To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

Brett Atwood arrived back home from his truncated trip mere hours ago, fortunately while his youngest three were at school, so he has had some time to try to figure out how the hell to tell them their brother has been kidnapped.

He knows Forrest well enough to know that he’ll want to help, can imagine his expression darkening in quiet anger at being left out again. Sage will be confused, overwhelmed. Tears will probably spring to his eyes immediately and he’ll reach out for comfort. Raven...Brett can’t predict what he’ll do. Raven hasn’t had to experience much pain or shock in his young life--as it should be. Slate will hate to know he’s the reason behind this first brush with trauma. Causing any sort of harm to his family is anathema to Brett’s oldest son.

For the first time since her death, Brett is almost glad his wife is gone, that she doesn’t have to experience this entirely new kind of terror. The thought nearly chokes him.

He manages to pull himself together to push through the doors of the schoolhouse and paste on a smile for Sage and Raven. They don’t know he’s come home early so it will be a pleasant surprise. Forrest had been at home when Brett first walked in, having just signed off of an online class, so they’d had their sweet reunion already. Forrest had been happy to see him, but understandably confused. Brett told him he had some news to share, but that he had to pick up Sage and Raven first.

Sage is the first to spot his dad and his whole countenance brightens. It squeezes Brett’s heart in the best and worst ways. He has the best children. When Raven sees Sage bounding across the room, he leaps to his feet and follows him right into his father’s arms.

Brett scoops them both up and nuzzles their hair, whispering how much he missed them. When they ask why he’s home so soon, he shakes his head with his carefully painted on smile and tells them he’ll tell them at home.

Fortunately, the boys chatter all the way home, telling Brett all about school and what he missed in the three days he was gone. Sage only mentions briefly that it was weird that Asher couldn’t read to him before bed the last two nights, but other than that, he hasn’t noticed anything amiss, it seems.

Raven mentions Slate two or three times offhand, things like, “And Asher made french toast, but Slate’s is better,” and, “I hope Slate will be proud I got all my spelling words correct this week--he helped me, did you know?” Little things that let Brett know Slate’s absence has been noted by his youngest, probably subconsciously.

Raven and Slate have always had a very close bond, so it’s not surprising that Raven would be feeling his absence more acutely than Sage. Raven is precocious at the best of times--his skills of observation and deduction should never be underestimated, even if his abilities to process that information is limited.

Once he’s finally got all three younger boys settled in the family room at home, Brett clears his throat and absently brushes a hand over Sage’s hair, a gesture used to self soothe more than anything else.

“Boys, I have something to tell you,” he begins. He decides to level with them. “You remember how Slate and Gray went to heal a family from the DeMarco pack a couple days ago? Well, something happened. Some men took Slate from that house and drove off with him.”

Forrest blinks, obviously shocked, and slowly his expression darkens, just like Brett knew it would. Sage, also as predicted, starts to tear up and tangles his hand in Brett’s T-shirt. Raven just stares at his father with wide eyes.

“When is he coming back?” Raven asks.

Brett forces himself not to react, putting an arm around Raven and tucking him into his side. “We don’t know, baby. We’re looking for him right now. We’ll get him back soon, I promise.”

“When did he go missing?” Forrest asks carefully through a tight jaw.

“Two days ago.”

“Two days...like he’s been gone two nights and this will be the third day?” Forrest works out.

“Right,” Brett tells him.

Forrest nods slowly, staring at his hands. “Okay,” he looks up and meets his father’s eyes determinedly. “What do we know so far?”

:::::

Slate wishes he could gauge how long he’d been on the plane, but they’d given him a hefty dose of tranquilizer that knocked him out from lift off to probably an hour before they landed. His arms hadn’t been loosed from their silver cuffs since he was first taken and his shoulders ache fiercely. They hadn’t fed him at all on the day he was taken and only twice the day after. Today he’d been fed a granola bar before the plane ride, which meant that he couldn’t even use hunger as a way to measure how long it had been. He simply isn’t getting enough calories and would have been hungry no matter how many hours he’d been unconscious.

He grits his teeth against the knowledge that they’d given him water multiple times each day, so it wasn’t like they’d forgotten to feed him. They want him tired and weak. The lack of control is...grating. Nails on a chalkboard.

He’s just been shoved into another car, this one smaller, only having to fit him, Trenton, and Gil. He only knows the two of them are the only ones present because he can tell this car is smaller by the tighter air circulation and the sound of their voices echoing in the smaller space. He can’t hear anyone breathing besides the two of them and himself, either. The blindfold is still firmly in place.

He sends a message to Asher as soon as he can catch a hold of the ever-thinning thread that still links the two of them. In reality, they’re incredibly lucky to have the connection at all. Slate is willing to bet they’re the only two people in the world who would. Just got off a plane. In another car with only Trenton and Gil.

He feels more than hears Asher’s sigh, almost a sob, of relief. Slate, oh gosh, it’s so good to hear your voice. Are you okay? Have they hurt you?

