To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)
Chapter 21

Asher gasps as the connection runs dry. He’d felt a flash of pain before it all went...empty. Slate and Asher aren’t connected every moment of every day, but there’s usually a mutual awareness of each other no matter where they are. Right now, maybe for the first time ever, there’s just...nothing.

Asher can only imagine what would drive Slate to do such a thing.

Though he wants to confess everything to someone--anyone--he knows he would be remiss to expose his brother like that. If he doesn’t even want to let Asher close right now, the odds are likely that he wouldn’t want anyone else to know exactly the kind of pain he’s experiencing. Not that Asher really knows what he’s going through. He’d felt merely a moment of agony before it dulled into something easily ignored, and he knows that was Slate’s doing, not because of any reprieve he’d been offered.

It had killed him to be shut out like that, especially when his brother sounded so...well, Asher doesn’t know how to describe it. Oddly, just different is the word that comes to mind. Unusual. Asher can’t think of another time Slate had sounded that way, his voice strained and hoarse, lacking its usual weight and depth. It’s at times like these when Asher wishes his mother was still here. She was the only person besides Asher who Slate fully let past his defenses.

Asher thinks of a conversation he had with Zander recently. Asher had noticed something in the pack, a sort of dissonance between himself and them that he’d never felt before. He’d always felt uniquely in tune with the heart and spirit of the pack, but something wasn’t fitting right, of late.

He realized soon that it was because they didn’t seem nearly as concerned about Slate as they should. Sure, they worried about him as a member of their community and someone who they have a sort of familial love for--which is a lot of worry, Asher couldn’t deny that. But there’s not the same drive or desperation that there is with the Atwoods and Gray.

Asher had confessed these thoughts to Zander, as someone who was sort of in between the two groups. At the time, Asher just wanted to understand. He trusts his packmates implicitly and loves them deeply, so it’s disturbing to feel such a disconnect.

Zander had said, “It’s because we don’t know him, Asher.”

“What do you mean?” Asher frowned.

Zander sighed. “It’s this thing, that I’ve never been able to really explain to any of you guys.” Asher knew he referred to the Atwood family. “It’s like...I mean, none of you can really see it, but Slate doesn’t...it’s like he’s on the outer ring of the pack. He doesn’t participate much beyond his assigned duties and brief appearances at events. He doesn’t go out of his way to get to know anybody. He doesn’t...it kind of feels like, well.” Zander avoided Asher’s eyes as though reluctant to admit something. “Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t care. I mean, sure, when he gives his attention and time to you, you kind of feel like you’re on top of the world because that just doesn’t happen all the time, and he’s so intense, you know? Like, when he just hits you with his full force, it touches you in a deep way that most people can’t reach because they’re not like him. Actually, I don’t know anyone else like Slate.

“But you have to understand,” Zander continued, “that the way you all see him is unusual. You talk about him like he’s...like he’s your sun, or something. That’s not normal--it’s kinda creepy to be honest,” he muttered under his breath, “--even for the closest of families. And that’s because he loves you guys. Because you gotta know, he doesn’t really love the pack.”

Asher reared back. “What does that mean? Of course he does,” he’d said hotly.

Zander cringed a bit. “Well, I mean, maybe that’s a bit harsh, but he just doesn’t care about the pack the way he does about you. Look, I know Slate loves us all, okay? I do. But he loves us with half a percentage of the way he loves you. And you can’t see that, because you’re in his circle, right? You’re one of the few people he gives his whole self to. And the way he loves you is so intense that he has nothing left to give for anyone else.”

Asher had stared at him for a long time before Zander broke the silence again, reaching up to place an anchoring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “That’s why he’s your sun. Because he loves you with the force of ten people, maybe more, I don’t know, I’m not one of his. As creepy as I may think it is, I’ve always kind of wondered what it would be like to be loved like that.

“He doesn’t let anyone else know what that’s like because one person just can’t love a whole pack that much. We don’t see what you see or feel what you feel from him. We get glimpses, but we don’t know him like you do. That’s why people feel disconnected from the situation. They all care deeply and would do anything to help, but Slate isn’t really a part of anyone’s daily lives and he’s so…unassuming that it’s all too easy to forget.”

He’d been aware of the kind of phenomenon that is Slate to some degree for a long time, but it had never really been explained in depth like that before. He’d known that his family had all held a certain place in their heart for their oldest brother that was different, but he hadn’t realized how deeply they are all touched by him. Asher may feel just as loved by his father, his sister, his younger brothers, some of his friends--but Slate is, always has been, and always will be different. That’s just how he is. Who he is.

Asher’s phone ringing startles him out of his thoughts. He fumbles for it for a moment, briefly checking caller ID to see that it’s Sara calling him. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Dad just got off the phone with Audra. I think we have a plan.”

:::::

Slate lays on his bed the day after he lost a finger. While the procedure was far from medically finessed and Blake definitely went overboard with the lighter, the cauterization worked surprisingly well for the bleeding. His nail beds still bled like fire hydrants, but that had long since slowed and congealed.

