Everything Carries Me to You (Axton and Leander Book 3) (51 page)

Chance had put him in a window seat. The barest twinge of curiosity made him pull up the shade. Once they took off, Axton studied the clouds intently, memorizing the quality of light.

And when the vast whiteness rose up under them, he watched that intently, too.

Axton ditched his bag in a fleabag motel room on a mountain, paid for a week in advance, and then he left. He was only wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.

Axton walked out of the snowy parking lot and right into the woods, without looking back.

The roar of the blizzard echoed the emptiness of Axton's heart. The wind was so sharp and cold, as it whipped around, that Axton had to squeeze his eyes shut against it. When his eyes watered, it felt like ice crusted at the corners. But still, he put one paw in front of the other. Maybe he was just imagining it, projecting the blight inside him to the environment outside him.

But there were things he was definitely not imagining. His paws had so much ice frozen between the digits that every step stabbed. Periodically he would stop to lie down and chew his paws free of the crushed, fused ice, his body a dark coil being slowly covered by fresh snow. Then he would have to stand and let the new snow cascade off his shoulders, blinking at the soft flakes that were released by the slow shake of his head. It took too long; it slowed him down and only made him stay in the cold longer. Eventually he tasted blood when he gnawed his paw pads to separate them from the ice.

Still, he walked. Axton put one paw in front of the other and closed his eyes against the blizzard and kept going.

It was the only thing to do.

There was no room to really think, but in the back of his mind, Axton knew that this was partly a punishment. This was grueling. This was painful. This was probably easier than the part that came after.

Was this the only way? It had seemed like it. He had felt the storm coming; had known it was going to be brutal. He could have waited: that was an option. That was an option except for how it wasn't--how much time did he have? How long would Leander survive in a werewolf pack, really? Axton had to walk out into the storm. There hadn't been any other
real
option.

He was cold, and it was damp cold, which was the worst kind, and he couldn't remember when he'd last bothered to eat.

Axon curled up, tucking his paws under his body, trying to warm them, and shut his eyes against the snow again.

It would be safer to rest. He was farther north now from his beloved Montana winters. This wasn't the kind of weather that any sane animal went through, save for a few highly specialized species. Wolves, normal wolves, would be curled up together underground, sharing warmth and a den. Walking through the storm was--it was many things, but
correct
probably wasn't one of them. It wasn't the best--what word would have Leander used? tactical? strategic? something like that--decision. It wasn't the optimal decision.

Wearily, Ax let his head drop, resting on the snow. Here he was again, alone and love sick and wandering through a blizzard. It was always this, eventually--the cold in his bones and the emptiness of the landscape echoing inside the emptiness inside him, his skin weighed down with loneliness and his heart aching so much that it was a shock to not see blood spilling out of his chest and onto the snow. Love, love, love. Was he incapable of making a good decision while in the grip of it?

Love makes you weak
, he heard Dana sneer, even though he couldn't remember when Dana had said it to him, and maybe it had been the other way around?

Some people could think through a heartsick haze. Leander had.

Then again, Leander had just willingly delivered himself into the arms of people with hungry waiting mouths and gleaming teeth who likely hated him, so maybe not.

Leander.

Axton remembered the sick drop of his stomach as he nearly burst with anticipation at the thought of seeing him again, at the appointed place and hour, and then the panic of a cage slamming shut around him. He thought back further and remembered the panic that grabbed him by the guts when Leander had been lost in a blizzard, in an avalanche, all alone. Then there had been the sudden, clear ringing of anguish as he'd been kicked off a mountain and nearly died...

If Axton went back further, he could remember breaking up with Dana on a winter night long before, when instead of being kicked off a mountain, Axton had been kicked out of their cozy shared cabin. It had been a temporary arrangement anyway, but the suddenness of his departure had overwhelmed that knowledge. The weather had been harsh but he'd hunkered down after running a respectable distance and he'd waited it out. It had only felt like he was going to die in a private and melodramatic sense.

Axton had once read that grief required an audience, and he couldn't have disagreed more.

Winters alone, even further back--

The rush of first love, the cold of being ripped away suddenly, and the heartbreak of having to leave everything, everyone you knew and loved all at once, in sudden disgrace. There had been real blood on the snow, then, because Axton had tried not to leave before he understood that it wasn't his choice.

Yeah, well. Or maybe it had been. Maybe he could have been more careful with his lover so that he and Isaac didn't get caught, or maybe he should have come out to his father in less dramatic circumstances. Maybe he had been the one to break up with Dana, too, even though he remembered it differently. And maybe the time with Leander on the mountain was his choice, too--he had
known
that they needed to go inside, but he'd lingered in the comfort of Leander's eyes and brushed aside the potential consequences. Maybe everything
was
his fault.

No. Not fault.
Choice
. Maybe he'd made choices. Maybe he'd made choices and then he'd
lived
with them.

What else could you ask of yourself, really?

Sometimes choices ended poorly; sometimes choices were only between bad and worse. But you still had to make some.

Axton staggered back on to his feet. A thick layer of snow had settled over his coat, and he shook his dark fur free.

There. One paw in front of the other. It was the only thing to do, because he'd
chosen
to do it this way.

The wind still howled and the storm still raged. Every few feet, Axton had to grit his teeth and close his eyes against a gust of snow in his face, but he kept on going. He kept on going even when he was starting to stumble, to unintentionally sprawl out in the snow gracelessly.

He was almost there. He had to be.

Mind willing, flesh battered, Axton went down once more. He was just stirring back to action, pushing himself halfway up, when something pushed down the snow in front of his snout. Axton looked up.

Three wolves stood in front of him. The wolf in front had the biggest shoulders and he bent his great shagged head down to look intently down at Axton.

