To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

Slate? Asher probes. Asher has never put so much energy into connecting with his brother; it’s amazing what he’s discovered they can do. Right now, it feels like Slate’s energy is active enough that he should be awake, but there’s that lingering tinge of pain that hasn’t faded since soon after he was taken. He feels weak too, maybe from hunger or lack of sleep, Asher can’t tell.

It definitely isn’t as bad as they all feared it might be at this point, now four days post original kidnapping, but at times like these when Asher and Slate are so aligned, Asher can feel the ache almost as if it was his own, and it hurts in more ways than one. He can’t tell where it’s coming from, it just manifests in Asher as a dull ache everywhere.

Slate has always protected Asher from harm and Asher has tried to do the same, but while the goal may be the same, their jobs are very different. Slate keeps Asher from physical harm and from many of the harsh realities of the world that would weigh more heavily on Asher than they do on Slate. While Slate feels and experiences emotion with all the same nuance and complexity as Asher, he compartmentalizes much better.

Asher’s job is much more subtle. Slate would live inside his own head ninety percent of the time if no one was there to draw him out of it. Especially since he moved out of the house a couple years ago, it has been all too easy for Slate to disappear into his own thoughts--a place that tends to be dark more often than not. Because while Slate can compartmentalize, he doesn’t do nearly as well at processing as he should. Asher feels pain and angst deeply, yes, but he also processes and deals with those emotions so they can fade and he can learn and grow stronger for having them.

Slate, on the other hand, buries everything. This causes sinkholes that are all too easy for him to fall into and start to drown. Fortunately, for all his life thus far, Slate has managed to tread water until Asher or someone or something can pull him out. A lot of the time it’s Asher, sometimes Sara, sometimes their father. Many times it’s also Slate’s love for and protectiveness over Raven and Sage that act as a lighthouse to lure him away from the riptides. Forrest, more and more, has been coming into his own and has come to understand Slate better than ever before and has been spending more time with Slate in recent years too.

Asher might be able to tell Slate’s in pain from the way his energy aches, but this is uncharted territory as far as mental wellness goes. If Asher can’t see his face, hear his voice, send and receive thoughts without immense concentration, he can’t protect Slate the way he needs to be protected.

He’s...on his own.

Slate is on his own and Asher is without Slate. Asher has never not had Slate before. Asher can be just as self sufficient as Slate, but Asher requires more consistent self care and support to operate on all cylinders. Slate can survive on much less for much longer before he starts to crash. Asher just doesn’t have the same endurance, and the stress of the past couple days as well as the knowledge that they don’t know when it will end is weighing on him.

Slate? Asher reaches out again, trying not to sound as anxious as he feels.

Asher, I’m here, Slate sends back faintly.

Oh thank goodness, Asher breathes back. How are you, what’s going on?

I’m okay. I’m okay, he repeats concerningly, but I’m...weak. It’s getting harder to reach you. If you can’t reach me again after this, don’t worry, it doesn’t mean anything has happened and I promise I will do everything I can to connect with you again when I’m able.

Asher sucks in a breath, but nods back at his brother bravely, trying not to betray how his heart is sinking. Okay, I--

Asher, I’m running out of time and I need to make sure you know this, okay? It’s Alpha Jackson, he’s the one who sent people to find the healing wolf. He--

The healing wolf? Asher can’t help but interrupt, mind whirling.

Yeah, some wires crossed somewhere--the guys got confused and thought I was the healer, they had no idea they caught the wrong person.

Okay, Asher exhales carefully. His thoughts start to move in fast forward, heart lifting just as fast as it had sunk. Okay, we know where you are, we can come--

Asher, Slate interjects with all too much gentleness for it to be anything but a precursor to bad news. I’m being traded to another pack today. The Dreidens. I don’t know where they’re based, but I’d guess it’s still somewhere in Canada.

What happens when they find out you’re not the healer? Asher rushes to ask, hushed.

Slate exhales deeply, patient and calm as ever. Asher feels peace and confidence rushing through the bond and feels the tenseness in his shoulders ease ever so slightly. They won’t find out right away. I’ll stall them until we find a way to get me out of there.

