To Be More (Slate/Gray Book #2)

Sara digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, but even that can’t stop a few tears from squeezing out. It has been five days since Slate has been gone, and she wonders how she ever went the first two years of her life without him. Sometimes when tensions in a room start to heat up, she finds herself looking around for him to interject with a calming word, a subtle but skillful redirection, a crack of dry wit, even just the naturally calm and peaceful energy he exudes just by being. Other times it feels like his absence is all she can think about

It brings to light the fact that she truly has never been without him. Neither of them left the state for college, both of them work from home for the most part, they’re in near constant communication either about the family, the pack, or the business. Behind her husband, he’s her closest confidant.

It seems that the same missing limb syndrome is afflicting the other members of the family, even some of the pack. Asher is always out of sorts, stuck inside his head searching for Slate half the time and the other half trying desperately to claw some sort of leads out of thin air. Forrest has never reminded her more of Slate, honestly. It’s the first time she’s ever made that connection and seeing Slate’s mannerisms on Forrest is jarring.

For some reason, Slate’s...quirks, have been just another part of who he is. Now, seeing Forrest clam up, barely speaking, focussing so deeply he forgets about nearly anything but finding Slate, seeing how he almost manically flits his gaze between his siblings as though any of them could be taken at any time and he has to be prepared to stop it…

Sara swallows guilt only for it to settle heavily in her guts. No one should have to live like that, no one should have to shoulder those kinds of responsibilities, no one should be driven to that state, and yet, Slate is constantly like that. She has never felt more selfish in her life, always focusing on her own problems, venting to Slate almost daily and not realizing it rarely gets reciprocated.

She has to figure this out, they have to get him back. Sara has to have a chance to tell him how sorry she is and sock him in the ribs for not telling her to get her head out of the clouds and listen to him.

She has to have a chance to introduce her daughter to him.

Sara scrubs her tears away and leaves her bedroom swiftly, walking forward until she bodily runs into Jason, making him exhale with an oof, and wrapping her arms around him as tight as she can. She might be missing one ballast to her life, but she’s got the other one right here and she’s not letting him go until she has to.

:::::

Slate doesn’t jerk awake when the light abruptly gets flipped on in his new prison only because he was never asleep. Immediately following the meeting of exchanges, Jackson had sent Slate off with a glare of warning and Dreiden had taken hold of him like he was gold and carted him off to another undisclosed location away from civilization. Evidently Canada, where he can only assume he still is, has a lot of unoccupied land. Convenient for human traffickers to build little cabins where no one will hear their pets’ screams.

So far, the worst that had been done to him was throw him into this dark room with one high, narrow window that let in barely a sliver of light and leave him with no blanket for the night. It was miserable and freezing, sure, but it was a manageable sort of misery. There’s one vent on the wall that he knows has to be pumping in some warm air or he literally would have frozen to death in what felt like below freezing temperatures last night, it just isn’t enough to be remotely comfortable. His handcuffs were also mercifully unlocked shortly after they dropped him in his new home.

They’d even fed him dinner. How considerate of them.

After having been tranquilized, knocked unconscious, and blindfolded in turns the past several days, Slate was reluctant to waste any waking hours they might let him have. That, and he couldn’t just turn off his brain and let himself be open to attack in sleep in this new environment.

So Slate is exhausted this morning, but bone-deep weariness has been a constant companion for months now. He can handle it.

“Wake up, wolf,” a gruff voice commands as the lock to the door is jiggled and clicked open. “Breakfast is served.”

A man walks in holding a plate with scrambled eggs and one slice of toast, along with a tall glass of water. Like he said--considerate. They’ve given him protein and carbs. It’s practically room service.

Slate stands, never taking his eyes off the intruder, and approaches slowly. Evidently the man gets tired of Slate’s--completely pragmatic--“dramatics,” as is huffed under the man’s breath, because he closes the remaining distance and shoves the plate and glass into Slate’s chest so he has no choice but to grab them or let them fall. “Eat,” the man barks. “Someone will be in soon.”

Ominous.

Slate shrugs to himself and returns to perch on the mattress on the low frame that make up the only amenities, if you don’t count the bucket and rolls of toilet paper in the other corner of the room. Fortunately for Slate, it looks like no one has used the room before him. That, or they’d meticulously cleaned the bucket and scrubbed the room of all scents that may or may not have wafted off of it.

Little presents, all of them. Gifts from his kidnappers. It’s like they’re trying to give him Stockholm Syndrome with how accommodating they’re being.

Slate makes quick work of the food, sipping his water in between bites to try to intentionally slow the shoveling of food in an effort to avoid making himself sick after being malnourished for multiple days in a row. It’s not gourmet, but it’s calories, and he can’t afford to not take advantage of that.

