Wolf Teeth || Book I : Summer {M/M} ❄

Chapter #22

Oryen wished ardently that Reyz's reassurance affected the warm glow of approval he craved, but his brother's absence at the tryouts, and in the past week in general, picked at old wounds. His success felt meagre anyway—faylan presented its own problems regardless of whether it helped the Alphas favour him.

He was barely a werewolf yet, a Fen, and the sport wasn't known for being gentle.

He wasn't given much time to contemplate it all. Oryen froze when he saw who awaited him. Beau leaned against the wall in a secluded archway, affecting an indolent posture of easy grace, but the stone he leant against...

It was where Oryen had hidden the scalpel just a few days prior.

"I see you made the team," said Beau.

Warily, "Here to take pot shots?"

"No." Beau looked past him into the arena. "To question your motivation."

"It looked like fun."

"Fun that could get you killed." Beau straightened. Oryen tried not to let his eyes dart to the wiggly stone that had been under his shoulder. "There's more to it. Your brother?"

Oryen's skin erupted in gooseflesh. How much did Beau know about Lazro's circumstances? What was public knowledge, and what was private? Oryen didn't know where to step, which landmines to avoid, what sort of lies to tell. He chose the thing closest to the truth.

"He's my older brother. I just wanted to impress him."

"But he's not here."

Stated in a factual, unaffected tone, but it robbed the breath from Oryen's lungs. Beau, with uncanny intuition, sought out his tenderest bruises and pressed them.

"Old habits die hard," Oryen said weakly.

"Do you think he'd be impressed if what happened to Evrynne happened to you?"

Desperately, Oryen reached for his most familiar defense—sarcasm. "You worried about me all of a sudden? I'm touched."

Beau's eyes narrowed. He raised a hand. His wrists were fine-boned, fingers slender and long with prominent knuckles. Built for playing music. He used that elegant hand to caress the wiggly stone in the wall with the backs of two knuckles, a pantomimed gesture of a lover's affection. Frigid terror flooded Oryen's lungs. He ceased to breathe.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice?" Beau said.

"You didn't say anything."

"I wanted to know if you'd go through with it."

Oryen was too ashamed to speak. All that time he'd spent paralyzed by memory, had Beau been watching? It felt more violating than the moment Beau had cut open his shirt and laid his worst fears bare.

He looked around. No one else was nearby, no one to overhear or see them. It was just the two of them.

Oryen took a few steps forward. Beau stiffened, raised his chin. He didn't back up, but the rigidity of his posture gave Oryen pause.

Through his own terror, it never occurred to him that Beau might be afraid of him too.

He considered it. He wasn't a full werewolf, but with less than two weeks to the full moon, Oryen's strength had grown exponentially. His senses were keener than ever. He'd adopted instincts and habits both new and alarming. All things which made it a very simple matter to take Beau's head in his hand and smash it into the stone.

Beau loathed him. He was starting to hate Beau too. But the thought of killing him was repulsive. It shouldn't have been—Beau had stated plainly he'd love to see Oryen dead. If Oryen had any survival instincts left, he should want to rid himself of Beau as a threat.