To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

One month ago, Jackson Territory…

“I think our best option is to start slow,” Brenda Carter says. She’s one of very few women who Alpha Jackson has found useful in his close circles.

Alpha Jackson hums. “There’s already some rumors circling. Silas and I tracked some. If one is paying attention, one can track the wolf to its current location.”

Carter makes a so-so noise. Maybe she isn’t quite as useful as he thought, if she’s bold enough to question him.

“But most people discredit those rumors right away and there’s too many tall tales floating around to be able to verify them unless you have months, maybe years, to spend on finding the end of every loose rope. We need something more. And if we want people to converge, they have to know where to look. A slow and steady approach might be best.”

Alpha Jackson purses his lips angrily. He soon straightens and sweeps his arm across the table, where his trusted advisors are seated. “My idea is to slowly disseminate information. The first step is simple. Reinforce the validity and existence of a healing wolf.”

Present day, Atwood Territory...

As Gray’s feet slap the pavement in sync with Slate’s, she takes time to ponder the way he always seems to on these nights. The two of them running together once a week has become a routine in the past two months or so. The tradition had come about when, one day, Gray came to realize that she’d been doing to Slate what everyone else seems to do: assume and base truth in misunderstandings. With that mindset, she’d been frustrated at the lack of progress between the two of them--as True Mates she expected him to act a little more...well, just more--when she realized as they were having a conversation that he’d been doing a whole lot of “acting” all along, she just hadn’t known where to look.

She knows better now, and is always trying to improve. So step one of being Slate’s True Mate is learning to speak his language. Step one sub heading A is spending quality time with him, as she suspects is his love language. Though one thing she has learned in the last weeks, Slate’s version of “quality” is not always the world’s traditional idea of quality. Case in point, the time they spend running with each other once a week is mostly silent.

That just means that when a few words are exchanged, they’re all the more meaningful.

Gray usually takes Slate’s lead on these nights. When to talk, how fast to run, how far to run, how long to run--but lately she’s wondering if she should try to push some boundaries. Not a lot, but a little, enough.

One of the things Gray might try to press on has to do with recent events. It has been a month since the dangerous confrontation in the woods happened between the Atwoods and a group who wanted to take Gray and use her for their own selfish purposes. Overall, the Atwoods didn’t sustain lasting damage aside from some damaged forestry and misplaced wildlife--except for Slate.

She turns to catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye. If she was a human she’d be completely unaware of the gruesome scars traversing the right half of his face, with the darkness shrouding them tonight. It’s very difficult for a werewolf to sustain deep enough injuries to result in scarring. It usually happens when the wound becomes infected or obstructed for an extended period of time, but sometimes a deep wound will scar as well. Gray had been present for the horrifying exchange that had left Slate with the scars and...in all the times she’d healed people, she’d never seen a cut so deep she could see bone through blood and gore.

And some say there’s a way for werewolves to slow the healing process intentionally. Gray had no opinion on the theory before Slate, but now...now she suspects Slate will carry the proof of it on his face for the rest of his life.

Wherever he goes, people are going to stare at the claw marks marring his face from high cheekbone all the way through the corner of his mouth. Even the members of the pack don’t seem to know how to handle it.

Slate has grown up his whole life in this pack and has grown to become highly respected. Somewhat feared, largely misunderstood, but indisputably respected. Now he has the evidence of his bravery and ferocity on his face. Most people weren’t present when he got the scars, but Gray thinks the basic story has done its rounds by word of mouth transfer; it wasn’t in the heat of battle or a dramatic fight to the death. No, a fifteen year old boy had given him those scars--and Slate had helped him.

That night had really been a cruel clash of Gray’s past demons and Slate’s. Gray’s previous Alpha, a man who abused his power and status, and the man Slate had blinded out of self defense nearly a decade ago had somehow come together to try to steal Gray and use her for their own prosperity.

Slate had been under the impression that the blinded man, Silas Weaver, had died nine years ago along with three other lives he’d taken. In fact, Slate hadn’t even recognized the man when they’d had a confrontation directly preceding the fight that had resulted in the man’s death. It was only later when Silas’ son, David--also present that night nearly a decade ago--had recognized and attacked Slate that all the pieces were put together. In a fit of rage, David had managed to slash Slate across the face shallowly before the older man could fully dodge out of the way. But then, as...penance or repentance or some other misplaced self-condemnation, Slate had helped the boy scar him just as he’d scarred the boy’s father.

