Fairytale - The Seventh Son - Part II

[maderr]

*~*~*

A day or so shy of two weeks was more than enough time to begin to feel somewhat comfortable in his new home.

Except that he still felt like a guest, a stranger being tolerated as best as his host was able. Which wasn't fair to Detlef, who had never been anything less than polite and kind and accommodating. It was not Detlef's fault that Grosvenor did not know how to appreciate a good thing.

He tried, gods did he try. If had not overheard that damnable conversation, would trying be easier? Though he liked to think the answer was yes, he suspected he was lying.

It didn't matter, he reminded himself for the millionth time. Whatever he had overheard, whatever he might stupidly wish, if he tried to take it—

What were his options? Refuse to join unless he got Ulrich? That would get him nowhere. It would insult the Alpha and Detlef, and therefore the whole pack. In addition to that, he would be upsetting their plans for Autenberg. He could not, would not, be that selfish, even if he wanted to be. What had selfishness ever gotten him before?

Exile, that's what.

His only other option was to leave, and see if Ulrich might go with him, and that was not simply stupid and selfish—it was cruel. Ulrich loved his home, his pack, and they him. Grosvenor was not more important than that, and he wouldn't dare to make Ulrich pick.

Anyway, what sort of arrogant ass had he become, to even think for two seconds that Ulrich might? This was what came of wallowing in self pity for far too long.

He looked up from where he had been staring a hole into the floor, and glanced around the room. Detlef's cottage was four rooms—the main room, a kitchen really only separate by a wide bar, the bedroom, and a storage room. The children slept in a loft over the kitchen and living room, and a massive fireplace kept the whole warm.

It was a handsome home, one to be proud of—well cared for, a bit nicer than the others in the village, and in location that was remote but still close to the Pack for help. Such an ideal arrangement and fine house was to be envied. If he lived here for a few years, and then moved eventually into the Alpha's house alongside Detlef…

There would be nothing to complain about. It would be a fantastic life. Wild mages across the highlands dreamed of obtaining lives half so grand.

Yet all he could think about was Ulrich's ramshackle little cabin with its faded curtains and small, tidy rooms. The way it was well away from everyone, and would never be comfortable housing more than two people. He loved pack, but he loved his privacy too, and if he married the Alpha, there would be very little of that.

Well, it little mattered. Any day now, the answer from Rothenberg would come, and his fate would finally be settled.

He stood up and crossed to the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove to heat water for tea. Detlef would be back soon, unless he'd been delayed by something, and the least he could do was have tea ready for his future mate.

Turning from the stove, he rifled around the overcrowded shelves to find the little tin which held the tea leaves, then pulled out mugs from a cupboard. By the time he'd also managed to put together a light snack, he could hear the sound of someone approaching.

Right as the kettle started to whistle. Turning, he pulled it from the heat, turning back as the door opened—

And Ulrich stepped inside, shaking off snow in that way of his.

Grosvenor hastily set the kettle down, desperate not to be caught staring. They'd barely seen each other since he had gone off with Detlef that first day. Only from a distance, or very briefly in passing. What was Ulrich doing here, damn it?

The sound of the door closing seemed far louder than it should. Maybe he was losing his mind.

Slowly he dragged his gaze back up, and nodded. "Good afternoon."

Ulrich smiled, and damn it, did he still have to look so damnably happy? Couldn't he look just a little bit suffering? Like maybe he was being torn up, too. But, no, Ulrich was so good it gave Grosvenor a headache. He was the sort of simpleton who was coerced into doing all the pesky, annoying, noble deeds in all the old stories. The sort of half wit who would go fight dragons or slay demons just because someone said please.

The sort of idiot who volunteered to help rescue a girl he'd never met alongside a wild mage who had made him ill with a magic barrier and shot an arrow at his idiotic head. Honestly, who had ever thought it was a good idea to send Ulrich off on his own?

"You look like you're settling," Ulrich said, still smiling easily as he slid onto a barstool and helped himself to the snacks and tea Grosvenor had set out. "I'm glad. Didn't I say you would be happy here?"

