To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

Days ago, Jackson Territory…

“The bids are coming in fast, sir,” Barrows reports excitedly. “Each one more than the last.”

Jackson smirks. “What did I tell you? People will give up a lot if you can give them something they want badly enough.”

“Alpha,” Carter cuts in smoothly. Jackson sighs and rolls his eyes. She’s always stuck on the details. A killjoy, that’s what Brenda Carter is. “The bids are coming in, yes, and they are higher than we expected, yes, but they are getting anxious for their return.”

Jackson lifts a brow at her. “These all sound like pluses to me. Your point?”

“Sir,” she frowns disapprovingly. “If we don’t accept a bid and get the wolf to its new owner soon, we’re going to have packs crashing our territory to take it by force.”

Still feeling quite giddy and pleased with himself despite those who strive to bring him down, Jackson flicks his fingers without concern. “Very well. What’s our highest bid to date?”

Carter gives a satisfied smile back at him, possibly the first Jackson has seen from her. She might even be pretty in good lighting. “We’ve got an offer from the Dreidens who are willing to pay cash.”

Jackson’s eyes go wide when she rattles off the number. Money isn’t everything, but if you ask Jackson...it is most things. And that amount of money can get more than most things. “Tell them they’ve got a deal,” he wastes no time in commanding.

“Well,” Carter inserts with the raise of a finger. Jackson only just resists strangling her. “Their one stipulation is that they want the wolf in five days.”

Jackson breathes deeply. “Very well. That’s not a problem, we’ll just have to move our plans up by a few days.”

When Jackson puts a proud hand on Brenda Carter’s shoulder, her smile of satisfaction is quite pretty. “Good work, my dear, good work.”

Present day, Atwood Territory...

When Gray exits her house with the appropriate ingredients in hand, she finds Slate leaning with his back against the side of the house, head tipped back and hands in pockets. To any passers-by, he’d be the picture of cool and casual; to Gray, he just looks tired. With no reservation, Gray takes his hand and coaxes quietly, “Come on, let’s go to yours.”

His eyes fly open at her touch, but he gives her hand a gentle squeeze in response. What surprises her, however, is that when he propels himself away from his slouch against the house, he lets his momentum take him forward until he’s close enough to press a lingering kiss to her temple. Gray feels a small smile creep onto her face. She looks up and meets his eyes, which are soft, kind. It bolsters Gray’s confidence. Maybe she knows him better than she thought.

Gray murmurs again, “Let’s go,” and leads him by the hand at a meandering pace toward his cottage about a three minute walk from hers.

She lets the silence envelop them, enjoys the fact that she can share these quiet moments with him with no tinge of discomfort. She can share silences with Sara, or with her siblings sometimes--though they both tend to be more chatty than not--but silences with Slate are different. Usually comfortable silences shared with others are a result of nothing left to say, creating a sort of peaceful atmosphere of emptiness. Slate’s silences are full, warm, comforting.

The silence lingers until they reach their destination, at which point Slate slips his hand from hers and opens the door for her to enter before him. She smiles through her lashes. “Thanks.”

He nods and offers a smile that tips one side of his mouth upward.

Gray has only been inside Slate’s house twice and was too anxious or overwhelmed to really take in the place. As he flips on the lights, she looks around. It’s very...utilitarian. Spartan. The kitchen is clean, no used cups on the counter or crumbs on any surface. From what she can see of the living room, it’s much the same as it had been before. There’s just a couch and an armchair, a small table in the corner between the two. Not many visitors then, she thinks. A few books are on the table, but other than that, the living room is pretty sparse as well. There are a few pictures of family on the walls, but otherwise they’re bare.

It’s not...cold, but it’s not particularly welcoming either.

Gray decides this is a matter to be discussed and resolved another day and turns to face Slate, who still stands by the front door. “Alright,” she nods to herself. She points to Slate. “You, go change into something comfortable and then sit,” she instructs, ending with a firm gesture to the chairs and table on the far end of the kitchen.

Slate raises a mildly bemused eyebrow and says his first words since they’d left Gray’s house. They’re said very quietly, almost like it’s painful to hear the sound of his own voice. “Being ordered around in my own home, huh? I didn’t know Sara had rubbed off on you so much.”

