Thaddeus
Wulfric was already on guard with so many men crowded around us. His instincts were razor-sharp—every muscle coiled, every sense stretched thin.
What neither of us expected was the sound that rumbled out of Euphemia.
It came from deep in her chest.
Low.
Raw.
Unmistakable.
The growl was beautiful—vibrant and strong, carrying a warning that had nothing to do with civility. No sooner had it left her lips than Wulfric answered.
Louder.
Longer.
Far more vicious.
The sound rolled through the tavern like a threat given shape.
The three men froze where they stood. Fear drained the colour from their faces. No one moved. No one breathed.
Then the door flew open.
Tam stumbled in, dusted in snow, wind chasing him across the threshold. He tugged his cap free and beat it against his coat, flakes scattering across the floor.
“There’s a storm brewin’,” he announced, voice cutting through the tension. “Ah dinnae think we’ll make it back doon tonight.”
He frowned and stepped aside as the men scrambled for the door, chairs scraping and boots skidding on the floorboards in their haste to flee. Wulfric lifted his head slightly, discreetly drawing in the air—cataloguing, and remembering their scent. Their fear lingered longer than their presence.
“I’ll see to the rooms,” I said calmly as I rose from my chair. “You can take care of the ponies.”
It was efficient. Sensible.
And, unexpectedly, fate seemed eager to assist me.
“No,” Euphemia said, standing so abruptly her chair legs screeched against the floor.
I turned my head slowly and followed her line of sight toward the window.
Beyond the glass there was nothing but white—thick, relentless snowfall swallowing the world whole. The road was gone. Even the outlines of the trees had blurred into nothingness.
“Take a look,” I said quietly, nodding toward it.
There would be no travelling tonight.
Our eyes remained fixed on her. Wulfric was practically reverent—on the verge of bowing before her in awe.
How is it possible? I asked him.
Daughter of Donald and shifter blood, he replied with unmistakable pride. Dormant… until us.
A flare of heat burned through my gut—far hotter than the whiskey warming my throat. It spread fast, possessive, inevitable.
By the wolves of Fenrir, no other soul shall taste her fire.
She is yours, bound by blood and fate.
Fate had already done its part.
The rest was up to me.
“Stay with her, Tam,” I murmured, forcing my gaze away at last before it betrayed me entirely. I turned toward the stairs to arrange the rooms—already planning how this night would unfold.
? ? ?
The snowstorm never relented, layers piling thick and relentless as I unlocked Euphemia’s door. The heavy iron key turned in the lock until it clicked softly open.
We never spoke of the animals beneath our flesh, but it didn’t take long for her heavy coat to come off, her cheeks already flushed red from the warmth of the room.
How will we get her to her nest? Wulfric fretted.
It isn’t far from here. I can carry her, I said, pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Perhaps I can coax her wolf to shift, he mused.
I don’t think she knows what’s inside her yet, I replied, closing the door quietly behind me.
She lay on the bed in a small, bundled shape near the edge. As I drew closer, I caught sight of her braid. I lifted a loose curl from her forehead, holding the strand up to the moonlight.
Our flame, I murmured.
The spark of our existence. Our mate, he answered, purring through my chest—slow, steady, reverent.
She stirred, frowned, and kicked a leg out.
I jumped back just in time before she unmanned me. She grunted and shoved the blankets aside. A thin cream chemise clung to her form, but before I could look closer, she turned away, facing the wall.
Give her your scent. Her heat is coming, Wulfric said—and I felt the restraint in him, tight and deliberate.
I unwound my scarf and laid it beside her pillow, close to her mouth. Moments later, her hand reached out, fingers curling into the cornflower-blue wool as she pressed it to her face, breathing me in.
I tilted my head toward the ceiling, silently begging any god who would listen to spare me from mauling her like an animal.
Wulfric was unimpressed.
I didn’t care.
All I wanted was to sink into the bed beside her—to hold her until her heat came. To feel her warmth. To scent her just beneath her ear, where it was strongest.
Wulfric shuddered at the thought.
Do it, he whispered—soft as sin, sharp as temptation.
I bent and quietly removed my boots, then—like a thief in the night—I slipped into the bed behind her.
It took several careful moments to settle myself flush against her back.
I kept checking her face before finally lowering my head to the pillow, reassured when I saw her still clinging to my scarf.
Only then did I place my arm around her waist and release a slow, controlled sigh.
It wasn’t comfort.
It was agonising torture.
Her scent was so thick, so cloying, that my body betrayed me within seconds. We lay there together—waiting, panting, utterly and tantalisingly afflicted.
The only consolation was holding her.
Feeling our hearts beat in time.
Allowing our beasts to recognise one another.
Time slipped strangely. Minutes—or hours—it was impossible to tell.
Then her breathing changed.
Deeper.
Almost laboured.
And with a soft sigh, she shifted—rubbing her sweet derrière back against me.
I gripped her hip, guiding her movements, giving her what she needed until heat soaked through her clothing—praying all the while she’d leave her scent on my breeches.
Wulfric began to pace.
So close, he muttered. She needs us. My she-wolf needs our knot.
I nuzzled into the crook of her neck and inhaled. My mouth fell open. I could taste her scent as much as breathe it in. I ground my rigid staff against her, ignoring the restrictive breeches.
For the first time, I felt a different kind of swelling beneath the length of my cock.
The knot.