"You're an idiot," Grosvenor snapped, unable to help himself, only growing angrier when stupid Ulrich only looked briefly confused. "Did you need something?"

Ulrich shook his head, and swallowed the bite of bread and cheese he'd taken. "I just came to tell you that Detlef won't be home until late. He and father were detained working on whatever mysterious Alpha things they do, and Detlef wanted to make certain you wouldn't worry. They were going to send one of the pups, but the snow is picking up and I didn't want to risk a child getting lost." He shrugged, and ate a bit of sausage.

Did Ulrich even really care, anymore? Or was he so well trained, that once told no, he had accepted it and moved on and no longer care? Why couldn't he look just a little bit upset? Grosvenor slammed his teaspoon down on the table, and moved to get more bread, since it had taken Ulrich all of twenty seconds to consume what he had already set out.

"So what are you doing, now that you have no more wild mages to drag around in the snow?"

Ulrich shrugged, and for a moment Grosvenor almost thought something like sadness flickered across his face, but it was probably just his imagination. Good wolves did what they were told, and that was that. Here he'd been depressed and moping, and Ulrich had already moved on. "Playing with the children when the weather permits, doing what repairs I can to my house, helping my brothers when they need it. Normal stuff."

"Not putting together some grand wedding gift for your nuptials in spring?" he asked, and hoped he did not sound as bitter as he felt.

"The matter is not settled yet," Ulrich said quietly, this time looking at his tea. He shrugged again, and looked up, smile in place. "Anyway, I don't know more than his name and occupation. My luck, I'd get completely the wrong gift."

Grosvenor doubted it, but did not say so. "Are you going to eat everything in this house? If I did not know any better, I would swear your pack starves you. Where do you put it all?"

"No one knows," Ulrich said with a grin, and shoved another bit of cheese in his mouth. He chewed and swallowed, then spoke again. "My mother says it's because even when I hold still, I’m still moving. I vibrate in place, and burn off all the energy."

He could believe it, if only because Ulrich wasn't holding still. He only stopped moving when he was completely exhausted, as they'd both been after escaping that damnable witch. By pure habit, he glanced at his hand, the place where a finger should be.

Then jumped when Ulrich's hand took his, and Ulrich's thumb rubbed over his knuckles, and then brushed ever so briefly over the small stump that was all that remained of his little finger. "Does it still bother you?"

Grosvenor frowned and jerked his hand away. "It doesn't bother me."

"You always look at it, as if hoping to see it," Ulrich said quietly, and he wore that awful stricken expression that made Grosvenor want to hit him. Or kick him. Or kiss—no, bad. "Every time she comes up."

"So what?" Grosvenor snapped, and poured more tea so he wouldn't throw the damned kettle at Ulrich's idiot head. "It was…sometimes I wonder if it was a dream, the same as Annie. Then I see my finger, and remember it was real. If I never smell gingerbread again, I will consider myself lucky. Stopped looking like a stupid kicked puppy, or I will kick you just so you have a reason to look that way." He slammed the kettle down on the counter.

Ulrich smiled, then wisely hid the expression by dropping his head to stare into his tea. "Knowing you, it's a wonder she did not opt to cut out your tongue."

He'd thought the same thing himself, once or twice, but she'd like the sounds of suffering too much. So he recalled thinking, anyway.

Shuddering, he pushed away the foul memories and sipped at his tea. "So your brother will not be back any time soon? Where are his children?"

"Last I saw them, they were fast asleep in front of the fire. I’m certain he'll have them stay there, and not come back here 'til the snow lets up a bit. I'm certain you'll enjoy—the peace and quiet."

If he hadn't been paying entirely too much attention to everything Ulrich said and did, he might have missed the slight catch to his voice. But he was paying too much attention, and he did hear it, and he stupidly let it set his heart to racing.

Then Ulrich abruptly stood up, nearly knocking his barstool over, and turned to the door—

Right as it flew open, and Detlef strode inside, covered head to foot in snow. The wind howled beyond him, and though it was only late afternoon, it may as well be full night, for all the sunlight that was visible in the whirl of unending white and gray.