Gray can’t help the light laugh that escapes. She loves his dry wit. It doesn’t come out often, so it’s a prize when it does. “What can I say?” she teases. “You’ve already got enough testosterone around you, it’s about time Sara had some help tempering it all.”

The hesitant smile that had edged onto Slate’s face fades some, then. Gray frowns. He looks at the floor for a long moment before raising his eyes to meet hers. They’re as sincere as she’s ever seen them. “My mom would have liked you.”

Before Gray can think to say anything in response, he disappears down the hallway, presumably to follow Gray’s orders. She blinks several times, feeling her eyes water a bit before mechanically dropping her bag of goods on the counter and opening cabinets until she finds a pot. The late matriarch of the Atwood family is as taboo a subject as a subject can be. She’d heard mention of the women precisely once, and that was from Asher months ago.

She’s not sure if the siblings or father invoke her name amongst themselves more often or not at all, but to the general public--even to Gray, someone very close to the family now--the woman is a huge question mark. To have Slate bring her up of his own volition is shocking and...touching.

Just as Gray is putting the pot she’d filled with water on the stove, Slate emerges in soft, worn basketball shorts and a black T-shirt. He lifts his arms, palms up, and looks down at himself before looking back at Gray with a very obvious, are you satisfied? expression

Pushing back the onslaught of emotions, Gray purses her lips at him for a moment before nodding magnanimously. “Good, you pass inspection.”

Slate huffs and wanders closer, looking over Gray’s shoulder. “Can I help?”

Gray swats at him. “Absolutely not. Go, sit,” she commands.

Slate raises his eyebrows and shakes his head as if to say, alright, you asked, don’t blame me later, but he dutifully backtracks and drops into a wooden chair and stretches his legs out. When he exhales, his whole body deflates, and Gray once again notices the pale tinge to his face.

She frowns into the pot of boiling water and turns around briefly to preheat the oven before spinning back and sidestepping to grab the box of macaroni and dump it in the water. “Slate, have you eaten anything today?”

“Uh...maybe?” is the very genuine response. He’s not joking. Gray immediately turns to face him and puts a hand on her hips. He looks...almost confused, but frustrated, like he can’t get his mind to work at full capacity and he’s impatient with himself.

“Slate,” she starts slowly, frowning all the while, “this isn’t like you. Why haven’t you eaten?”

Slate isn’t one of those people who overeats or undereats when stressed. He’s always been very good at taking care of his body so it can do everything he needs it to do.

Slate swallows tightly and rests his elbows on the table and then his head in his hands. “I don’t know. Time just got away from me, I guess. I think I ate a granola bar this morning.”

“You think?” Gray squints, unimpressed.

Slate shrugs awkwardly without moving his head from his hands. “That might have been yesterday, I’m not sure,” he mutters. He lifts his head then, if only to rest his chin on a hand instead. He tries to placate, “I’ve been eating fine. Just, the last day or two, time has gotten away from me.”

Gray puffs a breath that lifts the hairs that had drifted into her face. Checking on the pasta briefly, she moves over to the pantry to hunt for something he can snack on easily. She comes across a tin of nuts and snags it from the shelf. Slate’s eyes track her across the kitchen, but otherwise he says nothing.

“Here,” Gray slides the tin across the table until it rests in front of him. “Eat. Dinner won’t be much longer, it’s a pretty quick meal, but I want to get some calories in you immediately.”

Gray pointedly doesn’t move away from the table until she sees him reach for the nuts and pop a few into his mouth. He gives her a dry look that she ignores in favor of nodding to herself in satisfaction and spinning on one heel to make the cheese sauce for the macaroni.

She monitors Slate out of the corner of her eye while she works. She’s aware that he knows he’s being watched, but like always, he lets it be, so she takes advantage. His movements are sluggish and he rubs his eyes more than once, which she doesn’t think she’s seen him do...ever.

Once the grated cheese, butter, and milk are melting well, Gray stops stirring momentarily to hunt around for a cup and makes quick work of fixing a tall glass of water and setting it in front of Slate with a meaningful look, promising dire consequences if he doesn’t drink every last drop.