Axton closed his eyes and stood, letting them take in his scent. When he opened his eyes again, the two wolves who were flanking the first turned and trotted back from where they'd come. The first wolf turned, pausing only to glance back at Axton, and began to walk away.

As he was meant to, Axton followed. He trudged through the snow with a lowered head now, but he no longer fell. They were close.

Eventually they were walking towards lights instead of nothingness, and with a nod from the first wolf, the other two departed. Axton did not follow them. He walked on with the first wolf until they came to a cabin. Axton waited for the door to be pawed open, then shook snow off his fur and went inside.

The wolf left him in the living room and disappeared behind a bedroom door. When he returned, he was dressed in blue jeans.

Axton was kneeling in the center of the room, head bowed, freshly turned.

"Father," he said.

For the first hour or so of the drive, Dana had yelled and tried to provoke Leander, who had stayed quiet and calm throughout.

Finally, there had been a blessed time of silence.

"You're
awful
calm for a man trapped in a hunk of steel with his hated enemy," Dana said eventually. He sounded confused but mostly resentful, like Leander's serenity was upsetting to him on a personal level.

"I don't hate you," Leander said.

Dana snorted.

"You regularly beat people's asses in food courts when you don't hate 'em?" Dana said.

"Nah," Leander replied. "That was
special
."

"I swear to god, I will shoot you if you provoke me too far," Dana said. "Deadman's switch or no."

"We could just get along," Leander suggested innocently.

Dana just bared his teeth.

"Really," Leander said, in a mild tone.

"Fuck you," Dana said, but he just sounded tired. "How can you do that?"

"Do what?" Leander asked.

"The bullshit even tone," Dana said.

"I'm a professional," Leander said.

"This ain't a job."

Leander glanced out his window, shrugging as he watched the slowly lightening sky.

"It's going to be," he said.

Eventually Leander announced that he was going to take a nap, and, against all expectations, he did.

Dana fumed.

"You smug
bastard
," he muttered, but only when he was reasonably sure Leander couldn't hear him.

By the time they were home, Leander was bright eyed and well rested. His legs were a little cramped, sure, and he could use some stretches, maybe a light jog, but--overall, he felt pretty good. The fear was still there, but the bravado had caught up, and Leander could pretend.

It was kind of a bummer that Dana had tied his hands behind his back, but whatever. He was looking at the loosely assembled werewolves around them with keen interest. The twins, there, the ones with the month names.

"Keep quiet and don't say anything," Dana growled, "while I try and convince everyone not to kill you."

Leander wiggled into position, hooked his fingers around the latch, and pushed the car door open with his shoulder. Spilling out of the car before Dana could stop him, Lee straightened up gracefully, rolled back his shoulders.

"Hello," he said, to everyone at once. "My name is Leander."

Still in the car, Dana let out a string of curses.

As expected, Dana went off to talk with Dru in private. He left Leander tied to a chair and in another werewolf's care.

Perfect.

It took Leander about an hour to talk his way out of the ropes.

When Dana stalked back into the house he'd left Leander in, he found everyone in the kitchen eating sandwiches and chatting agreeably.

"What the fuck is this?" he demanded, gesturing violently at Leander, who was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot.

"It's not done yet," Leander said. "Do you like cinnamon in your hot cocoa? We saved you a sandwich."

"The
fuck
is this?" Dana asked again, incredulous, this time indicating, with a sweep of his arm, the artfully arranged platter of sandwich fixings on the table.

"Relax," May said. "We knew you were gonna be a while, that's all."

"I handed you a prisoner!" Dana spat. "And you're playing
house
?"

May squinted her eyes as she took another bite of sandwich.

"Technically, you didn't say he was a prisoner," she said finally.

"His hands were bound!" Dana shouted.

May shrugged.

"What's he gonna do?" she asked. "Run away? He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to leave."

"Not before making some gnocchi, I'm not," Leander said serenely.

"This man is a danger to us
all!
" Dana yelled.

"And it's not like he's going to hurt us," December chimed in.

"Or that he can, being human and all," May said, glancing at Leander apologetically. "Sorry, hon."

Leander held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "No offense taken," he said.

"He has a gun!" Dana hissed.

"Actually, you have my gun," Leander said helpfully. "Remember?"

"Where's Trevor?" Dana demanded. "I left him watching Le--the human. He wouldn't stand for this bullshit."

"He went to town on a grocery run," Leander said.

May and December nodded in unintentional unison.

"Lee made a list," Frank said. He was short but broad shouldered--pretty ripped, actually--and had been silent for most of the conversation because he'd been very busy eating. Leander wondered what his workout routine was, or if he just had great werewolf genes, like Axton apparently did.

God, there werewolf thing was
such
bullshit. He would have so much spare time, if he didn't need to train and recover from training. How many hours of his life had he spent on a bench press? How many hours learning how to throw a punch or land a choke, and how many more hours in muscle recovery?

"A
list
?" Dana asked.

"Yeah, for recipes and shit," Frank said, building up another sandwich as Dana watched with mounting horror.

"Pot roast tomorrow, hey?" Leander offered.

"Plus, we're all out of cheeses," Frank said firmly, like that decided things. He took a bite out of his new sandwich.

"Trevor's my second in command," Dana said, utterly flabbergasted. "He wouldn't--"

"Trevor's also damn tired of living off raw moose and Kraft cheese," Frank said.

"I hate you
so much
," Dana said, turning to face Leander. "I hate you so much that I wish you could regrow parts, so I could pluck out your eyes every day."

"Jeez, Dana," December muttered disgustedly. "Really? Over lunch? While people are trying to eat in peace? Quit it."

"So, who wants marshmallows?" Leander asked cheerfully.

"House arrest," Dana warned, as he left. "You keep him in this house and he doesn't set one fucking foot outside, you understand?"