Detlef started to speak, then frowned, looking at them.

Grosvenor hefted the tea kettle. "You're back sooner than we expected," he said with as much of a welcoming smile as he could muster. "Ulrich said your father had kidnapped you for an indeterminate length of time."

"I pleaded snow and made my escape. The children I left, however. I thought…" He didn't finish whatever he'd wanted to say, instead looking again between Grosvenor and Ulrich.

Ulrich shook his head, and smiled his aggravating happy puppy smile. "It's time for me to go, now that I've eaten all the available food. I'll see you both tomorrow." Then he was gone, as suddenly as he had come.

Grosvenor poured the tea, and tried not to find the sudden silence oppressing. Even if it was.

"One of the wolves sent out to Engel returned an hour ago," Detlef said slowly, as he shucked his winter gear and hung it in front of the fire to dry. He combed hands through his damp hair, then walked across the room to sit at the wide bar and accept the tea Grosvenor pushed toward him. "He says that some of Rothenberg have insisted on coming to see you, and resolve all matters in person. A high courtesy, especially in this weather."

Knowing what he did of Rothenberg, Grosvenor doubted it, but he did not say anything. He wondered what Rothenberg was really up to; they could not want him back, but to come all this way to bid him a formal farewell?

Even a pup would know they were up to something…assuming the pup was familiar with Rothenberg, he supposed.

Stifling a sigh, he poured himself more tea. The sip he took, however, tasted like something rotten. He set his cup down again, and shoved it away.

Detlef let out a soft sound that was equal parts laughter and sigh, then pushed his own tea away. He vanished into the bedroom, leaving Grosvenor slumped over his cooling tea in misery and guilt. Before he could figure out what, precisely, one did in this situation, Detlef returned.

He put a bottle on the table, of dark, unmarked glass—but Grosvenor would know such a bottle anywhere. "What is that for?"

"I think we could both use it," Detlef said, and moved around him to grab two glasses from the cupboard. He set them down, then uncorked the bottle and poured until both glasses were well over half full.

Grosvenor quirked a brow at him, but did not ask for clarification. If Detlef wasn't going to spell anything out, neither was he. Least said, soonest mended, wasn't that how the saying went?

They clinked glasses, and drank.

Detlef poured a second time, and that round they drank more slowly. The silence was…not comforting, exactly, but at least one of shared private misery. He didn't know why Detlef was unhappy, other than the obvious matter of his future mate pining for his youngest brother…but they barely knew each other. He would wager he was the least of Detlef's woes. He was nice enough, and they got along, but there was nothing but duty between them.

When the second round was finished, he poured the third, and they sat and drank in silence until the whiskey drove them to find their beds.

His head throbbed the next morning, reminding him why three glasses of highland whiskey was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Then again, he had to face Rothenberg today. If he could not do that drunk, then hungover and too miserable to care was the next best option.

A brief search of the house turned up an absent Detlef, and a note saying he had gone on ahead to finish business with his father before the Rothenberg arrived, and that Grosvenor was to come at his leisure as the snow would not permit real travel for some hours yet.

Grimacing, he got himself cleaned and dressed and as fed as he could stand to be. Feeling moderately respectable, and more than a little sick to his stomach—from more than just the damned whiskey—he pulled on his winter gear and finally ventured outside.

He stopped short when he saw someone coming up the path toward the house—someone he did not recognize, and yet did. If only because once upon a time, he had been hopelessly and stupidly besotted, and had memorized everything he possibly could about his stupid, selfish betrothed. From the way he took his tea and preferred ale to whiskey, to the way he smiled and how he walked.

The arrogant strut had not changed in the past several years. Not even a little bit.

Grosvenor felt his stomach heave, but did not let it get the best of him. He'd be damned if he ever appeared weak in front of Alban. Instead, he stood and waited, and let Alban come to him.

"You have grown up well," Alban commented as he climbed the porch and stopped just a couple of steps away. "Grosvenor, I am glad to see you are doing well."

"I doubt you care," Grosvenor replied. What had he ever seen in this man?