Once she sees him drain half the glass, she lets her focus return to her cooking. She drains the macaroni before giving the milk and cheese mixture a few more good stirs. Once she has found a glass pan, she empties the pasta and cheese sauce into it and mixes until the sauce is spread evenly. Then she dusts some panko breadcrumbs over the top before putting the whole dish into the oven to crisp.

Gray lets Slate have the time to be quiet and--hopefully--relax, but when she finally goes to sit with him at the table after having set a timer on her phone, she sees that he might be too far in his own head for that. When she sits down, he inclines his head in acknowledgement and his eyes seem clearer--all good signs--but pinched, and his mouth droops at both corners just slightly.

Gray knows she has to say something, but takes a moment to think about how best to approach the situation. Ultimately, she decides just to ask exactly what she’s thinking. “What are you thinking about?”

Slate meets her eyes and considers her question for a moment, appearing completely unsurprised at her directness. Which, of course, doesn’t mean he isn’t surprised, but Gray likes to think she’s getting better at reading him. “A lot of things,” he hedges. “Long day.”

Gray rolls her eyes. “I could have told you that.” Slate quirks a half smile, but otherwise just shrugs in response. “What is it?” she probes. “Something wrong with your work?”

Slate sighs and sits back in his chair, looking away for a moment. “Work is...work.” When Gray huffs and rolls her eyes–he’s such a boy–he flashes a smirk at her before returning his gaze to the wall. “Work is normal, it’s fine. We’re adjusting without Sara, a few other pack members are on standby to jump in when she leaves fully.”

Gray cocks her head. “Other pack members?”

From what Gray has seen, the Atwoods are very proud in that they like to take care of things themselves and save others the trouble. It’s surprising that they’d bring in others at all, and she can’t help but feel a bit proud of them.

Slate nods at Gray’s question. “Yeah. Sara and I were surprised when Dad suggested it, but it’s…” he trails off with reluctance, “probably for the best.”

Gray nods. “I agree. There are a lot of talented people in the pack who would be happy to help.”

Slate nods absently, seeming to be in deep thought.

Gray decides not to let him stew in his own thoughts any longer, it’s obviously doing nobody any good. “So,” she interjects firmly, “if it’s not work, then what is it?”

“What is what?” he asks obtusely, holding her gaze with a straight face until she makes a face at him. His mouth draws up into a smile, almost like he might laugh, but no sound comes out of his mouth. The smile fades a bit and he rubs a hand across his mouth and jaw. “Just...a little...overwhelmed,” he says, like pulling teeth.

Gray purses her lips and her forehead creases at his equivocation. “Okay then, what is it about today in particular that has you overwhelmed?” she tries a different angle.

He rubs his eyes again and when he looks at her, it’s...probably the most honest she has ever seen him. There’s no careful edge to his expression, no distance in his gaze, nothing. Just Slate, exhausted and tired and stressed. “I haven’t been sleeping,” he exhales like it’s been on the tip of his tongue all night, maybe all day, all week--forever. “I can’t…” he breathes deeply again. “I can’t sleep.”

“Oh, Slate,” Gray whispers as she immediately gets to her feet and rounds the table until she can drop into his lap and wrap her arms around him, tight as she can. She lets one hand drag up and down his back soothingly while the other cradles his head to her shoulder.

In his lap, she’s half a head taller than him and it’s a beautiful role reversal. He can rest his head on her shoulder and be wrapped up in her arms instead of the other way around. His arms come around her slowly and he presses his forehead into her shoulder.

This is by far the closest they’d ever been and it should, by all means, probably be awkward. Gray is actually kind of baffled by the fact that she felt the urge to...sit in his lap. It’s completely unlike her. And yet the move felt completely natural. She would not have predicted this to be a configuration Gray and Slate would ever choose, but maybe that’s because Gray and Slate have always been very calculating people. They’re more aware of their movements and how they fit into a physical space than others. Slate more than Gray, maybe, but she still deeply understands the mindset.

But the more time they spend with each other...the more the hyper vigilance falls away. The Slate and Gray of the world would never find themselves this close to another person, but this isn’t the Slate and Gray of the world. This is the Slate and Gray of their own universe. They’re the only two people who exist in their little world right now and with every passing moment, the walls they erect to protect themselves crumble more and more in the warmth and safety of their orbit.

