Chapter 5
Asher couldn't settle. He'd tried—made himself a sad excuse for a sandwich from stale bread and questionable cheese, poured another generous measure of Ray's Jameson, even attempted to distract himself with an ancient western he'd found on the bookshelf.
Cowboys. Very butch. Very much not making him think about silver-haired men with control issues.
Yeah, right.
His mind kept circling back to the confrontation with Gabriel, replaying it on loop with increasing agitation.
For once in your life, just do as you're told.
The words still stung. Like Asher was still some fuck-up teenager who needed managing. Like the last three years hadn't happened, like he hadn't survived on his own in ways Gabriel couldn't even imagine.
Although, to be fair, "survived" was a generous term for what he'd done in the city. "Barely kept his head above water while making increasingly questionable life choices" was probably more accurate.
But, still. He'd done it without anyone's help, without following anyone's orders.
"Medical condition, my ass," Asher muttered, abandoning the western mid-shootout. He paced the cabin's main room, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim with each agitated step.
What kind of condition made a grown man shake like that? Made him look at Asher like that? The way Gabriel had gripped that doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright...
Asher knocked back the remaining whiskey, welcoming the burn. The alcohol was doing its job, making everything feel softer around the edges, making his current situation seem almost funny.
Here he was, twenty one years old, orphaned and alone, getting worked up about his dead dad's best friend having some kind of breakdown in a shed.
Very normal. Very well-adjusted.
The thing was—and this was the really pathetic part—seeing Gabriel in distress had made Asher want to help.
Even after the ordering around, even after the cryptic non-answers.
Some stupid part of him still wanted Gabriel's approval, still wanted to be useful to the man who'd taught him to tie fishing flies when he was twelve.
Christ, his daddy issues had daddy issues.
"Get a grip, Sutter," Asher told his reflection in the dark window. His face looked pale in the glass, eyes a little too bright from the whiskey. "He made it clear he doesn't want you around."
But since when had Asher ever done what was good for him?
The decision was made with the kind of clarity that only comes from three whiskeys and a lifetime of poor impulse control. Asher grabbed the flashlight again and headed for the door.
The night air hit him hard. Beyond the cabin's light, the darkness was absolute except where the moon touched it.
Asher had forgotten this kind of night existed. Forgotten how it made you feel small and exposed, like something might be watching from just beyond your vision. The flashlight beam seemed pathetic against it, a tiny tunnel of safety in an ocean of black.
Three years of city living had made him soft. Once upon a time, he'd known these woods, could navigate them in the dark. Now the familiar path felt alien, every shadow potentially hiding something with teeth.
The moon was fucking bright tonight, full and silver, casting shadows so sharp they looked painted on. The kind of moon that made people do stupid things. Well, stupider things, in Asher's case.
As he approached, he rehearsed what he might say. Something casual but assertive. " Look, I deserve answers about my father's property. " Or maybe direct and uncompromising: " Either you explain what's going on, or I call the sheriff and report a trespasser ."
The problem was, he didn't actually want Gabriel gone.
This realization stopped him mid-stride, just yards from the outbuilding door.
Beneath all his bitchy irritation and confusion lurked something else—a pathetic desire for Gabriel to stay . To explain. To be that steady, calming force Asher remembered from when he was smaller and the world made sense.
To maybe, finally, look at Asher and see something other than Ray Sutter's fuck-up son.
To see the man he was trying to be.
"This is so stupid," Asher muttered under his breath, but his feet kept moving forward anyway. Story of his life—knowing better but doing the dumb thing regardless. He raised his hand to knock.
And stopped.
Because he could hear something. Low, rhythmic breathing. The creak of old bedsprings. And then?—
A groan. Deep, guttural, unmistakably sexual.
Asher's brain short-circuited.
No. No fucking way. Gabriel Stone was not jerking off in there. That was not a thing that was happening. Asher had clearly had too much whiskey. He was hearing things.
But another groan, louder this time, proved his ears were working just fine.
"Holy shit," Asher breathed, frozen in place.
He should leave, right now. Turn around, walk back to the cabin, and pretend he was never here. That would be the decent thing to do. The non-creepy thing.
Instead, like the absolute disaster of a human being he was, Asher found himself moving toward the window.