He was handsome, he supposed. Yet Grosvenor had encountered men more impressive…and they all fell short whenever he thought about Ulrich. Alban was handsome, but in a spoiled brat kind of way. Pretty to look at for a moment, before moving on to something real. Once, he'd been enamored of the dark, curly hair, the blue eyes, the slender build… Now all he could see was the coldness in Alban's eyes, the twist to his mouth that spoke of a lack of humor. The way he moved with an arrogant swagger.

How in the hell had he ever thought Alban was magnificent and too good for him? Just how stupid had he really been?

Alban frowned at him. "Of course I care. Why wouldn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know," Grosvenor said coldly. "Something about throwing me out at the age of sixteen, in the middle of winter, just gives the impression of not caring."

"I know that was a cruel thing to do," Alban replied. "There is no excuse. I can only say I let my temper and pride get the better of me."

Grosvenor just looked at him. He did not know what was going on, but he did not believe a single word of Alban's humble, apologetic words. Alban did humble and apologetic the way Ulrich did mean and petty. It was simply not in his nature. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I want you to come back," Alban said, and reached out to touch him.

Jerking his arm out of reach, then taking a step back, Grosvenor glared. "I think not. My home is with Schwarzenberg, not Rothenberg. You were asked to formally release me only as a matter of courtesy, Alban. More than seven years have passed, and not once did you seek to find me. You have no claim over me. Go away and leave me in peace."

The gentle, humble, apologetic mien abruptly vanished. Alban moved faster than Grosvenor could match, fingers digging into his upper arms even through gloves and fabric. "You are coming back," Alban said, growling the words low. "I have tried to be nice, Grosvenor. I guess your looks are the only thing which have improved all these years. You're still a brat."

"You're still a bastard," Grosvenor snapped. If Alban thought he had not changed, then he was even more of an idiot than Grosvenor thought. He'd changed. Once, he would have fallen all over himself to run back to Alban—and he would have been grateful to be given such an honor.

To hell with that.

He tore free of Alban's grasp and moved toward the stairs, snarling in rage when Alban grabbed him and threw him into the door. "Let me go, you damned mongrel, or I'll show you what being thrown out to fend for myself has taught me."

Alban smiled, and it was a cold and nasty expression on his face. "Go ahead, little wolf mine. Do whatever you want, but if you do not agree to return to me, then your cute little back here will suffer."

The spell he'd been gathering slipped from his mind as the words registered. "What?"

"Schwarz is powerful," Alban said, and stroked his cheek in a gesture that was a mockery of the intimacy it implied. "Not powerful enough."

"What do you hope to gain by angering an entire Pack?" Grosvenor demanded. "Why would you go to such extremes for a wild mage you threw out?"

"That is none of your concern. All you need do is obey me, my little wolf given," Alban said, stroking his cheek again.

Grosvenor jerked away from the touch, but his struggles to pull entirely away met with futility this time. "I'm still not convinced I should agree," he said. "I tell Schwarz what you've done, they'll leave you too injured to do anything but freeze to death. You're in the heart of their territory—do you really think they'll just let you walk out after threatening me?"

"I'm not threatening you," Alban replied. "You're going to say you want to return with me, and we'll leave peaceably with no harm done to any wolf. Try to refuse, or run scurrying off to tell someone in Schwarz, and I promise that you will come with me anyway—but at a high cost. Understand?"

"Why?" Grosvenor asked. "You hated me, Alban. You never wanted me back."

Alban shook him hard, then roughly released him. "That is not your concern, yet. You will do as I say."

Grosvenor nodded slowly, having no intention of doing any such thing. If the bastard thought he was still so easily whipped…well, he was an idiot. He'd cast Grosvenor out for a stupid mistake at the age of sixteen. After that, Grosvenor had fled to the lowlands, where he'd survived to be a Huntsman. Then he'd nearly been made a witch's meal.

What was there to fear from one pathetic, cold hearted wolf?

"Fine," he said. "I'll be there shortly, after I pack my things."

"I'll wait," Alban said.

"Go away," Grosvenor snarled. "If you're going to bully me into going back to you, the least you can do is give me a few minutes alone. Neither are you welcome in the house of Schwarz's next Alpha. I'm certain you'll be missed in town, hmm? Would it really look good for you to be found here?"

