Carrie #2
He grinned, a flash of teeth, and in the next second, he was inside me.
The first thrust was gentle, almost reverent, but the next was harder, his control slipping.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, digging my nails into the thick muscle, wanting to leave marks of my own.
He moved inside me with increasing violence, each stroke deeper, his breathing gone ragged.
His teeth found my shoulder and bit—not enough to break skin, but enough to promise it could happen at any second. I gasped, the pain sharp and real, mixing with the pleasure in a way that made my head spin.
“More,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
He bit harder, and I felt the skin break; a hot sting followed by a bloom of wet. He licked the wound, then bit again, higher up, claiming every inch of flesh he could reach. His hands gripped my waist, fingers digging so deep I knew I’d be bruised for days.
I started to come, slow at first, then fast and brutal, a tidal wave that made my vision go white. He didn’t slow down, fucking me through it, the motion growing erratic as something inside him snapped.
Then I heard it—the low, guttural growl that had nothing human in it.
His whole body tensed, every muscle gone granite, and his back arched, spine flexing in a way that looked almost painful.
I watched his face as it started to change: the jaw jutting, the cheekbones sharpening, the canines lengthening into points.
His eyes rolled back, then snapped forward, glowing so bright they seemed to light the whole room.
He pulled out, just for a second, and I saw his cock—swollen, slick, the base already flaring wider than before.
I turned over onto all fours and looked back.
He gripped his cock with one hand and pushed back inside me, the stretch so intense I thought I’d break.
He fucked me with the force of something that didn’t care about the rules of men, and I welcomed every second.
His hands changed next: the fingers thickened, nails blackening and curving into claws, the hair crawling up his wrists. He tore the fur throw beneath us, shredded it, then grabbed my thighs and pulled them open wider, the claws raking the skin but never quite drawing blood.
My own body started to change in response. I felt it first in my teeth—an ache, then a sudden lengthening. My tongue flicked along the new points, and I moaned, the sound more animal than woman. My nails sharpened, and I dragged them down the mattress, shredding it easily.
He roared—no other word for it—and started to shift in earnest. The bones cracked, the arms lengthening, fur erupting along his shoulders, neck, and chest. His face twisted, the snout pushing forward, and I should have been terrified, but all I felt was awe, raw and complete.
He kept fucking me through the change, his cock growing impossibly thicker, the flare at the base swelling and locking him inside me. The pain was exquisite, a razor-wire pleasure that made my whole body convulse.
He came, finally, with a howl that shattered the glass on the nightstand. The knot inside me pulsed and swelled, and I came again, this time so hard I blacked out for a second.
When I came to, we were still joined, his new body hunched over mine, chest heaving. The fur was silver, the eyes wild and bright, and his mouth dripped with saliva, tongue lolling as he panted.
He nuzzled my face, then licked the wounds on my shoulder and neck, the roughness of his tongue sending aftershocks through my whole body.
I stroked the fur along his arms, letting my fingers tangle in it, and he responded by grinding into me, a slow, insistent movement that kept the knot inside me tight and throbbing.
I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to stay like this—locked, claimed, me all wolf now.
“Shivs,” I whispered, and the wolf’s ears flicked, catching the sound.
He lowered his head to my throat, then bit down, this time with real force, and I felt the mate bond ignite like a second sun inside my chest. I screamed, but it was joy, not fear. Then we let out a joint howl that I was sure could be heard across the state.
We stayed that way for hours, joined and unmoving, the bond knotting tighter with every heartbeat.
I lost track of time. At some point, I realized my own body had changed further—the muscles thickened, the skin roughened, and a fine auburn fur started to sprout along my arms and shoulders.
My face felt different, the jaw heavier, the nose more sensitive.
Every sound, every smell, every touch was amplified to the point of madness.
When the knot finally softened, he pulled out, slow and careful, and collapsed next to me. I rolled to face him, and for a moment, neither of us moved. We just breathed, the sound of it echoing off the high ceilings, our bodies still buzzing with power.
He shifted back first, the fur retracting, the bones snapping into place with a series of pops. He looked at me, naked and bleeding and new, and grinned.
“You did it,” he said, voice rough but proud.
I touched my face, felt the new contours, the heat under my skin. “So did you,” I said and shifted back into the woman he’d known for not very long.
He laughed, then kissed me, slow and deep, the blood and sweat and bourbon mingling on our tongues.
“I’ll never let you go,” he said.
I believed him. For the first time, I really believed him.
The night ended with both of us sprawled on the ruined furs, the mate mark glowing on my neck, the taste of him still in my mouth, and the certainty that nothing would ever be the same.
I didn’t mourn the old me. I let her go, grateful for the hunger and the blood and the promise that from now on, I would never be alone.
Not in this life, not in the next.
I always thought the change would be a single, catastrophic moment—like a switch flipped, or a cord snapped, or a gunshot.
I was wrong. The shift came in waves, every ripple of sensation building on the last, the mate bond driving my body past the edge of what I thought was pain, then past the edge of what I thought was pleasure, then fusing the two so tight I couldn’t tell which was which.
The psychic bond was the next thing I noticed.
Not just emotions—those were easy, like the burn of bourbon or the ache of hunger—but thoughts, fragments, images.
I saw Shivs as a boy, running through a field at dawn, mud on his bare feet.
I saw him on the edge of a brawl, blood in his mouth, the joy of violence so pure it almost made me come again.
I felt his pride at claiming me, the weight of duty, the terror that I might reject the wolf if I saw it for what it really was.
All of it washed through me, real as my own memory.
The next thing was the senses. The room was a living thing: the scent of fur and sweat and cum so thick I could taste it, the sound of each candle flame popping, the ticking of the old watch on the dresser, even the low hum of electricity in the walls.
My eyes sharpened. The darkness wasn’t darkness anymore; it was layered, textured, full of shifting shades and shadows.
I could see every ripple in the fur beneath us, every hair that caught the golden light and bent it into rainbows.
The colors were more than color—they were information, a whole new language.
The world made sense now. The room was mine, every corner, every scent trail, every patch of blood and cum a signature I could read and remember. I changed back to wolf and padded to the mirror, paws silent on the floor, and stared at the new reflection.
The wolf was smaller than Shivs’s—sleek, auburn, with white around the eyes and a splash of black at the tail. The mate mark was still there, burned into the fur at my neck, a perfect ring of teeth that shimmered with every breath.
I turned and saw him, shifting as I watched, the bones flowing like water. His wolf was a monster—huge, silver-backed, eyes glowing like alien fire. He moved with a slow confidence, circling me, nose to the air, tail up and wagging.
We touched noses. The bond snapped into place, tighter than any chain or contract. We could talk, not in words but in pure intention: hunger, joy, pride, the deep, endless need to run and hunt and never be alone again.
We wrestled, teeth on fur, chasing each other through the bedroom and down the hall, out onto the moonlit lawn where the grass was wet and cold under my paws. We howled, in unison, announcing to the world that the pack had doubled, that Stillwater was not dead, not yet, and never would be.
When we finally collapsed in a heap under the old sycamore, I pressed my face to his and let the exhaustion and contentment crash over me.
I didn’t think about the distillery, or the lawsuits, or the ghosts in my bloodline.
I thought only of the smell of him, the weight of his body, and the promise that tomorrow, and every tomorrow after, I’d wake up wild and new and unbreakable.
For the first time in my life, I felt whole. And I never wanted to go back.