It didn’t and doesn’t make sense to Gray. In fact, she’s not sure Slate has told anyone exactly what he was thinking when he did it or why he did it. But in the end, he did do it.

And then it was all over.

It was over for everyone except Slate. Everyone could move on and put the events, terrible and terrifying as they were, behind them and move on. Slate, on the other hand, will always have a visual reminder of that day for the rest of his life. A reminder of that day, and the family whose lives he’d upended all those many years ago.

The whole thing just...it all seems to be weathering him slowly, more than she’d ever seen him. A normal person would be tearing apart at the seams under such conditions, but Slate is...a high functioning sufferer, Gray thinks. He can take most anything and still find a way to accomplish what’s expected of him--or what he expects of himself--but he’ll be suffering silently all the while.

Maybe if she gets him to talk about the trauma--just a little--it will help him heal the scars on the inside the way the outside never will.

So. Step two of being Slate’s True Mate is to help him heal. Gray is unsure of how exactly to accomplish such a thing just yet, but she’s officially on the case.

:::::

Slate slows to a walk as he and Gray approach the Atwood property line. He laces his fingers on top of his head and breathes deep, relishing the ache in his muscles for as long as it lasts until his healing kicks in.

Next to him, Gray is doing much of the same. The first two or three times she’d tagged along on a run, he’d had to actively try not to be hyper aware of his every movement, of her every movement. As the weeks passed, he’d become more and more comfortable, and instead of a distraction or extra stimulant, she’d become something more akin to a familiar, warm presence next to him. The nights became just a little less cold with her there.

He can’t say he necessarily prefers the days she’s with him over the days he’s alone, because they’re two different things. Contrary to what many people might think, Slate doesn’t see occasional isolation as a negative thing. Slate has never had a problem being alone, though he realizes now that might be a trend that has occurred largely in his adult years. All through his youth and adolescence, he’d had a sibling mostly attached to his hip.

Tonight, he reflects on the fact that, though he and Sara headed the group of siblings, he was the older brother. Perhaps that might not have been as significant if they’d had younger sisters as well, but with four younger brothers, Sara and Slate functioned a little differently than most older sisters and brothers. Sara has always been a youthful spirit and subsequently relates to their younger siblings in a different way than Slate does. Slate’s brothers treat Sara more as...well, more as a typical sibling, he supposes.

So maybe it’s just Slate who functions differently.

Slate had always been equally as mature as Sara had been youthful. While Sara tended toward silly, Slate was wry. Sara was relatable, Slate was the model. Sara was eye-level, Slate was looked up to. She was in the trenches with them, while they depended on Slate to pull them out.

They were both important and equal leaders to their band of siblings, but very different. Slate sees how proudly and fondly Sara smiles when Sage calls him his hero, or when Raven claims to want to be him when he grows up, but that isn’t indicative that they love Slate more, or think of him as “better” than Sara.

No, it’s just that you don’t call your spunky, silly sister your hero. You call your steady, dependable older brother your hero. You love her just as much--but you don’t call her your hero.

Things had intensified a bit immediately following the passing of their mother. Then he almost literally had a child attached to his hip at all times, though he usually strapped Raven across his chest or around his back. Sometimes Sage would get in a clingy mode where he’d hug Slate around the waist and just stumble around with him as he went about his daily chores around the house. Slate directed much of the family’s home life, while Sara struggled through handling a business that had previously been run by both her parents by herself with some help from Slate when he could spare some time or energy. His siblings all needed him in different ways those first couple years.

Then, just when things were easing up a bit, their father had been transferred the Alpha title and suddenly Slate had an entirely new group of people who needed him in even more different ways. And it just never ended.

Though always an introvert, Slate has learned especially in recent years that he needs time alone to decompress or he can’t function the way people need him to. Which brings him to his nightly runs. The nights he goes out by himself and can push further and harder than he probably should are like soothing a parched throat with cool water. The nights Gray comes with him are more...warm. They force him to slow down and enjoy both the biting cold of the night and the warmth of the body next to him in equal measures. Sometimes his runs alone border on the line of self-punishment, but with Gray, his mind quiets in a different way that doesn’t require him to push his body to its limits.

“What are you thinking about?” The woman herself asks as she catches her breath.

Slate looks at her curiously for a moment. Occasionally she’ll start a conversation on these outings, but it’s uncommon. “A lot of different things. Why?”

