9. Allan

Chapter nine

Allan

" H ey, I said eyes up here." Patrick said and then bit his lip. I knew he was trying hard not to laugh, as he totally had caught me sneaking glances to his nether regions, but as he continued to towel off, he made zero effort to hide his junk.

Daddy Patrick was makin' it really hot in here.

"I'll go make you that brew. I might also have a salve as well. If we put that on, you should be almost healed up by morning."

"From these cuts?"

Patrick cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "There are benefits to having access to elemental energies."

Patrick left the room with the towel tied around his waist, giving me time to readjust myself and attempt to hide my erection. Getting comfortable lying on his bed was another struggle. Not to mention reconciling the whole magic shit.

As I sat there contemplating what had just played out before me—the water bubble, Patrick choking on it, his soaked body and see-through clothing—my sudden urge to run settled. That and the fresh cuts really did hurt.

The firm mattress gave into my body and cushioned me. I was floating. I had never had a bed this comfortable, and I fantasized about what an entire night would be like. Okay, so maybe I also pictured Daddy Patrick sleeping in the same bed. Sue me.

An entire night sleeping next to Patrick would mean there wouldn't be much sleep involved.

"Stop thinking about that!" I rage whispered to myself.

All I had on at the moment was a hand towel draped across my groin, and the bulge from my excitement was clearly obvious. A firm ridge marked the slight curve of my cock. I wanted the evidence of my arousal to completely disappear before Patrick returned.

I tried to prop myself up, but all I did was recoil from the stabbing, burning pain, so I settled back down again. However, that did manage to quell things down below.

Lying there for several minutes, listening to the clank and tinkle of Patrick busying himself in the kitchen lulled me slightly, and I lost myself in more thoughts. And as I did, memories came back to me in flashes.

Shawn, Dylan, and Brent were dead.

The camping trip fiasco and drinking all night.

The thunderstorm that had formed over the north end of the lake, which rumbled and growled for hours. Going down to the beach to watch the lightning dance across the sky.

Skinny-dipping with everyone, and Brent apologizing, which led to us making out.

The rainstorm hit us; we went back to the tents…

I passed out, only to be awakened by Brent trying to…

Anger rose within me like rapid tidewaters as I recalled Brent's drunken attempt to bury himself in me.

Oh shit. That's what Patrick was talking about.

I manifest this magic in self-defense.

Patrick came into the bedroom with a big stone mug. Steam rose from the top.

"Here, drink this and you'll fall asleep. I also found some of that salve I was taking about— What's the matter?"

"I remembered what happened the other night." I said quietly.

"Everything?"

"Not entirely, well, yes, sort of, pieces of it. I remembered enough. With everything that's happened to me and having a massive hangover from all the booze we'd consumed, and then waking up here, and this magic nonsense, I... It's just…my head's kinda a mess."

"All right, I can understand that. Do you want to tell me what happened?" asked Patrick.

"Not really. Let's just say that my ex and I were thrown together unexpectedly, and he was an abusive asshole when we were together, and he hadn't changed."

"Which one? Shawn, Dylan, or Brent?"

"Definitely Brent." I snarled.

"Ah, that makes sense."

"Why do you say that?" I glared at him.

"Because Brent's head was ripped off. Obviously the target of your rage."

I turned my head away and grimaced.

Yeah, Brent's actions were inexcusable, but decapitation? Harsh, and gross.

Patrick squinted as he stared at me. His thick brows furrowed together.

"So, he tried to hurt you and—"

"Yeah. Abracadabra. Apparently. Or so you say."

"The wave swell." Patrick sat at the edge of the bed and held out the mug toward me.

"You okay?" Patrick placed a warm hand on my arm in a place that didn't have too many lacerations as I nodded noncommittally.

I took the cup, sniffed the contents, and wrinkled my nose. "That's an odd aroma. I have to drink this?"

He nodded.

In his other hand he held up a little glass jar of goop. "This needs to go on the deepest cuts, so after all that work of bandaging you up, I'm gonna take them off and apply this, then rewrap you. You drink that, and between the two concoctions, you'll be right as rain by tomorrow morning."

"Okay, let's get me into the other room," I said, trying to prop myself up, which pulled at the cuts. I scrunched my nose.

"You're fine where you are."

"I can't sleep in your bed!"

"Why not?"

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"Right there." Patrick pointed to his side of the bed.

"Oh, hell no."