Okay, Asher says, swallowing hard. He has a feeling he knows what “stalling” might mean, but the cool rush of peace and acceptance keeps him from panicking too much. I’ll tell everyone right away. We’re coming for you, okay? You know that don’t you? We’re not leaving you up there. We’re coming.

I know, Asher. I can feel it. No matter what happens, we’re going to be okay.

Asher doesn’t like Slate focussing on “no matter what happens” but he doesn’t have the strength to argue, not now. I love you forever, Slate.

I love you forever.

And then Asher is back to being alone with his thoughts.

:::::

Slate woke up in the middle of the night after being tranquilized that afternoon and managed to drift off into a natural sleep until the morning, where he managed to have a short conversation with Asher before he was artificially knocked out again. He finds himself now waking to disturbing darkness yet again--stupid blindfolds. He might never turn a light off again when he gets home. It becomes harder and harder not to panic with every time his sight gets blocked and he’s at the pure mercy of people who have only his worst interests at heart.

Unless they unlocked him and locked him up again sometime when he was unconscious, Slate hasn’t been uncuffed since the day they took him and his shoulders have almost become numb, his hands feeling heavy and puffy from having been in the same position for so long, blood rushing down his arms and pooling in his fingers.

Now they’re pulling him from yet another mysterious car and into another mysterious building and shoved down into another mysterious chair. It’s all very tiresome, but he’s losing some of the indifference he’s hung on to for so many days. The hunger, dizziness from the drugs they’ve injected him with, exhaustion from restless sleep, and a lingering suspicion that the silver cuffs are slowly weakening him with every passing hour are breaking him down.

He still doesn’t have it in him to be scared, honestly doesn’t think anything these people could do would scare him, but he is...anxious. It takes more effort to stay still, regulate his breathing, and keep his heart rate down than it should. He’ll be much happier when he can be allowed to stay awake for more than six hours in a row and hopefully burn that freaking blindfold.

He knows Alpha Jackson is with him and three other people accompany them. Two of them are men and one woman, no names mentioned, though he thinks he recognized Trenton’s voice.

Slate’s muscles tense when the blindfold is tugged off his face, but he doesn’t betray his shock or relief with any other movement. His eyes adjust much quicker this time around, the basement they’re only dimly lit.

“Get ready wolf,” Alpha Jackson mutters from directly behind him. “You better be ready to put on a performance.”

Slate growls under his breath when Jackson puts his hands on his shoulders and squeezes with a light prick of claws. Not enough to break skin, just a threat. Right on cue, Slate hears footsteps thud heavily down the staircase he’s facing. The room is bare except for Slate’s chair and the walls are asylum white with one doorway that opens straight to the staircase. Alpha Jackson and his three accomplices are all behind Slate, so all he has to focus on are the newcomers now appearing in the doorway.

The first person to enter the room is, curiously, a young woman, maybe late teens or early twenties. She probably appears aloof to a less astute observer, but Slate sees the prickling of sweat on her brow and slight tremor in her hands that expose her nerves. When she pauses at the sight of him, she gets a little shove from the towering man behind her.

Slate always forgets how unnerving he can appear until he meets someone new. By now, everyone else he sees is, mostly, used to how he looks. People still stare, sure, but he doesn’t shock them the same way he does new people. Especially to werewolves, who almost never scar, Slate’s face is...startling. Grisly.

Little do they know, the scars come from an angry teenage boy. Perhaps they wouldn’t be so scared if they knew that.

The girl, the man, and four other people all file into the small, cold room. Slate takes a mental picture of all of them, hoping to retain a clear enough image that he can send to Asher later when he can afford to spare all his concentration on forming that connection again.

“Alpha Dreiden,” Jackson says pleasantly, putting more pressure on Slate’s shoulders irritatingly. “Welcome.”

The tallest man, Alpha Dreiden, nods imperiously. “Thank you for meeting me. I desire for this to be a brief meeting.” He pauses purposefully, mannerisms and vocabulary like a TV villain. Honestly, all these men are cut from the same cloth.

Silas Weaver, Alpha Jackson, Alpha Dreiden--they’re all power hungry degenerates who only have the tenuous holds on their authority that they do because they’re able to intimidate and manipulate people. Slate sees right through it and he’s so tired of it.

