Chapter Thirty-Six
Heat. Tight. The body under him—mate. Ash.
Claws dug into muscle, fur brushing sweat-slick skin. He drove forward, rutting hard, faster, the slick clutch of Ash dragging him deeper. Every thrust lit fire up his spine. Groans tore from his chest, rough, feral.
Scent filled him. Salt. Musk. Ash. His.
The world reduced to push and pull, the give of flesh, the slam of hips, the raw friction. Teeth snapped in the air, aching to bite, to hold, to seal. Mate. Claim. Mark.
Ash-cries bled into him, feeding the frenzy. He pressed down, crushing close, heat swelling inside again, demanding another release. He growled, driving harder, deeper, rutting with frenetic rhythm. Seed. Fill. Breed.
Ash arched, legs spread, offering, yielding.
Perfect. Treasure. Home.
His head dropped, jaws brushing skin, tasting salt and sweat and life. His.
The rhythm broke. Heat surged, pouring, marking. He howled, spilling everything, locking them tight once more. The world drowned in scent and pulse and the shuddering clutch around him.
Nothing else. Only mate. Only Ash.
(9:43 a.m.)
Rick surfaced from a black, tattered dream.
Not even a dream, just shards: heat, claws, teeth, Ash’s voice crying out, begging, damning.
His head throbbed with the kind of hangover no liquor ever gave him, limbs heavy, muscles bruised from the inside out.
His mouth was copper-dry. For a second, he didn’t know where he was.
The stink of his own sheets hit him—shed fur matted into cotton, sweat dried to salt, the musk of cum baked into the air like tar. A broken cuff still circled his wrist, the chain torn loose when the beast had ripped free.
Memory punched back jagged and merciless. Rick’s stomach dropped like a trapdoor opening, terror slamming him awake.
Oh God. No. Please, no.
He lurched upright, heart battering his ribs, afraid to look, afraid to see the blood that wasn’t supposed to be there, afraid he’d shredded something precious, destroyed the only thing he wanted. His vision swam until it landed—
Ash.
The kid was stretched out beside him, tangled in the wreck of sheets, hair mussed into ink-dark chaos, lips parted, breathing deep, oblivious. Not a corpse. Not a ruin. Just a body, warm and naked, smooth skin radiant in the pale wash of morning leaking through the blinds.
Rick let out a sound, half sigh, half growl.
Relief staggered him, then surged into a fresh, violent need to touch.
He grabbed Ash, almost too rough, pulling him against his chest, hands skimming ribs, stomach, thighs, hunting for damage, scars, proof of what he’d done.
And even when he couldn’t find any, his pulse still wouldn’t slow.
Ash stirred, lashes fluttering, groaning in protest. “Mmmmhh.” His voice was husky, morning-rough. “Let go. Wanna sleep.”
Rick caught his jaw, thumb digging, forced his eyes open. “Are you all right?” The words rasped out gravel.
Ash frowned, blinking up at him. “What time is it?”
“Tell me how you feel, dammit!” His throat cracked on it, ragged.
Ash gave a lopsided smile. “Never felt better.”
The fight bled out of Rick’s chest in a slow exhale. Ash was supple in his arms, unmarked, whole. Too whole, like someone who’d spent a day getting pampered in a spa, not being ravaged all night by a werewolf in heat.
Sighing, Ash let his hand drift across Rick’s shoulder and came away with a fistful of loose hair. He blinked at it, then smirked. “Damn. You’re shedding more than a Siberian husky.”
Rick huffed. “Comes with the territory.” His voice was low, bitterly amused. You never get the fun parts without the mess. He could still feel it, the animal in him retreating, leaving him raw and overcharged, testosterone buzzing in his blood, muscles twitching for a fight or a fuck.
And Ash was taking it all in stride. “Guess I won’t have to shave your back, then,” he said, his hands sliding over smooth planes of hard muscle.
“Lucky you.”
Ash’s fingers wandered lower, skimming the dark fur on his chest. “Well, you’re still fuzzy in the right places.”
Rick snorted. “That’s the one coat I keep year-round.”
“Mm.” Ash stretched out with a jaw-cracking yawn, then winced, hand flying to his hip. “Ouch. I think my hole’s officially wrecked.”
Rick swore under his breath and rolled Ash onto his stomach.
The kid laughed, went boneless, sprawling across the mattress, ass bared without shame.
Rick spread those round cheeks open and froze.
The swollen, flushed slit stared back at him, angry red, puffy, raw from being used so brutally.