When Slate’s hands twitch at her back, she shushes him. “I’ve got you, Slate, I’ve got you.”

He pulls back slightly to look her in the eyes, faces only inches apart. He’s as wrecked as she’s ever seen him, which is admittedly, not a dramatic transformation, but for him it’s telling. His eyes are dry, no tears in sight, but the whites are red and the circles below them are purple bruises. It looks like he’s biting his cheek; Gray wouldn’t be surprised if it was bleeding.

He inhales slow deep. “Gray, you don’t understand, I don’t do this--”

“I know, Slate,” Gray interrupts, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. “I know. You are the strongest man I know. I can’t think of a single thing you would do that could change that.”

He stares at her, and they breathe together for long, quiet moments. “People need me, Gray. I can’t afford to break down like this, this isn’t me.”

He seems desperate to make her understand, so Gray takes a moment to think and present a cogent counter instead of saying what immediately comes to her mind.

“The roles you play in the pack,” Gray starts slowly, searching his face all the while, “need to be filled. People depend on the routine that you’ve established. But that doesn’t mean you need to be doing all of it.”

It’s odd to be reassuring someone that they aren’t needed, but Gray remembers that one of the first gifts Slate gave to Gray was the knowledge that she was--and is--wanted. Not needed. She hopes Slate understands the message she’s trying to convey.

He sighs deeply, saying nothing, before lowering his head slowly back down to her shoulder. She sighs and lets him hide, resting her temple on his head, until the timer alerts them to the fact that dinner is done. Slate lifts his head and kisses her cheek, letting her slide off his lap with a much more relaxed look on his face.

She grabs a pair of hot pads from a hook by the oven and takes out their dinner while Slate maneuvers around her with a set of plates and silverware. He seems a bit less worn down by the weight of the day, movements a bit more sharp, less lethargic. Exhaustion is still stitched into his mien, but less oppressively so.

They sit close enough that their knees brush against each other, a gentle reminder of company. Gray watches Slate carefully as he takes his first bite. It won’t exactly break her heart if he doesn’t love it--she thinks she has offered something much more meaningful than even an ambrosia of the gods could provide tonight--and there’s really no way to go wrong with pasta and cheese, but the animal inside her thinks it would be nice to know she can provide for him.

The raised eyebrow and the way he eyes her out of the corner of his eye shows that she’s not so subtle in her secret desires, but then, he knows maybe more than anyone that the animal in Gray lives much closer to the surface than most other werewolves.

He brings the fork to his mouth and chews slowly. “Hmm,” he says articulately, a slight smirk unable to be squashed completely.

“Well?” Gray demands at last, patience thrown to the wind. “Do you like it?”

Slate finally grins beautifully and looks at her with twinkling eyes, tired though they are. “It’s delicious, Gray. I might eat a pound of it by myself.”

Gray straightens and preens unabashedly with a haughty smile. “I thought you might like it.”

He breathes a laugh and shakes his head before taking another bite, tilting his head in thought. Gray wastes no further time digging into her own meal and gives him time to put words to thought.

“How’s Aria doing?” is the unexpected inquiry.

Gray snorts. “Really good, actually. She seems to have resolved whatever it was that made her go off every time the wind blew the wrong direction.”

When Slate’s smile turns satisfied and he nods his head to himself, Gray knows immediately he had something to do with the sudden lack of daily displays of teenage melodrama around the house. It would also explain the sudden liking Aria has taken to Gray’s True Mate. “What did you do?” she asks suspiciously.

He shrugs. “What makes you think I did anything?”

Gray rolls her eyes. “Come on. I’m not that gullible.”

Slate smirks, then shrugs again. “I know. I might have had a talk with Aria that helped her see things a bit more clearly.”

Gray’s eyes narrow. “And when did this happen? When would the two of you ever cross paths?”

“I was dropping off the computer and phone at your house. She was the only one home.”

Something clicks at the mention of Gray’s new phone and laptop. She sighs, but can’t help the fond smile that crosses her face. “You did that purely for my benefit, didn’t you. That phone and laptop are way too new to have warranted an upgrade but you knew I’d never accept something brand new.” She punches his arm. “You dirty sneak, I should have known you’d be behind the subterfuge.”