Alban shook him hard, causing his head to crack against the door against which he was still pressed—then let him go. "If you do not show up, Grosvenor…"

"I'll be there," Grosvenor replied curtly.

With a terse nod, and a last rough shake, Alban let him go and turned away. A couple of minutes later, he was out of sight.

Grosvenor waited five minutes more, then darted back inside and gathered up his few belongings—including the small pouch buried at the bottom of his knapsack. From it, he withdrew the Wolfsbane Charm he had slowly made as he and Ulrich travelled. It had taken him forever, snatching minutes here and there while Ulrich was asleep or hunting, but he'd made it.

Call it a lifetime of knowing he would never have the home he wanted, but he had sensed he would need it.

He'd be damned if he let Alban use him this way. If the bastard thought he was that easily pushed around… Glaring at the absent Alban, he shoved the Wolfsbane charm into his pocket, ready to be pulled out at a moment's notice.

Settling his belongings, he drew a deep breath, then departed.

It took only minutes to reach the village, and he headed straight for the Alpha's cabin. The moment he entered, all eyes fell upon him.

"So it's true," the Alpha growled. "You want to return to Rothenberg."

Nodding, wishing he could simply call Alban out for the bastard he was, Grosvenor strode forward and tucked his hand into Alban's arm. He wished there were not layers of winter clothing between them, he would have dug his nails in and made him suffer the entire time. "I did not know it until I saw him again," he said.

Though it hurt, he sought out Ulrich and continued speaking. "You know better than anyone that living amongst those stupid lowlanders in their idiotic gingerbread houses that I never forgot what I used to be. I was Rothenberg's wolf given first, and if they want me back, I cannot find it in me to refuse. I am sorry for disappoint Schwarzenberg."

Ulrich said nothing, his face gave nothing away; he simply nodded in understanding. Grosvenor knew though, somehow he just knew, that his message had gotten through.

Relieved, he turned to the Alpha and Detlef. "Truly, I am sorry."

Schwarz looked furious, and beside him Detlef was carefully expressionless, but they only nodded. "This is why we contacted them before making any final arrangements here. Mistakes happen. I am glad that Rothenberg at last came to their senses. Please, let there be no hard feelings. We were happy to have you, wolf given."

A few more pleasantries were exchanged, then at last they were on their way. Though he badly wanted, Grosvenor did not look again at Ulrich. What if he was wrong? What if they thought he really wanted to go with Alban?

They travelled in a tense silence for at least three hours, to a moderately sized camp in open lands—land that belonged to no pack, but was free for anyone to use or pass through without question.

The minute they reached Alban's tent, Grosvenor yanked away from him. "You are a pathetic coward, Alban. How did I never see that as a child? What do you hope to gain by threatening me this way?"

"My wild mage," Alban replied, and yanked him close again.

Grosvenor reacted without thought, kicking a leg out to trip Alban, sending them both reeling—but breaking free of Alban's hold. Twisting away, he regained his feet and drew a dagger. "I'm not the boy I used to be, you bastard. Do not make the mistake of thinking I am. You threw me out with nothing but the clothes on my back. I survived. Do you honestly think I stayed soft?"

"You are out of line, little wolf given," Alban snarled.

"Do I really look little to you?" Grosvenor said with a laugh, brandishing his dagger, summoning his magic just in case he might need it. "I've killed two wolves in my life, Alban, and plenty of other creatures besides. Being thrown out of Rothenberg forced me to survive, and I became a Huntsman. You're nothing to me."

Truly, what had he ever seen in Alban? He was handsome, but not remarkably so, and all the beauty in the world did not make up for the hardness in his eyes, the cruel twist to his mouth when he smiled. The fact that he must bully and blackmail to get his way.

Alban did not even begin to compare to Ulrich.

Furious with Grosvenor's words, Alban snarled and lunged for him, seemingly uncaring for the confines of the tent.

His plan had been to wait for Schwarzenberg to show up, after Ulrich told them all was not as it seemed…but he would be damned if he put up with this. He was no longer the stupid, pathetic child he had been.

