across his face before being replaced by teenage angst.

“I would not have asked if I wouldn’t allow it.”

“But--”

“I have a mate. That doesn’t lessen my responsibility to the rest of the pack. I am still the pack’s alpha, and Scott will make me stronger in that role, not weaker.”

“Will you run with me tonight?” Gregory asked softly.

“Not tonight.”

“You won’t let me go alone.”

“No, I won’t.” Monty’s tone had lost its friendliness; this must have been a long standing argument. “Ask Victor or Brent.”

The expression on Gregory’s face would have been comical if it hadn’t been a mirror to Scott’s own feelings. Scott felt young, stupid, and inadequate seeing his own insecurities reflected on a teenage face. His teenage years weren’t something he was interested in reliving; the first time around had been bad enough. He didn’t need the instant replay.

“You take one of them with you, or you don’t shift.” Monty’s voice and expression were hard. This was a man who expected obedience with no argument. Scott had heard it described as willing submission; the submissive was to gracefully yield to the dominant’s request. Scott had imagined it, but he’d never seen it beyond the lip service of people playing at hokey games, and from the set of Gregory’s jaw he wasn’t going to see it today.

“Fine,” Gregory huffed. “I’ll follow my alpha’s idiotic rules.”

Monty moved like lightening; maybe it was the wolf side that allowed him to move so fast. He grabbed Gregory’s collar, lifted him off the floor, and landed several hard slaps in a rapid tattoo on Gregory’s thigh. He tossed Gregory back to the floor. The teenager scrambled to keep his feet and wiped a hand across his face with an angry swipe.

“Are you done?” Monty asked, his body still tense from the quick struggle.

Gregory nodded, his eyes focused on his own socked feet.

“What’s with the resentment?” Monty asked, unbending slightly. “You know better than to fight me.”

“Scott’s here,” Gregory mumbled.

“Yes,” Monty prompted. He moved his hand to rest on Gregory’s shoulder.

“He’s the omega.”

“And what does that mean?” Monty asked. His eyes had shifted to an almost black as he stared at Gregory.

“Nothing,” Gregory mumbled.

The sound of the slap ricocheted off the walls. Gregory jumped and reached back to protect his exposed ass. “Please. Don’t.” He blinked back a sheen of tears.

Scott moved to slide away. This wasn’t his business; he shouldn’t be a spectator to whatever the hell was going on.

“Don’t move.” Monty’s voice ripped through Scott’s body and froze his legs without his brain even processing the order. “You are a member of this pack. Gregory is as answerable to you as he is to me. He seems to be severely misinformed as to the role of the omega.” Monty focussed his attention back toward the hapless Gregory who was struggling not to fidget under Monty’s harsh gaze. “Gregory, what is the role of the omega? What have you been told?”

“Nothing,” Gregory repeated, his slouch deeper, his hands rubbing up and down his slightly grubby jeans.

“What has your father told you?” Monty asked, cupping the back of Gregory’s neck with a large hand and giving him a slight shake.

“He’s the bottom of the pecking order.” Gregory paused and bit his lip. “You fuck him.”

Monty smiled gently and ruffled Gregory’s hair. “It’s not as horrific as you imagine, and our behavior in the bedroom is hardly your business. The other is not as simple. Alone, Scott would be the bottom of the pack, but he is my chosen mate. My status reflects on his rank. He holds a more important position than the gammas. You will defer to him.”

Gregory’s lip trembled, and his brown eyes looked impossibly wide. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. “I meant no offense.”

“You’re a good kid.” Monty stroked his hand down Gregory’s back. “Now be good tonight and ask Victor or Brent to take you out for a run. I can feel the energy on you. You need to shift.”

“I like going with you better,” Gregory said shyly.

“I know you do, but you must learn to accept and be comfortable with all your pack mates.”

“They snarl at me.”

“And they have every right to snarl at you. You are a very young and sometimes impertinent gamma. Now go on. Scott and I need some time alone.”

Scott watched Gregory nod and lean into Monty’s touch before walking from the room. Scott bit his own lip and dropped his eyes as Monty’s dark eyes rested on his face. Monty had been decent to the kid, but he hadn’t been easy or compromising, and somehow he hadn’t been quite human. He’d physically touched the boy, and it had been accepted. Gregory didn’t look afraid of Monty, well, maybe a little, but he also seem to genuinely like Monty. He’d wanted to go running through the countryside with Monty or whatever werewolves did.

“Gregory’s young, but he must learn that I won’t always make allowances for his behavior,” Monty said, his eyes still studying Scott. “I won’t hurt him. A good alpha postures and displays, so true violence will not be needed. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded, but he wasn’t sure he understood, but damn it was easier to agree with those dark eyes boring into him than to make trouble. Monty wasn’t flamboyant; he didn’t carry a whip or wear leather chaps, but he reeked of dominance. Scott shuddered inwardly. This frightened him, but paradoxically it excited him in ways he didn’t understand. He knew he was a sexual submissive, but he’d never felt the magnetic pull that Monty seemed to have over him. He’d tried a few times, but it had always seemed so damn phony that he’d about given it up. People in clubs strutting around in strange outfits just didn’t excite him. Saran wrap belonged in the kitchen, not as a sex aid, and licking boots among other things was just gross.

Monty’s lip turned up in a slight smile. It was a guarded smile and did little to make Scott  happier or more relaxed. Monty knew his power, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

“Come here, pup.” Monty pointed to the space on the floor between his feet.

Scott thought about resisting. He should walk away; he would walk away if he hadn’t shifted. He ran his hand through his short hair in an unconscious gesture of stress. His mind might fight this, but his body told him he should surrender. He was Monty’s; he belonged to Monty.

Scott’s feet moved slowly; the few feet turned into a chasm a mile wide. He stood in front of Monty, unable to look the taller man in the eye. Scott gritted his teeth and tried to stop the shaking that he knew must be visible. It wasn’t exactly fear, but he couldn’t put a name on it. Fear was definitely a component, but perversely there was some sort of excitement and longing.

“Good.” Monty stroked his finger down Scott’s cheek. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. You are my mate. I protect what is mine.”

Protect. Mine. Scott wasn’t a possession; he was an autonomous human being. He should protest. He should fight, but his feet stayed stubbornly in place, and he clasped his hands behind him in a classic submissive pose.

Monty placed a finger under Scott’s chin and forced his eyes up. “Have no doubt you will obey me, but obedience is for your protection, not a desire to quash your free will. I don’t want a mindless drone. I want a partner, a man and a wolf who will stand beside me with pride.”

The kiss was soft, sensual and left Scott breathless. He feared the power. He feared the force that made him drop his eyes to this man, to this werewolf, but his body soared at every touch. He wanted to surrender, to curl up with Monty’s arms tightly around him, to sit at this man’s feet like a faithful pet.

“Give it to me,” Monty whispered, his hot breath against Scott’s ear. “You know where you belong.”

“I can’t.” Scott gulped air, trying to clear his head. He couldn’t fall under this creature’s spell. 

“Not yet,” Monty said gently, “but it will happen.”