Though the bleeding has stopped, the nails haven’t grown back. Whether that’s because he’d eaten a full meal and drank as much water as he could stomach and thus ingested sickly amounts of silver or because even werewolves can’t grow back nails any faster than humans, Slate doesn’t know.

His world is a haze of pain and hunger with no end in sight. He can live like this until his body gives out as long as he believes his family needs him, but it’s a hellish quality of life.

He tries to shut off his mind and sleep.

:::::

Slate is awoken next by a tray of food sliding across the floor from the doorway before the room is darkened again. He rolls out of bed sluggishly to retrieve his bounty. They’ve been giving him a lot of fruits and vegetables, granola bars, nuts--things with actual nutrients, fortunately for him. It’s a kindness he wouldn’t have predicted from them, but he supposes they need him alive more than they want him to suffer.

This time, however, they’d brought him a...bag of fast food and a cup of water with the McDonalds logo on it. After over a month of captivity, his abductors have brought him McDonalds. This nearly makes Slate laugh, but a thought occurs to him only seconds later.

If they’ve bought this food from a restaurant, it wasn’t made with silver.

Maybe they sprinkled some on top or injected it somehow, but Slate can’t see it anywhere. After having been fed little flecks of silver for weeks, his body has become less and less efficient at excreting it, leaving him weak and his skin blue-gray almost all the time. One day without it probably won’t give his body enough time to completely exorcize it, but maybe flushing it out with uncontaminated food and water will hurry the process. Slate picks up the burger and tries to eat in slow, measured bites with sips of water in between but the food is gone all too quickly.

It only takes ten minutes for the food to come right back up.

:::::

The next time he sees someone is a few days later, hard to say how many. The door opens to reveal his favorite friend, Blake. He looks displeased, which does not bode well.

“Got some news for you, wolf. Someone found you out and the alpha has finally found something worth more than your bag of bones leeching off of our food and money.”

Slate levers himself up to a sitting position out of sheer force of will. He glowers.

“There’s another alpha willing to pay a pretty price for you. You’re outta here in three days, lucky you. If it was up to me, I’d have kept playing with you for a while more, but I’m not going to say no to the nice cut Alpha Dreiden offered me.”

Slate stares.

Blake huffs and rolls his eyes. Slate’s surprised he isn’t used to his victim’s disposition yet. “I’ve got another little surprise for you today.”

He pulls out a knife, this one looking sharper than the dull ones he prefers to drag unevenly across Slate’s skin. “You might be getting rehomed in just a couple of days, but I’m going to make sure you remember where you came from.” He puts on a sinister grin like it’s an old friend. “I’m going to brand you.”

When Blake puts the knife to Slate’s ribs after securing him to the bed, he actually passes out, for once. Somehow Slate manages to have some pride left for the weakness to irk, but still, it’s a tender mercy. He wakes up what has to be less than ten minutes later to a little love tap to the eye, loving enough to leave it swollen and blackened, most likely. “Wake up, wolf.” Blake seems annoyed. “I’m not done yet. You ever learn about the holocaust?” Slate thinks it’s a rather bizarre non sequitur, but then, Slate’s mind is too hazy to really follow most conversations now anyway. “Well I learned a little something in history that has always stuck with me because of how cruel it was. And, well, to a human, it would be hideously cruel. But you’re not human,” he quips cockily, “and I want to scar you.

“See, I don’t know exactly what happened to your ugly mug, but you must know that they say a werewolf can scar if the wounds stays open long enough or gets infected--which brings me back to the nazis. See, there were surgeons back then who were trying to figure out how to cure infections. To do this,” he reveals, “they cut open their subjects and tried to inject bacteria to cause an infection to experiment on. This proved ineffective at causing infection, however, so--do you know what they did next?” He doesn’t wait for Slate to not answer. “They found it incumbent upon themselves to mimic the conditions that would cause the bacteria in the first place. They cut open their subjects again and packed in dirt and glass and wood shavings,” he emphasizes to Slate close enough for him to feel his tormentor’s stale breath on his face.

“So,” he finally leans back. “I’m going to do something similar.”

That’s when Blake brings out the shattered glass shards and baggie of debris Slate had somehow totally overlooked. Slate flicks his eyes back and forth between the bags of tricks and Blake’s face to communicate his utter lack of interest. At this point, nothing surprises him.

Blake is undeterred and simply grabs a handful of glass and brings it to Slate’s side. Slate, for his part, finds a familiar crack in the ceiling to stare at and try to breathe.

:::::

Three days later, Blake, Alpha Dreiden, and three other men come strolling into Slate’s prison with cuffs and a massive glass filled to the brim with liquid that looks too murky and glittery to mean anything good. This is way more than they had ever given him at once. It’s unnerving.

“Jared,” Dreiden intones, “the day has come where you are less valuable as a healer than you are as a bargaining piece and your new owners will be coming to accept our offering in a few short hours. First, we must take care of a few things. Ramon, Andrew, hold him down,” he commands.