Jerking away as Alban lunged, he flashed out with his knife and caught flesh. Blood splashed upon the snow, and Alban snarled in rage, but Grosvenor did not linger to find out just how much damage he had done.

Turning, he bolted from the tent and towards the woods, not looking back, not slowing down. From his pocket he pulled the Wolfsbane Charm, and wrapped it around his wrist as he whispered the activation spell. Then he grabbed a low-lying branch, and hauled himself into a tree.

Enraged wolves passed by below him, but none looked up. A few minutes later, they passed him again, still not looking up. He could see their growing confusion, their anger that his scent was completely gone. In their angry haste, they had ruined his tracks themselves.

So now all he had to do was wait, for either Rothenberg to give up, or for Schwarzenberg to arrive and put an end to this once and for all.

He waited until the angry wolves seemed well and truly gone, then dropped down from his perch and made his way deeper into the forest. Magic helped to erase his tracks in the snow, and his Huntsman skills kept him from getting lost in the unfamiliar forest.

If only he could find a secure place to hide away until it was safe to go back…

How badly had he injured Alban? He'd not been amongst the wolves hunting him, so Grosvenor suspected the hit had been true. Good.

He paused in a small clearing which featured a massive, old tree. Hiding behind it, he finally unwound the charm from his wrist and placed it around his neck.

It was too cold to stay in the forest very long; even his magic would only stave off the worst of it for so long. He needed to find shelter.

The urge to return to Schwarzenberg was strong, but he resisted. He had no way of knowing if it was safe enough to do that. Better to remain out here a couple of days. So, he was back to needing shelter.

Ulrich's cabin. The idea struck him out of nowhere, but it was perfect. Out of the way, Rothenberg didn't know about it, and in a couple of days he could simply travel the short distance to Schwarzenberg.

Smiling because he had a plan, Grosvenor got his bearings and then quickly began to make his way through the snow-drenched forest toward safety.

It was mid afternoon when he finally reached it, and not a moment too soon.

He was too tired to see straight. It had been years since he'd been forced to use that much magic for that long. Shaking with exhaustion, he fumbled to get the door open and tumbled to the floor as it abruptly worked.

Shaking his head at himself, he pushed the door shut with one foot, then made his way wearily toward the fire place. He did not dare start a fire, but he was simply too tired to make his way to the bed. Pulling his cloak more tightly around him, curling up to keep as much warmth as he could, Grosvenor fell asleep.

He jerked immediately awake as someone touched him, drawing his dagger from his boot before he'd completely woken up. A hand caught his wrist, and he blinked. Stared. Then let the dagger go.

Ulrich chuckled softly at him, and slowly let go of the grip he had on Grosvenor's wrist. "You're always trying to kill me, wolf given."

"What are you doing here?" Grosvenor asked, then realized just how stupid that must sound. This was Ulrich's cabin, of course he'd be here.

"We couldn't find you," Ulrich said, smiling briefly in amusement but otherwise not teasing him for it. "After you left, I told them that I thought you were being forced. Gingerbread houses indeed."

Grosvenor nodded, and relaxed, sitting on the floor with his legs folded. "I was hoping you would get my message. He said if I did not go with him, harm would befall Schwarzenberg. I had no other way, at the time, to inform anyone of that."

"Right after you left, we sent out scouts. We have other travelling even now to find whatever information they can on Rothenberg that we did not look for, before. Detlef and I went after you, and found Alban injured and you gone. Detlef and father are handling matter, I came in search of you." He reached out and lightly touched the Wolfsbane Charm that Grosvenor still wore. "You really like to make it difficult to find you."

Reaching up, Grosvenor knocked his hand away, then took the Charm off. "How did you find me?"

Ulrich shrugged. "A good guess. You needed somewhere to hide from both Rothenberg and the elements. My cabin would be perfect." He stared at his hands, then slowly dragged his eyes up, gaze locking with Grosvenor's. "I'm glad you're all right," he said quietly. "Until the gingerbread house comment…then I worried that Rothenberg had hurt you, especially when we could not find you."