Alpha Dreiden continues with a smarmy smile and narrowed eyes, “I’m sure you’ll understand, however, that I require proof of my investment.”

Alpha Jackson exhales harshly behind Slate. “I do understand, Alpha. But,” Slate can just picture his jaw working in poorly concealed bitterness, “I have been unable to make the wolf...cooperate.”

Alpha Dreiden’s eyes flash in anger as he leans back, though Slate can see he’s taking the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Any opportunity to prove their betterness over others, these people will take advantage of. “Hm,” Dreiden says articulately. Slate wants to roll his eyes at the dramatics. “Then you will also understand that I cannot pay you in full, yes? If I do not have insurance that this wolf is who you say it is, you cannot possibly, in good conscience, expect me to pay full price.”

Jackson is definitely breaking skin now. Slate merely smirks as he feels the blood roll down his back. There’s a certain adrenaline running through his veins, summoned by the knowledge that he’s gotten himself out of the frying pan but is most likely running right into the fire. That, and if he can keep Dreiden uncertain and unsettled around him, maybe he can catch him wrong footed or loose lipped.

Slate’s silence has always been a vicious swiss army knife. It can be scary, sympathetic, blank, threatening, comfortable, or unnoticeable. And he knows exactly how to use it.

Dreiden looks down and meets Slate’s eyes for the first time. His face doesn’t change, but the uncomfortably long pause that follows it shows more than he probably means it to. “Isn’t that right, wolf?” he addresses Slate, obviously trying to overcompensate for his loaded silence, prove he’s not afraid. “Are you going to refuse to show and tell for me? It will cost your alpha.”

Slate cocks his head. He lays out slowly, “You have taken me from my home, restrained me, knocked me out, blindfolded me, starved me, and are trying to buy me like a good or service.” He leans forward and lifts his brows. “Would you feel inclined to put on a performance?”

Dreiden frowns in disapproval. He clucks his tongue as he lifts his unimpressed gaze back to Alpha Jackson. “You don’t have much control over your pet, do you?”

“Well,” Alpha Jackson growls. “He’s only my pet for a matter of minutes now, isn’t he? If you think you can keep him on a tighter leash, you’re welcome to him--as long as you put up the money like you promised.”

“You’re not really in a position to negotiate, are you?” Dreiden mocks, flicking his fingers. “Alright, we’ll pay in full with a $300,000 deduction for insurance purposes. We can reconvene about the missing money after we’ve broken our little healing wolf and proved you are a man of your word.”

Jackson’s grip loosens and Slate can tell he’s relieved. Frankly, Slate thinks Dreiden is being quite generous. Jackson must have done a good job at hiding his desperation.

“I accept your conditions.” Alpha Jackson finally releases Slate with a sick squelch as his claws absentmindedly liberate themselves from the flesh of his shoulders. The man at least has the courtesy to wipe his hands of blood on a handkerchief before offering a hand to Dreiden to seal the deal.

Dreiden obliges, seeming unfazed by the blood, and jerks his head at one of his lackeys. “Hand over the money, Jase. It’s time to get out of here.”

A dark skinned man steps forward and passes off two literal sacks of cash, seams almost ready to rip with the weight of it all, to one of Jackson’s men behind Slate. He hears the tinkling of metal and footsteps coming closer to him until his cuffs are loosened. Slate holds in a gasp at the sudden rush of feeling that tingles painfully up and down his arms. It hurts in the best way, like a deep stretch to rid the stiffness of a deep sleep.

Slate rolls his shoulders and flexes his wrists and nearly melts at the release of aching pressure that had been ever present for days now. The constant pain, though it remained mostly low-grade, was wearing on Slate’s body to a degree he hadn’t been conscious of. He realizes a moment later that the rush of strength and energy that lights up his veins isn’t just coming from being able to stretch. Slate is almost positive now that the silver in the cuffs had been draining him. The relief is palpable.

However, when Slate comes back to earth, he sees the man with the cash, now relieved of his bundle but bearing...a new set of cuffs.

Slate’s mother would wash his mouth with soap if she could hear the diatribe of cursing that runs through his mind.