Guilt and hunger clashed like knives inside him.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, chest cinching tight. He bent before he could stop himself, mouth pressing to the battered flesh like an oath, kissing the tender ring, tongue working slow, reverent strokes.
Ash gasped, then moaned, his whole body wriggling, pushing his ass back against Rick’s face. “Mmmmh… I could get used to being woken like this…”
A growl tore loose from Rick’s throat. He dragged his mouth away before instinct swallowed him again. “Not what this is.” The words came rough, half to Ash, half to himself. Still, he lingered, staring at the mess he’d made, fighting the urge to dive back in and feast.
Finally, he pushed up, muscles singing, every nerve purring.
Reaching for the nightstand, he fished a small key from the drawer and worked the broken cuff loose from his wrist. Metal clinked onto wood.
He flipped open the shabby Marlboro pack, struck a match, and lit two cigarettes from the same flame.
One he passed to Ash; the other he kept clenched between his teeth, placing the ashtray onto the bed between them.
They smoked in silence, side by side, the room thick with haze and morning shadows.
Rick let the nicotine burn settle him, ground him back into his body.
He sprawled against the headboard, one knee up, cigarette balanced between his fingers.
He drew deep, exhaled slow, studying the kid through the veil of smoke.
“So…” He managed a humorless smile. “I guess we need to talk.”
Ash settled cross-legged at the foot of the bed, cigarette smoldering on his lips, watching him with those deep amethyst eyes, twilight pools that could drown a man whole. “Yes, we do.”
Rick flicked ash into the tray, shoulders taut with the weight of the words he hadn’t said yet. “I, um… I’m not exactly what you’d call… standard issue.”
“You don’t say.” Ash let the smoke curl around his grin, the humor not quite reaching his gaze. “Growling, claws, trying to bite my throat open—that wasn’t just kinky roleplay?”
“Smartass,” Rick muttered, but his mouth tugged crooked at the corner.
Ash cocked a brow, expression cool, but his thumb stroked idly across his knee, a soft, restless tell that undercut the mask. “So. A werewolf, huh?”
Rick pulled on the cigarette, let the smoke trail ceiling-ward. “Been one all my life.”
Ash tilted his head, mulling it over. “But you didn’t… turn into a wolf.”
“Werewolves aren’t storybook shapeshifters. We grow fangs, claws, fur, but we stay human-shaped. Brains go primal, though. Pure animal. The man takes a back seat.”
Ash leaned forward. “Can you control it?”
“Most of the time. Not under a full moon. That’s when the beast runs the show.”
“But you recognized me.”
“Yes.” Rick held his gaze. “That doesn’t usually happen.”
Ash’s mouth quirked. “Wait. Does that mean I’m gonna sprout fur next full moon? You bit me. Scratched me. Bred me. I feel like I should be checking for paw prints on my ass.”
Rick barked a laugh. “Jesus, kid. No. You can’t catch it. That’s Hollywood crap. Lycanthropy isn’t some bug you spread around. It’s in the DNA. You’re born with it, or you’re not. It’s not an infection.” He paused, then added, “Not like vampirism.”
Ash froze mid-drag. “Hold on. Vampires?” His eyes widened, incredulous.
Rick’s tone went flat. “Yeah. But forget the capes and old-world charm. They’re parasites, animated corpses—fast, deadly, mean sons of bitches. Closer to zombies than heartthrobs.” He ground his cigarette down, voice hardening. “And before you ask, no, zombies aren’t real.” As far as I know.
Ash slumped back with a low exhale. “Good to know.”
Silence stretched, the kind that made the walls feel farther apart.
The gray daylight seeped in through the blinds, carrying the faint hum of the city.
Ash tipped his head back, hair falling into his eyes, then dropped his gaze to trace Rick’s body through the haze.
Like he was mapping out faultlines. Like he was memorizing.
“So your thing,” Ash murmured, “it’s genetic. Like male pattern baldness.”
“Except with claws and rage issues,” Rick said, dry as sand. “It runs in certain bloodlines, but crooked. My grandfather had it. My father, my brother—they didn’t. Me, I got the short straw.”
Ash’s gaze softened, cigarette forgotten. He bent forward, snubbed it out without breaking eye contact. “That must’ve been tough.”
Something in his voice hit harder than pity ever could. Rick gave a brittle laugh. “Yeah. They wanted me married young, having kids. Keep the line alive, pass the ‘gift’ down. Only, most of the time, it feels more like a curse. No way in hell I’d damn a kid with this.”
“What happened?” Ash’s words came low, careful, as if he knew he was brushing against scar tissue.