For certain values of hurt, Slate supposes they have hurt him but he’s not hurt, so he feels no remorse for answering calmly, pushing peace and reassurance down the bond, I’m okay, don’t worry. How is everything there? Has anyone come for you?

That has been Slate’s one real worry. That someone will come back for his family, especially once they realize Slate isn’t the healer. He’s keeping that information to himself for as long as possible.

Don’t worry? Asher scoffs. That’s like telling water to stop being wet. My brother is kidnapped, I am physically not capable of not worrying.

Slate sighs inwardly. Everything has been inward the past three days. He has been incredibly still and silent thus far, not engaging hardly at all after he realized he wasn’t going to get any intel off his captors. He’s heard them comment more than once that they’re creeped out by him, which he has no problem with. Even takes some pleasure from it, if he’s being honest.

I understand, Ash, just try to stay calm and trust that I can take care of myself and will do everything I can on my end to come back to you. Remember to take care of yourself too.

Slate sees Asher rubbing his eyes roughly in his mind’s eye. He’s feeling incredibly overwhelmed, no doubt, probably guilty for just going to work when he’d had such a bad feeling about that day.

I just wish you were here, Asher whispers through the bond. You would know what to do, if it was someone else. A pregnant pause lingers then, but Slate can sense Asher has more to say. Sure enough, almost too quiet to hear, Asher says on a shaky exhale, Am I terrible for wishing it was someone else?

Slate shakes his head to Asher immediately. He tries to communicate the feeling of his hand on the back of Asher’s neck, a comforting weight, grounding. Asher, you are absolutely not terrible. You are one of the best people I know and I’m so lucky to have you on the other end of this. If it had to be me, I’m glad it’s you looking for me. He sends his fiercest pride down the bond. I wish you didn’t have to, but I trust you more than anyone. You can do this. But, Slate continues in the same calm voice, If things don’t--

Slate, don’t go there, that’s not going to happen, Asher interjects almost desperately. The childhood version of Asher would be shaking his head rapidly with his hands covering his ears, doing anything he could to block out both the words and the feelings they elicit.

If things don’t go our way, Slate presses forward as gently but firmly as possible, it’s not your fault. I’ll know you did everything you possibly could and I love you forever. Okay?

Slate, Asher chokes. Slate, don’t.

Slate can hear the thickness in the voice in his head, the hard swallow that follows, trying to shoo the frog from his throat. Still, Slate won’t be able to live with himself if he can’t make Asher understand that if they fail, if Slate doesn’t come back from this, that it’s okay.

Asher, you are my other half, he tries to deeply impress the words on his brother’s psyche, and I trust you with my life. I know you’ll move heaven and Earth before you let anything happen to me and that’s more than enough. You are enough, even if I’m not around to remind you. You are enough, no matter what.

Okay, Asher cries. Okay.

Slate envelops Asher’s energy with his own, exerting all his energy to fill his brother with his love and faith. When they can manage it, it’s better than any embrace, though they usually do that too. The fact that Slate almost can’t remember the last time they did this hurts his very soul. In all his distress the past two months, he’d neglected his relationship with Asher. That hurts.

But this right here, the fact that he and Asher can talk as clear as day hundreds of miles apart, the fact that they can connect the very energies of their soul, the fact that Slate gets to have someone like Asher in his life is better than any healing balm a human could produce.

Slate lets them sit like that, connected at the deepest parts of their essences, for as long as it takes until the car he’s in rolls to a stop. He releases Asher slowly, feeling exhausted from the effort of keeping the connection for so long. Do me a favor and get some rest, Asher. Please take care of yourself. If I get home and you’re not in peak condition, there will be hell to pay.

Asher manages a breathy laugh, sounding tired, but much better than when they first made contact. You too, brother. Promise me you’ll catch my attention the next time you can, okay?

Promise. I love you.

I love you too.

And then Slate is on his own again.

:::::

“Ah, Mr. Barrows, it’s lovely to hear from you. Are you close?” Alpha Jackson inquires of Trenton Barrows.

“Yeah, Gil and I have him here in the silver cuffs. We should be there in, like, fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect,” Jackson grins...and then his brain catches up. “Wait, him?”

“Yeah, yeah we got him,” Jackson can hear the boy’s smugness through the phone. “Was like taking candy from a baby. You should’ve seen us in there, it went off without a hitch. We’re going to be rich in no time.”

Jackson grips the phone so hard he hears something crack. “Mr. Barrows,” he grits out slowly. “Who exactly do you have in your possession right now?”

“Uh, well, he didn’t exactly give us his name, but it’s the healing wolf for sure, we saw him heal the baby and everything.”

Jackson’s brain runs on a hamster wheel. He? From everything he’s heard, the healing wolf is certainly Grace Holt, but if Trenton says he saw this man heal...maybe there’s two? Either way, if this man can heal, the Dreidens will be getting exactly what was promised, so nothing will go wrong.

Jackson ignores the fact that he’s trying to reassure himself more than anyone else.