"Allan, it's a king-size bed. There's lots of room for both of us, comfortably. Just stay on your side if it bothers you so much. Besides, if you move too much, those deeper cuts are going to reopen, and then you'll start to bleed again. Just lay still, let me get this salve on you, and drink." Patrick made a rolling motion with his hand to indicate I should start imbibing the horrific-smelling beverage he'd made.

I took a sip.

It tasted horrible.

"This tastes like ass."

Patrick curled his lips inward to stifle another laugh.

"It's not funny," I said.

"It kinda is. And believe me, from what I remember, ass doesn't taste as bad as that does. Now drink."

I glared at him but took another sip.

Nope. Not better the second time. It was going to be a chore to get this past my teeth.

Patrick gently unwrapped the bandages, took the gauze off of only the deepest wounds, and applied the goop from the jar. His fingers barely touched my skin, or so it seemed. The jelly he smeared on me was cold at first, then warmed, making my skin tingle, but I found the sensation quite pleasant.

The salve had a floral scent to it. Nothing too potent. Not like my grandma's skin cream that assaulted the nose with fake gardenia, vanilla, and rose perfume. The subtle and calming aromatherapy made me sleepy. I began to struggle to keep the two tons of weighted flesh, otherwise known as my eyelids, open.

Even though staring at Daddy Patrick should have been enough to keep me awake.

I yawned.

"Good. Take another sip."

I complied.

Before I knew it, Patrick took the mug out of my hands, pulled the duvet back, and tucked me in.

"Goodnight, Allan."

I'd always found it rather peculiar how the brain wakes in the morning. I'd become sort of aware that I was no longer sleeping, but where I was hadn't entirely registered.

The weight of the blanket instilled a sense of safety. Warmth permeated my skin and although I hadn't opened my eyes yet, I could tell sunlight streamed in through the window.

Of course, the male morning alarm clock had appeared, and I snuggled up to the warm body beside me, throwing my arm around a solid chest and worming my fingers into the cleft between the large set of furry pec muscles.

"Ah, Allan…" Patrick said.

"Um hmmm," I mumbled, then pulled myself in a little closer.

I inhaled the delicious aroma of eucalyptus, cedarwood, and mint while stroking my fingers through a lovely pelt of fur—

Pulling away as fast as possible, I sat upright in bed, then yanked the blankets up around me.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry."

Patrick chuckled to himself.

"It's all right. It's been years since I had a young buck's morning wood pressed up against me. It wasn't the worst way to wake up."

"Are you trying to make me die from embarrassment?"

"No, not at all. You're really quite reserved, aren't you?"

"Did you just call me a prude?"

"Not exactly. I believe the word was ‘reserved'." Patrick chuckled.

He flung the covers off, got out of bed, and stretched, his front facing away from me. Dammit. His back popped a couple of times, and he groaned in relief. Argus came padding into the room, stopped at the doorway, and looked at both of us.

Kaos screeched from her perch in the living room, which made me flinch.

"I'll be with you both in a few minutes." He glanced at the dog and then down the hallway.

He then came around to my side of the bed, absolutely naked, and had obviously woken up in a similar fashion to me because the sight of what was hanging between his legs made me look away.

He laughed again.

"We got some work to do on you, in a number of ways. Okay, let me see your wounds." Patrick sat next to me, still freakin' naked, and started pulling on the bandages.

I had to admit, I wasn't in any pain, and the burning sensation of the cuts had disappeared.

As Patrick removed the gauze, I glanced down to see the thinnest of white lines where one shard of glass had cut deep into the skin.

It had completely healed overnight.

My finger ran over the thin scar, and as quickly as I could, I unwrapped the rest of the bandages only to find the same result. The thinnest of white lines.

"Those will probably disappear over the course of the next year or so. This one here"—he pointed toward my bicep—"was deep. You might have a permanent scar there, but overall, I'm pleased."

"That's amazing!"

"That's magic."

"For real."

"Yup. You want breakfast?" Patrick stood; his dick had lost some of its girth.

"Now that you mention it, I'm starving."

"No doubt. Getting the body to heal that fast takes a toll and utilizes resources. I'll get us a good hearty breakfast going, and then we can start getting you skilled up. Come on down to the kitchen when you're ready. You drink coffee?"

"Oh, coffee sounds amazing."

"Good. We might actually be able to be friends then too," said Patrick with a bit of a chuckle.

"What?"

"Tea drinkers are weird."

Then it was my turn to laugh.

Patrick turned and walked out of the room, still completely naked.

"Aren't you going to put clothes on?" I yelled after him.

"Nope. Rarely do, and I like watching you squirm."

"Fuck me," I mumbled.