As he takes his last bites, he starts to feel oddly drained. It isn’t exactly like tiredness, it’s just...his body is…heavy. His mind is too wired to operate on anything less than one hundred miles per hour, sharp and hyper vigilant, but his body feels increasingly weak. He’d just eaten a good meal, albeit a much smaller portion than he really needed, but by all accounts he should be feeling energy return to his muscles, not drain from them. A thought occurs to him as he’s sipping the last of his water and catches a little sparkle in the corner of his eye in the bottom of the glass.

He drains the last of the water and inspects the cup closely. Probably small enough to be imperceptible to the average human eye, Slate can see little flecks of silver sticking sparsely to the sides of the glass. The blue streak he swears is all out loud this time.

He’d just been poisoned.

It doesn’t seem enough to kill him or really do any damage–assuming he doesn’t keep deteriorating from here–it seems like it’s just enough to weaken him, similar to what the cuffs had been doing after days of exposure, only more immediate since he has ingested the metal directly.

Slate drops his plate, silverware, and glass on the floor without ceremony, letting them clatter where they may. He frankly couldn’t give less of a crap about the condition of his captors’ dishes. He scoots back on the mattress until his back rests against the cold wall and he can tip his head back, close his eyes, and just breathe.

He’s mad at himself more than anything. He should have expected them to play dirty like this. It’s just that, as much negativity and evilness as Slate has encountered in his life, he hasn’t dealt with a situation quite like this. When you’re reading a book or watching a movie about abduction, you scoff at the main character for trusting anything their captors give them, food included. But in real life...you just don’t expect other human beings to act that way to other human beings. Even though they had literally paid for him and locked him in a room with, presumably, the intention of torturing him until he bends to their will, he didn’t even think to check the food for anything nefarious.

He won’t make that mistake again. Slate takes deep breaths and swallows the fact that he is truly and utterly alone now. He’d known it before, but being poisoned is apparently the last straw, the thing that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that Slate is the only person out here that he can rely on. Slate has taken on plenty of burdens by himself, but he’s never been literally, physically the only person within hundreds of miles who has his best interests at heart

But that’s okay, he tells himself as he keeps breathing. Everything, everyone that matters is safe and well. As long as that stays true, anything can happen to Slate and he can bear it. This might be the ultimate test of his body, but his mind has been through worse than whatever these people have up their sleeves. Slate isn’t alway brave, or courageous, or righteous, but he has always been strong. These people are just going to have to find that out themselves.

The door opens again, causing Slate’s eyes to fly open in time to see a metal chair precede Alpha Dreiden and one of his men into the room. Slate remains where he is, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back, letting his eyes alone track the alpha and his compatriot. As the door closes with a clang, Slate feels much more tempted than he anticipated to leap to his feet and attack. In his weakened state, it would certainly be bloody, but Slate thinks he could still manage to at least knock the two of them around until he sees an opening to get around them and rip the door open and run.

Alas, he’d no doubt be caught before he could ever hope to reach even the front door and would have caused himself all the more trouble. The more he aggravates them, the faster they’ll become impatient and resort to drastic measures.

The worst case scenario, if he remains non compliant but not actively aggravating his captors, is that enough time will pass for Dreiden to become tired of playing with him, at which point having no choice but to assume Jackson lied to him and that Slate is not a healer, at which point he becomes useless except for any info he may have on Alpha Jackson. By then, it is most likely that many days, if not weeks, will have passed and if Alpha Jackson is as clever as Slate thinks he is, he’ll have taken advantage of whatever Plan Z he keeps in his back pocket and be long gone. In that case, the worst case scenario might include Dreiden continuing his search for a healer and razing the ground until he finds Gray. Oh, and Slate will probably be dead after having been enslaved and endured weeks of torture. That too.

Best case scenario, Slate escapes or his pack liberates him before the week is over and they can work on a plan of defense for any other villainous creatures desiring to have Gray for their own. It might take time, but Slate is confident safety and security can be achieved–that won’t be the hard part. It’s the first part that poses the real challenge, and as of now Slate has no plan toward that end except for: stay alive.

Stay alive and wait. It’s a good thing Slate is known for his patience.

“Good morning, wolf,” Alpha Dreiden breaks the silence finally, settling his cargo in the middle of the room. He sets the chair facing Slate and stands behind it, resting his hands casually on the back. “I hope you enjoyed your breakfast.”

Slate lets his silence speak for itself.