"You're an idiot," Grosvenor said, because if he didn't say that, he might say something incredibly stupid.
"Even the witch only hurt me because she had the sense to tie me down, first."

"That's not funny," Ulrich growled, reaching out to take up Grosvenor's left hand, touching the place where his finger was missing.

Grosvenor tried to pull his hand away—really, he did. It just didn't want to obey him. "So—everything will be all right with the pack, now?"

Ulrich nodded. "Yes. We'll sort this mess out. Father loves having messes to sort out, especially in the winter when there's not much to do." He smiled briefly—sadly, and Grosvenor hated it, because Ulrich never looked sad. He shouldn't look sad. "In a few days, all will be as it should be."

Should be. He hated 'should be'. "You're an idiot," he snapped. Ulrich was an idiot. He was noble and brave and selfless and always doing the right thing and the proper thing, helping and defending and all that other claptrap. He was the biggest idiot Grosvenor had ever met.

Barring himself, because only a greater idiot would be so stupidly and hopelessly in love. Why couldn't he have been smart enough not to care? Why could he not be happy with what he had?

Ulrich shrugged, and said nothing.

Grosvenor wanted to hit him, for no good reason other than that damned nobility. The fact he was so drawn to it, even as he tried so hard to hate it. He scowled at everything and nothing—until his eyes caught a hint of something white at Ulrich's wrist.

It took him a minute to realize what, exactly, it was—and when he figured it out, he didn't know how he was going to spend the rest of his life with Detlef. Ulrich hadn't destroyed his old white collar as his father had ordered; instead, he'd kept it, and wore it on his wrist. He would do something so…so…

He snarled at Ulrich, "You're an idiot, and you drive me mad, and I wish that damned arrow hadn't missed." Before Ulrich could reply, Grosvenor reached out and yanked him close, and kissed him before he thought too long and hard about how he shouldn't be doing something so stupid.

Ulrich tensed against him, clearly startled—then a hand came up to cradle the back of Grosvenor's head, and the other twined around his waist, and Grosvenor found himself being kissed with devastating force.

The groan slipped from him without permission, but it was worth it when it provoked a like sound from Ulrich. Slowly Grosvenor let go of the tight grip he had on Ulrich's coat, wrapping his arms around Ulrich's neck instead as Ulrich held him.

Oh, this had been a stupid idea, but he could never remember stupidity feeling so good.

He realized he'd have to run away again. There was no way, now, that he could marry Detlef and watch Ulrich go to someone else. He'd rather relive the stupidity of his youth than go through the living hell of seeing but never touching Ulrich again.

A hand shoved up beneath his layers of clothing, stroking his back, and Grosvenor moaned and kissed all the harder, pausing just long enough to breath before plunging right back in to another hungry, desperate kiss. "You're an idiot," he muttered when they broke apart again.

"I know," Ulrich said, laughing unsteadily, then bent to kiss him again—

Only to start at the sudden high, long howl of a wolf.

They both froze.

Ulrich sighed, and for a moment his misery was plain upon his face.

Then it was gone again, and he was simply noble and congenial and unruffled by anything. "That's father," he said. "He's sounding an all clear, which means you can come back as well."

Well, at least then he could get proper food and supplies before he ran away again. The thought of leaving hurt…but it would be far worse to stay, when all he could feel was Ulrich's mouth against his, the way their bodies had pressed together for those few minutes.

Why, he wondered bitterly, could he not have fallen for someone who not so damnably noble and honorable and—and—and so insufferably good.

All too soon they were back in the village, back in the now familiar warmth of the Alpha's home, clustered around the fire with mugs of dark tea pressed into their hands.

Detlef smiled and laughed. "I knew Ulrich would find you," he said. "Did I not say he would, father?"

Grunting at his eldest, shooting him an indecipherable look, Schwarz focused on Grosvenor. "I am glad you are well, wild mage."

Grosvenor nodded. "I am sorry for all the trouble which was caused on my behalf."

