Chapter 14 Felix
Felix
It’s a week later, and I find out from Rowan…
Not from Ben.
From the pack.
From my pack-mate, who texts me at the start of my shift with:
RW: You seriously let your HUMAN mate go to the Council intake without backup??
Followed by:
RW: Holy shit. He PASSED.
I stop mid-pour. Milk foams over the side of the pitcher.
Ben’s in the back room, muttering about inventory.
I wipe my hands, heart thudding, and storm in.
“You went to the investigator.”
He looks up from a clipboard, entirely too calm. “I did.”
“You—what? Why?!”
“He needed proof of the bond. And your pack was too busy threatening to banish you.”
I blink.
“And you just… volunteered?”
“I scheduled a meeting, filled out the forms, and let them poke around in my head a little, yes.”
“You’re a human.”
Ben shrugs. “Apparently, I’m your human.”
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or push him up against the door and ruin his whole day in the best way possible.
He sets the clipboard down. “You’re safe now. They approved the bond. Said it’s legit, stable. Said your pack can stay in region if you want. They cleared you.”
“You did that,” I whisper.
“For you,” he says simply.
And that’s it.
I launch myself at him.
We crash into the wall like a thunderclap, all lips and hands and teeth. I tug at his shirt, and he lets me strip it off without a word, eyes hungry. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush against him.
“Storeroom,” I gasp, a needy plea.
He half-pushes, half-carries me past the door. My back hits the storeroom table. I don’t care. I drag him down to me, biting his shoulder, his jaw, his mark. I want to taste everything that’s mine.
He groans into my mouth, grinding against me. “Someone could come in.”
“Then lock the door,” I pant, already unbuttoning his jeans. “Or don’t.”
We’re a mess—panting, clawing, pressing every inch of our bodies together like we’ve got something to prove. And maybe we do.
That we survived.
That we chose this.
That we’re not going anywhere.
He sinks into me with a gasp, forehead pressed to mine, one hand tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. I kiss him through it—every thrust, every breath, every groan.
It’s filthy. Fast. Desperate.
And perfect.
We come together, wrapped around each other, gasping, shaking.
After, Ben looks up at the ceiling like he’s reconsidering every life choice that led to him having sex in the storeroom at 5 a.m.
“Still think cinnamon rolls are the best part of this job?” I ask breathlessly.
He laughs. Really laughs.
Then he pulls me close, presses his forehead to mine, and whispers, “You were always the sweetest thing here.”