She shrugs. “It just looked like you were thinking pretty hard.” She pauses and gives him a meaningful look. “You can talk about it if you want, even if you don’t think it serves a purpose. You don’t have to keep everything in your head.”

At that, Slate closes his eyes and sighs in resignation. He’d seen this conversation coming for a while, he’d just hoped--vainly--that the problem would fade away by itself. He brushes her ponytail away from her shoulder and grips the back of her neck in a basely comforting, half-human half-animal gesture. In the month since the big battle, something had solidified between the two of them and touch had become much easier. Perhaps some of it was born of necessity with the frequency in which they had to be connected to heal Sara together, but Slate likes to think of it as something more intimate. For once, he wants to appreciate something that hasn’t entirely been born of necessity.

Gray leans into the touch and gets that tiny smile that he doesn’t think she realizes crosses her face every time he touches her voluntarily. He hates to make that smile go away.

“Gray,” he says gently. “I see what you’re doing.”

She frowns. “I’m not--”

“You are,” he states. “And I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but you can’t fix me, for many reasons.”

For a moment, she gets a deer in headlights look before it’s quickly replaced by a sad, if a little affronted, expression. “I know, Slate. I’m not trying to fix you.”

If she believes that, then they must have different definitions of “fix”. Nevertheless, he needs to get his point across. “Okay,” he accepts simply. “But what I’m concerned about is the fact that you’re using me to hide from your own struggles.”

She takes a step away from him, offended. The gesture is incriminating, in Slate’s eyes. He’s right, whether she wants to accept it or not. “I’m not using you. And I’m not hiding from my issues.”

“You can’t pretend you’re all better, Gray. It’s only been three months since you’ve embraced humanity again. You suffered a terrible trauma--that doesn’t just go away because you’ve reunited with your family or joined a pack again.”

Gray breathes heavily and works her jaw. Hopefully that means he’s getting to her. “I know it didn’t just go away, I’m not a child. But a lot of my hang ups came from the guilt of leaving my siblings, of not knowing if they were safe. Their forgiveness has helped me recover by worlds.”

Slate’s heart aches for her. They are alike in so many ways. He bridges the gap between them again and forces her to meet his eyes, gray meeting blue-green. He loves when she can be herself without colored contacts putting a small barrier between her and the world. “Gray, do you have nightmares?”

She looks away immediately. “Yes,” she whispers.

“Do you still find yourself feeling like your human body is a stranger sometimes?”

“Yes.” She still won’t look at him.

“Do you find yourself needing to go back to your den in the woods just to feel okay again?”

She turns her head sharply and meets his eyes again. “Don’t use my need to be alone against me as if you don’t do the same thing every single day.”

He nods in acquiescence. “Okay, that’s true. We both need time to be alone. But I don’t use the wolf to make my thoughts simpler, easier. When I spend time alone at home, I don’t use it to forget the world around me and go back to pretending things are as simple as catching my next meal again. I use it to decompress, to recover from the day so I can be ready to do my best again the next day. I don’t use it to forget the past, I use it to remember tomorrow.”

She looks down at their feet, avoiding his eyes again. “I didn’t mean to,” she says softly, with a hitch in her breath.

Slate closes his eyes and breathes through the mutual hurt. If Slate could have any moon gift in the world, it would be to take people’s emotional wounds the way Gray can take physical ones. “I know, Gray. I know.”

When she looks back up at him with glassy eyes, he takes another step closer and slowly raises his arms, so she can dodge the embrace if she doesn’t want it. He doesn’t need to worry, though, because she steps into the circle of his arms the moment they lift past waist height. There in the dark, they let their bodies come together, forming a circle of warmth in the cold night.

Gray clings to the sides of his shirt and makes herself as small as possible for a few seconds, like she’s afraid he’ll pull away too soon and she’ll be left with cold, empty arms. He just waits. Slowly, Gray exhales and moves her arms to go around his waist and rests her forehead against his shoulder. They just breathe for a while.

When she pulls away, Slate lets her go and offers her a hand instead. As they start back toward the heart of the Atwood property, he follows her lead, expecting her to go either to Zander and Aria’s house or Sara and Jason’s house as she usually does, but the moment she takes a turn where she shouldn’t, he knows where they’re going. She takes him to the tree line and squeezes his hand. She meets his eyes and promises quietly, “I’m not hiding or forgetting. Just going to be alone somewhere safe.”

Slate lets one side of his lips lift, the side that’s scarred, and nods nonjudgmentally. With that, he releases her and they go their separate ways.