This is a new low, he thought to himself even as he positioned himself at the gap in the curtains. Even for you, this is really fucking bad.
But his self-lecture didn't stop him from looking.
Gabriel was on the narrow bed, completely naked now, sprawled like something out of Asher's most desperate fantasies.
No clothes to hide behind, just miles of skin painted gold by the lantern light.
Sweat gleamed across his chest, catching in the silver hair that dusted his pecs and formed a trail down his abs.
One large hand worked his shaft with desperate, almost angry strokes, while the other gripped the headboard hard enough that Asher could hear the wood creaking.
Jesus christ, he was beautiful. Not pretty—Gabriel would never be pretty—but beautiful in the way dangerous things were beautiful. All that controlled power finally unleashed, silver hair wild, muscles shifting under skin like he was barely containing something that wanted out.
Asher swallowed hard, his whole body going rigid against the stone wall. His mouth had gone dry, pulse hammering so loud he was sure Gabriel would hear it. Every rational thought evaporated, leaving only want so intense it felt like drowning.
This was so fucked up. So incredibly wrong. Here Asher was, twenty one years old, watching his dead father's best friend jerk off like some kind of stalker.
Add it to the list of things that would disappoint Ray if he knew. Though honestly, at this point, the list was so long this probably wouldn't even make the top ten.
Gabriel's pace was intense, hips lifting off the bed with each stroke. The sounds he was making— fuck , Asher had heard a lot of men get off, but nothing like this. Raw and desperate and almost pained, like the pleasure was being torn from him.
His own cock was painfully hard, pressing against his zipper with demands he absolutely was not going to acknowledge.
"Asher..."
The name hung in the air between them, impossible and undeniable.
Asher's brain short-circuited.
He must have misheard. There was no way Gabriel had just—while he was?—
But there was no mistaking the way Asher's name had sounded in his mouth—reverent and hungry and destroyed all at once.
Holy fuck. Gabriel was thinking about him. Getting off to thoughts of him ?!
The revelation should have sent Asher running. Should have made him realize how completely fucked this situation was. It needed a clear head, sober blood.
Instead, he pressed closer to the window, his own breath coming too fast, too loud in the quiet night, and watched Gabriel's face contort with pleasure, watched his powerful body strain toward release with Asher's name caught behind his teeth.
Then Gabriel’s pace slowed, his brow furrowing in… confusion?
And his eyes snapped open as his head turned toward the window.
For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other through that gap in the curtains—Gabriel's hand still wrapped around his cock, Asher caught red-handed like the creeper he was.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck .
Time stopped. Asher's brain went completely offline.
This was bad. This was so fucking bad. He'd just been caught perving on his dead dad's best friend. There was no coming back from this. No excuse that would make this okay. He was going to have to change his name and move to another country.
"Fuck," Asher gasped, stumbling backward, mouth running on autopilot while his brain screamed. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I wasn't?—"
But Gabriel was already moving, rising from the bed with inhuman fluidity. Completely naked, completely unashamed, and the look on his face wasn't embarrassment or anger—it was something too wild for Asher to process.
Asher stood frozen, torn between the urge to apologize more and the inability to form coherent words. His feet seemed rooted to the spot even as his brain screamed at him to do something, anything, to make this less catastrophically awkward.
The door burst open before he could decide. Gabriel stood in the doorway, all naked skin and barely controlled power in the moonlight.
There was something different about him. Something wrong. His movements were too fluid, too precise. His eyes caught the light like an animal's.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
That's when Asher’s body, smarter than his brain, started to run.
He spun and bolted for the cabin, pure terror overriding everything else. But he'd barely made it three steps before Gabriel moved with a speed that shouldn't exist. Asher didn't even have time to scream before Gabriel was on him, bearing him down to the forest floor with controlled violence.
Pine needles scraped his palms as he tried to scramble away, but strong hands—too strong, impossibly strong—flipped him onto his back.
Gabriel loomed over him, and in the moonlight filtering through the trees, Asher could finally see what he was. Not fully transformed but something in between—elongated canines, eyes gone full gold, body vibrating with barely-leashed power.
Werewolf. Gabriel Stone was a fucking werewolf .
And Asher had just made himself prey.