Dreiden grins. “Something wasn’t to your liking? I’ll let the cooks know and see if we can’t do something about that. Now though, I’d like to start our negotiations. First, Blake--” he slaps a hand on the shoulder of the man beside him, “is here to make sure you cooperate. To do that, he’s going to need to put the handcuffs back on.”

The man named Blake unfolds his arms and retrieves a pair of silver handcuffs from his back pocket, slowly approaching Slate. He’s a mean looking man, heavy brow, hard eyes, all dark features. He’s big too, bigger than Slate. Slate exhales and hides his reluctance as he stands and presents his wrists to Blake willingly. It might irk his pride, but strolling the path of least resistance is his new goal going forward

Blake’s eyes flick up to Slate’s at the apparently surprising gesture and lifts his upper lip in an ugly sneer. “You’re not tricking anyone with your cooperation, wolf. You can stand there and stare with your eyes and your scars and think you’re scaring us, but you’re at our mercy and we can see right through you.”

The cuffs snap closed painfully around Slate’s wrists, but he’s ready for it and doesn’t so much as flinch. As steady as a redwood, he stands and doesn’t let his stare waver, clearly broadcasting to Blake and anyone who dares to meet his gaze that the Dreidens may not be afraid, but Slate isn’t either. When Blake pauses for a moment, surprised that his intimidation tactics aren’t working as they usually do, Slate lets a smirk twitch onto his mouth.

Apparently that’s one step too far for Blake, because he rears back and lifts a fist, looking like he wants to punch Slate’s lights out, but his alpha catches his arm before it can connect. “Blake,” Alpha Dreiden says in a measured tone. “I appreciate your zeal, but the time for that is not now. Later, perhaps, if our wolf doesn’t speak with us, but for now you’ll have to refrain.”

Blake maintains the stare for another moment before shrugging his alpha off and stepping back, scoffing and shaking his head but not saying anything else. Dreiden accepts this and turns back to Slate. “Now. Would you please take a seat?”

The situation is obviously engineered to make Slate feel like he’s small, being towered over, and intensify the pressure of the interrogation this is sure to be. Nevertheless, Slate plays their game and sits in the chair that now faces the two men.

“Let’s get introductions out of the way. Alpha Jackson never told us your name, wolf. What should we call you?”

“Jared,” Slate says impassively.

Whether Dreiden can tell Slate is lying right to his face, Slate can’t tell, but he doesn’t argue the point either way. “Alright, Jared. You have something I need and I have everything you need. I have the food, the water, I can offer the anonymity you so obviously crave, safety, security.” Slate inwardly rolls his eyes, but Dreiden is only faced with a blank stare on the outside, so he continues on. “I have everything. I am willing to play nice with you if you give me what I need. So. Can you do that?”

Slate says nothing.

The corners of Alpha Dreiden’s mouth curl upward as though he expected nothing less. “Okay,” he accepts with a tilt of his head. “You’ve forced my hand, Jared. Let me tell you something before I leave you to think over my offer.” He leans down until he’s nearly eye level with Slate. “The silver you noticed in your food, that’s not there just for the glitter. It weakens you, dampens your strength--surely you’ve felt the effects?” Dreiden narrows his eyes when Slate just blinks. “Well, that’s not all it does.”

Dreiden straightens and backs up several steps until he’s shoulder to shoulder with Blake. He waves an imperious hand. “Blake, show him.”

What Blake does then is put on a burst of speed so he’s merely a blur and what Slate processes first is the sound of a crack echoing in the room. The next thing that processes is blinding pain in his right forearm. Blake had broken it badly enough that when Slate glances down, he can see the bones sticking crookedly under his skin. Slate takes three harsh breaths, holds the last one, and when he breathes out, he’s as calm as he’s ever been. It’ll heal soon. He can breathe through the pain until then He raises his head and meets Dreiden’s eyes coolly.

“You’re used to these things fixing themselves right up, aren’t you,” Dreiden smirks satisfactorily. “You are a werewolf, after all. Well, I’m here to disillusion you on that front. You might as well be human as long as the silver is in your system. I’ll allow you some time to think things through before I return. Enjoy.”

Alpha Dreiden exits the room ahead of Blake, leaving his little enforcer to bare his teeth one last time and slam the door closed, leaving Slate to sit in his dim, cold room with only the company of himself and his pain.

One of his last thoughts before everything becomes a haze of pain is, oddly, about Thanksgiving, in less than a week. This will be the first one he has ever missed. For as much as death doesn’t scare him, it does hurt to think that his last Thanksgiving might be spent here. In a dirty, cold, basement, utterly alone.

And yet, even having ended up here in this room, Slate couldn’t be more thankful for the life he has been given so far. He wouldn’t change a thing.