Slate stands of his own free will and lets the two men put a hand on each bicep and shoulder. One of them jostles the bandage that keeps the glass and dirt in his side and he can’t help but hiss at the searing pain.

“Open up, little wolf, this will help you feel calm and nice for the transaction.”

When Dreiden lifts the glass to Slate’s lips, he keeps them closed almost against his will. He knows, knows, that there’s only one way for this scenario to end--and that’s with Slate having a belly full of poison, so he should really just give in and not make things worse for himself, but the concept of allowing someone to poison him so intensely and overtly feels so defeatist.

And Slate will not be defeated.

Dreiden has no patience for Slate’s delay tactics and pinches his nose shut so he has to open his mouth to breathe. A full gulp of water is gushed into his mouth and Dreiden promptly holds his jaw shut so he has no choice but to swallow. This process is repeated six times more before the glass is empty and Slate is almost drooping in the arms of his captors.

The silver always leaves him feeling weak and adds to a dull thrum of pain, but it has never made him feel this sick. It takes a minute to kick in, but when enough of the silver reaches his system, his heart starts to beat rapidly and his throat constricts slightly so that breathing is still possible, but anxiety inducing with the shallowness of breaths that he can take. He feels nauseated and bloated, not having drank that amount of water in one sitting for weeks. Even without the effects of the silver, he’d be feeling sick and uncomfortable. As it is, he feels a few steps from slow death.

But still, Slate hopes that he can find an opening in the “transaction” that will allow him to escape somehow. If he can incite anger and chaos between the two packs, he might be able to take advantage of their distraction. It’s a flimsy plan and Slate would be hard pressed to get too far from the location undetected, but it’s comforting just to have an option in the back of his mind. He’s at the point where his body might be too weak to stand up to more torturing at the hands of another pack.

“Now, the cuffs,” Dreiden commands, though they’re almost completely unnecessary with the way Slate is struggling just to stay on his feet. Once the cuffs are clicked around his wrists snugly, Dreiden puts his hands on Slate for perhaps the first time. Of course it would be to push him to the floor. He seems like the type to bully those weaker than him.

“Boys, let’s make sure Alpha Kestler and his men see that the wolf has been at our mercy and not the other way around. We may not have gotten him to heal for us, but we can distract them from this if they see what a leash we’ve got him on.”

From the floor, with his hands cuffed, the best Slate can do to protect himself is duck his head and tuck his legs in. It’s all but useless in the end. Slate swears he can feel the moment his ribs break, the ripping and tearing of Blake’s “brand” and blood pooling on the ground as the men kick and trod all over him.

“Careful boys, he has to be able to walk,” Alpha Dreiden advises sagely.

Slate takes another blow to the head and his shoulder might have popped out of place, but he can’t really tell where the pain is coming from anymore. It’s everywhere.

“Alright, that’s enough. Let’s go, we’re going to be late.”

Slate is supported by two men, doing his best to stand straight and keep stress off his ribs, but it’s hard. He’s quickly bundled in a car and buckled--how thoughtful--before Dreiden is driving off with them. Slate’s mind tries to work through the thick syrup that has mixed up his brain and makes it hard to focus on anything. In the end, he gives up on trying to look out the windows and just lets his chin drop to his chest and do what he does best: breathe and wait.

It doesn’t seem like a long time before the car comes to a stop and Dreiden and his men are hustling Slate from the car and out into an open plain. Slate keeps his eyes on the floor, focusing on trying to make his feet work without his arms to help balance him as he walks. He thinks he can distantly hear someone gasp, and the sound is so out of place that it makes Slate lift his head.

Slate freezes. Stops breathing. Doesn’t blink. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

He must be concussed or possibly hallucinating from not enough sleep and food, because that’s...that’s his father. And Asher. And Jason.

Slate sucks in a breath too suddenly and it causes coughs to wrack through his body, painfully expanding and contracting his broken ribs. Some blood mixes with the spittle that flecks the ground. When he can straighten again, he sees that Alpha Dreiden and his father are speaking. Slate can’t focus on what they’re saying, eyes stuck on his family.

It seems like both millennia and just seconds have passed, but then Slate’s father is approaching him in flickering steps as Slate’s awareness drifts in and out, Asher close behind. Slate’s definitely not acting cool in this obviously very sensitive situation, but he can’t help but stare, eyes flicking between the people he loves so much. He can’t believe they’re here, can’t believe Dreiden’s men are shoving him at his father, who catches him.

It’s amazing how different the same grip can feel. Alpha Atwood is holding his son by his bicep, the same as Dreiden’s goons had, Asher mirroring the grip on his opposite side, but they’re just…soft. They’re not dragging, they’re lifting and supporting. They’re not bruising, they’re cradling. They’re not intimidating, they’re loving.

In the back of his mind, he thinks if the silver kills him before he ever gets to see Washington again, he will still have died at home. At last, he’s made it home.

END PART II

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