Schwarz waved the words aside. "I do not deny I was furious you were leaving with Rothenberg…but once you left, and Ulrich explained, everything made more sense. You will be interested to know that one of the wolves from Pack Rothenberg stepped forward and solved the mystery of all of this for us."

"Oh?" Grosvenor asked.

"Apparently, your former betrothed is rough on his wild mages. Three have died in the years since you have been gone; he works them to death, though the reasons given are always illness and the like. I wish we had known all this before we even spoke to them, but packs guard their business fiercely."

Grosvenor nodded, staring into his tea. So Alban worked his wild mages to death, did he? Somehow, that did not surprise him. He wondered yet again what he had ever seen in such a mean, selfish bastard.

"We have their camp being closely watched," Schwarz continued. "They will be supervised until they are well away from our lands, and they know that we are aware what they tried to do with our wild mage. Moreover," he said with a grin, "your former betrothed is badly injured. His left arm is all but useless right now, and he's exhausted from blood loss."

Good, Grosvenor thought, and barely kept from saying it aloud.

"They will be no further trouble to us," Schwarz concluded. "You belong to Pack Schwarzenberg now, wild mage, unless you do have real objection."

"No," Grosvenor said quietly. "I am honored to be a part of your pack."

He felt Ulrich tense beside him, and curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to him.

Detlef abruptly kicked his father.

Schwarz growled at him.

Detlef growled back. "It won't kill you or destroy the pack or anything else except make things better."

"You are not Alpha yet," Schwarz rumbled.

"If you keep being this senile and stubborn," Detlef countered, "I will be."

Schwarz growled again in warning.

Grosvenor shared a look of confusion with Ulrich, then turned back to the two growling wolves. "What in the hell is going on?"

Detlef just glared, until with an exasperated sigh and grimace, Schwarz sat back and ceased growling. "You are a wild mage and wolf given," he said slowly. "It is only proper that you be given a high place in this pack. Other packs would expect it, and you have all right to be offended were I to place you anywhere lower than mate to my eldest son…

"However, I do not like to see my children unhappy. Where it is within my power to see them happy, I try to ensure it. My eldest has already suffered through one miserable marriage, and while I intend no insult to you, wild mage…it had been brought to my attention that the current arrangements are making two of my sons miserable, and causing you no small unhappiness as well. Is this true?"

Grosvenor almost choked on his tea. He set it hastily down, and carefully picked his words. "I am in no position to take whatever you offer. I was exiled from one pack, and never dared hope I would belong to another. I have no right to argue whatever fate you bestow upon me…but if I am allowed to say, then I put little faith in place and position. Being wolf given and wild mage did not keep me from being exiled, and neither mattered in the lowlands. I am happy to be part of your pack; I do not care where in that pack I am placed."

The briefest of smiles flickered across Schwarz's face, then he was all seriousness again. "Then, if you will not take offense, wild mage, I believe I would like to reserve my eldest for other matters. If you are amenable, I think it would suit best to arrange a marriage between you and my youngest son. He is seventh, and therefore the lowest in rank of my sons, but he's a good wolf."

He found it hard to breathe for a moment, then realized it was because he wasn't breathing. Drawing the much needed breath, Grosvenor nodded and managed to speak. "I am more than satisfied with that arrangement."

"Good," Schwarz said briskly. "We will hold the ceremony once the weather had cleared up enough to allow a bit of fun for the pack. Ulrich, I expect you to take extremely good care of our wild mage. It's not every day a seventh son is so honored."

"Yes, father," Ulrich said quietly, but firmly.

"Very well, then," Schwarz said with a nod. "Detlef, let us go encourage Rothenberg to be on their way sooner rather than later."

"Yes, father," Detlef said, and drained the last of his tea before standing. He winked briefly at them as he followed his father out of the house.

Grosvenor stared at his own tea, then slowly looked up at Ulrich. "Seems I'm destined to be stuck with you, idiot."

Ulrich laughed, the sound not quite steady—then he lunged, and caught Grosvenor up, and kissed him even more intensely than he had only a little while ago in his cabin.

Their cabin, Grosvenor realized dizzily, and would have actually allowed himself a real smile if he were not so busy kissing Ulrich back.