Slate actually laughs then. It’s a short burst, but it’s an expression of genuine mirth that warms Gray’s insides and pulls a laugh out of her too. “When have you ever known me to lie? It was hardly subterfuge.”

Gray huffs and shoves another bite of food in her mouth. It’s true that Gray has never known Slate to lie directly about anything, but he can’t deny he has a habit of prevaricating when it suits him. “Whatever. Don’t think you’re distracting me from this magical conversation you had with my sister. What did you say? What did she say?”

One side of his mouth still quirked up, Slate swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs again with one shoulder. “I just asked her how she was doing. Seemed like she just needed an impartial listener.”

Gray huffs with petty jealousy. “No doubt you probably gave her the ‘truth serum face’ too. Aria’s a hard one to crack at the best of times.”

Slate lifts an eyebrow speculatively. “Truth serum face?”

“Oh,” Gray blushes lightly, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s just something Alexander has said. You apparently have a way of looking at people that makes them want to spill their guts to you. Truth serum.”

Slate squints.

Gray clears her throat loudly and picks up her empty plate as she stands. “Moving right along,” she mutters to herself.

When Gray hears Slate laughing quietly behind her, she smiles into her shoulder where he can’t see.

When Gray goes to the sink and reaches for the dish soap, Slate touches her lower back. “Those can go in the dishwasher. I don’t feel like dealing with dishes right now.”

Gray smiles. “Thanks.”

When Gray stands up from dropping her dishes in the appropriate spots, she sees Slate leaning in the door jamb with his eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest. The light atmosphere fades a bit, but it doesn’t drop into the somberness that enveloped them before dinner. It’s just...quieter. Softer.

Gray wraps a hand around Slate’s bicep and nods her head to the back where she knows the master bedroom is. “Come on,” she coaxes. “Time for bed.”

Slate makes a disgruntled noise but lets her lead him down the hall. “It’s too early.”

She stops and gives him a look. “You’re dead on your feet. It is absolutely not too early.”

When she starts to pull him forward again, he doesn’t budge. “Gray,” he says firmly. “I can’t go to bed yet.”

Not backing down, Gray faces him and lifts her brows. “And why’s that?”

“I can’t just...fall asleep,” he struggles to articulate. “I’m not tired enough.”

Gray’s eyes narrow. “Really? Not tired enough? Try a better excuse, Slate, that one’s not going to fly with me.”

His jaw clenches. “That’s not what I mean. I can’t just lie down and sleep, Gray. I need to be exhausted, otherwise my mind won’t quiet down. I can’t just...sleep.”

Gray sighs. She realizes she’s getting angry at the wrong party this time. “And what is your mind telling you? That someone might need you, that you need to be awake to protect your family? That something bad will happen while you’re sleeping and you won’t be able to stop it?”

Slate’s face gives up nothing, he just stares at her. Gray sighs again and bolsters herself again. She grabs his wrist this time and pulls him harder. “Just trust me, Slate. Come to bed.”

Gray can almost hear his teeth grinding, but he follows her with great reluctance. She pulls him all the way into his room and onto his bed.

When they’re sitting next to each other, Gray crosses her legs underneath herself and faces Slate. She brings a hand to his face and strokes her thumb across his unscarred cheekbone once or twice before using the same hand to turn his face to hers. His face is still blank, but softer, and his eyes are kind. He trusts her.

“Slate,” she whispers, looking deeply into his blue-green eyes. “I’m here. If anything happens, I will wake you up, I promise.”

Slate exhales and sounds younger than he probably means to when he whispers back, “But what about you? I can’t just--”

“Slate, I can protect myself,” she tells him with a quiet sort of conviction. “I can protect myself better than Sara or Asher or your younger brothers. I lived on my own for a long time, I’ve been tested more than any of your family and I know how to take care of myself.” She digs her fingers into his cheek a little, not primarily to remind him of her strength, but to make sure he’s present, that he’s hearing her. “I’m not like them. You don’t need to protect me.”

“And what about when you leave?”

Gray smiles. “Then I won’t leave.”

They breathe together for a long time before Slate responds. “Okay.”

When they lie down, it still takes a long time for Slate to fall into any sort of sleep that’s restful, but true to her word, Gray keeps vigil all night.

Slate sleeps.