Page 17 of Flint's Arrow
“Yeah, as ready as I’ll ever be,” Flint lied.
He climbed out of the car. His legs were stiff from travel, his body exhausted from three days of stress, damp weather, and hunger. He probably smelled like an airplane and stale coffee. His hair was a mess, his clothes rumpled.
Not exactly the powerful image he wanted to project when facing down his mate for the first time since sending that blank piece of paper.It is what it is.
The sawmill door stood open. Flint could hear voices inside - Pax’s high and excited, Devon’s low rumble of caution. And underneath it all, a sound that made Flint’s snake raise its head.
Whining. The desperate, broken sound of a wolf in pain.
Not my problem,Flint told himself.He did this. He chose this.
But his feet carried him toward the door anyway.
Chapter Six
Three days of pure hell. Arrow had spent three days locked in the sawmill, and every minute of every hour felt like torture. Not because of physical pain - Devon had fed him well enough, bringing him grilled meat sandwiches and bottles of water. Not because of the conditions - the sawmill was dry and spacious, partially filled with gleaming cars that were clearly Python’s pride and joy, as well as an adequate workspace for woodwork, and a small side partition that was apparently used by Wren to design and modify his own clothes.
So no, the conditions weren’t torturous in themselves, the torture came from Pax, who apparently didn’t have an off switch. The pixie had appointed himself as Arrow’s personal tormentor, zipping in and out of the sawmill, while delivering a comprehensive list of every way Arrow had screwed up. Wren, the chameleon shifter who turned out to be even smaller than Flint, had joined in with equal enthusiasm.
“You know what Flint did after he left you in that bar?” Pax had demanded on the first day, glaring at him as if defying Arrow to look away. “He finished the job, took the shot. Another perfect kill at over a thousand yards, while you were probably patting yourself on the back for being such a stud.”
“He cried,” Wren had added softly, his voice somehow more devastating than Pax’s fury. “In the greenhouse. Pax saw him. He cried for hours.”
Arrow’s wolf had whined at that, a sound of pure misery.
The bigger shifters - Storm, Levi, Calvin, and Devon - hadn’t said much. They’d just watched him with the kind of cold assessment that promised violence if Arrow stepped out of line. But their silence was its own kind of judgment.
By the third day, Arrow’s wolf had taken over just so he could lie down without looking weak. The human side of him ached with shame and if onlys, but his wolf was suffering from not being near his mate. He was depressed, heartbroken, and utterly defeated. But no matter what form he took, the mating pull gnawed at Arrow constantly, a physical ache that made his bones hurt and his skin feel too tight. He’d never felt so awful in his whole life.
The sawmill housed Python’s car collection - seven immaculate and expensive vehicles that gleamed under the overhead lights. Arrow was reduced to counting the visible knobs on the tires at one point, trying to distract himself from the constant loop ofyou fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked uprunning through his head.
Python had arrived before dawn that morning, pulling out his Maserati with a smirk that told Arrow absolutely nothing. The demon hadn’t said a word, just drove off into the pre-dawn darkness.
Was he going to the airport - was Flint coming home?
Arrow had no idea. But as the minutes crawled by, he couldn’t stop the whining that escaped his wolf’s throat. Yes, Pax was right. It was pathetic.Hewas pathetic.
The Maserati returned just after sunrise. Arrow’s ears pricked forward. Two car doors opened and closed softly. Two sets of footsteps approached the sawmill, one heavy and confident - Python - and one lighter and more hesitant.
Flint. It had to be.Arrow’s wolf surged to his feet, tail low, ears back. Every instinct screamed to run to his mate, to press close and beg forgiveness, but the sawmill door was still closed, and the other shifters were moving.
Storm appeared first, his massive frame blocking the doorway. “Stay,” he ordered, pointing at Arrow. “Don’t even think about shifting back yet.”
Arrow whined but obeyed. It’s not like he had any idea of what he could say when he saw his mate again. But then he just about swallowed his tongue when Flint stepped into the sawmill.
He looked nothing like the twink Arrow had dismissed in that bar. Exhaustion painted shadows under his eyes, and his clothes hung loose on his small frame as though he’d lost weight. His hair was messy, not artfully arranged, and his skin was pale beneath the overhead lights. He looked weighed down and hollowed out - a bit like how Arrow felt. Arrow’s wolf whimpered, ears flattening completely.
“Flint!” Pax zipped over immediately. “You’re back! Are you okay? Did you eat on the plane? I kept your strawberries watered even though you didn’t ask.”
“Thanks, Pax.” Flint’s voice was hoarse, rough around the edges.
Devon stepped forward, holding out a thick sandwich wrapped in foil. “Fresh off the grill. Levi made extra.”
“You need to eat something substantial,” Wren added, appearing at Flint’s elbow with a thermos. “Hot chocolate. With extra marshmallows.”
Storm crossed his arms. “Job go alright?”
“Got it done.” Flint accepted the sandwich and thermos, cradling them close. “It took longer than expected. The safe house was a shithole, and the wards didn’t drop when they were supposed to. I ended up having to wait an extra day.”
