4. Shay
Shay
The first thing I notice is the ceiling. Dark wood beams, a thin crack spiderwebbing out from the corner. There’s a fan turning overhead, making a soft click with every rotation.
The second thing is the pulse. A low, steady throb at the base of my neck, warm under my own fingertips. It doesn’t hurt. It just… beats. A second heart I didn’t sign up for.
Then the scent slides in. Cedar and clean cotton, a hint of old whiskey underneath.
It’s in the pillowcase under my cheek, in the heavy warmth of the sheets, rising from the skin of the arm hooked possessively around my waist. It’s coming from the solid wall of chest pressed against my back, the slow, deep breaths moving through both of us.
Declan.
My body goes soft before my brain can stop it, a stupid, traitorous melting into the heat. A feeling of being exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Then my brain catches up, and every muscle I have locks tight.
No, no, no. Goddamn biological tripwire.
The night comes back not as a memory but as a series of body blows.
His mouth, rough with beard-stubble, tasting of whiskey as he backed me against the wall at the bottom of the stairs.
His hands, huge enough to span my waist, pushing me down onto the mattress.
The low rasp of his voice against my ear—you’re perfect, Shay—and the way I’d gone absolutely silent, all my smart-mouthed bullshit dissolving on my tongue.
I remember the weight of him, the slow, deliberate way he filled me until my brain shorted out.
I remember begging. I arched into him, dug my nails into his shoulders, and begged him not to stop, not to slow down.
I asked for the bite, gasping it into his skin like it was the only thing that would make it real.
The shame of it burns hotter than the memory.
I didn’t just let it happen; I chased it, and I wanted it so badly I couldn’t breathe.
And then his teeth. The sharp, final pressure at my throat just as I came apart, the sound I made swallowed by the act of being claimed.
I bolt upright so fast the room spins, a string of curses dying in my throat.
The heavy arm slides off me, landing with a soft thump on the mattress. Cold air hits my back where he was, and a raw, needy ache opens up in my chest. Put it back. The thought isn’t mine, but it’s loud.
He makes a questioning sound in his sleep, a low murmur, and rolls onto his back.
I freeze. Don’t wake up. Please, for the love of God, do not wake up.
I’m naked, sticky, and smell so much like him I feel like I’m wearing his skin. It’s a flashing neon sign broadcasting my own spectacular idiocy to the entire world.
That’s when I look down.
The skin at the curve of my shoulder is angry-red and puffy, a perfect impression of teeth sunk deep. A claiming mark.
I think I stop breathing.
Behind me, the mattress shifts. Declan makes a low sound in his sleep, and I freeze, every muscle pulled tight. I move before he can wake up, sliding off the bed an inch at a time. The floorboards protest with a soft groan, and I hold my breath until the silence settles again.
My clothes are all over the floor. Jeans by the bed, underwear caught in one leg. One of my socks is clear across the room by the dresser, which feels like a personal attack.
Declan doesn’t move. He’s on his stomach now, one arm thrown across the space I just left, his hand lying open on the sheet where my hip was. In the weak pre-dawn light, the grey at his temples looks softer. His face is loose with sleep, beard shadowing his jaw, his mouth slightly parted.
He looks peaceful. Like he didn’t just detonate my entire life.
The urge to crawl back under that arm, to fit myself against his chest and let him wake up holding me, is a physical pull. A sharp, stupid ache that makes my chest hurt.
I turn away from it. Plan: find clothes, get dressed, leave. Simple. No feelings involved.
I grab my jeans and pull them on, not bothering to search for my underwear.
My shirt, however, is gone. Vanished. I crouch and check under the bed, which is pathetic.
Nothing but dust and a stray bottle cap.
It’s probably tangled in the sheets somewhere, trapped under his huge body. Of course it is.
Then I see it. A dark Henley, folded over the back of the chair by the door. His.
No. Absolutely not.
I can smell it from here—cedar and clean cotton. It’s going to be huge. The collar will sit right on the mark.
I pull it on anyway.
The moment the worn cotton goes over my head, his scent is all there is.
It’s warm and soft from a hundred washes, settling over my shoulders like a friendly weight.
The sleeves fall past my fingertips. The neckline is stretched out, and as I move, the inside of the collar brushes against the bite.
A hot little jolt goes right down my spine.
My body takes a deep, greedy breath before my brain can tell it to stop.
I could go back. I could peel this Henley off, slide under his arm, and just be there when he wakes up. Let the word mine be a comfort instead of a cage. The thought opens a warm, terrifying space under my ribs.
“No,” I whisper, and the sound is sharp enough to cut the air.
He stirs. Just a shift of his weight, a soft exhale. His forehead creases for a second before smoothing out again.
As I turn to go, my eyes catch on his wrist, lying palm-up on the sheet. There’s a mark there. A dark, perfect impression of my own teeth against his skin.
I remember doing it—earlier in the night, when his hand was braced on the headboard next to me and I couldn’t reach his mouth. That hot, coppery taste under my tongue when I bit down. A desperate need to hold on to something, to prove this wasn’t just him taking and me giving in.
My throat tightens. I get out of the bedroom before I do something stupid, like get back in that bed and ask him what any of this means.
The apartment is quiet. It’s a real apartment, not a dorm room.
There’s a folded blanket on the arm of the couch, a bowl of bananas on the kitchen counter, a single coffee mug in the sink.
The ordinary, settled reality of it all is somehow worse than the sex.
This is a life. His life. I walked in, got myself marked, and now I’m sneaking out in his shirt.
A voice in my head that sounds a lot like my mother starts whispering about what it means when you let an alpha put a claim on you.
You don’t get to be the one who leaves. I shut it up with a quick, vicious thought: I’m not her.
I’m not going to wait by the phone sobbing into a chipped mug.
I have standards. Low ones, maybe, but standards.
I swallow hard and keep moving.
The stairs down to the bar are narrow and steep. The third one groans, and I freeze, my hand clamping down on the railing.
Below me, silence. No sound from the bedroom, no footsteps. No low voice calling my name.
He’s not coming after me.
I wait anyway, counting my own heartbeats in the quiet. Nothing. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, but it feels too much like a sob, so I choke it back down and take the rest of the stairs.
The bar is dark. Chairs are flipped upside down on the tables, the neon signs are off, and a faint blue-grey light filters through the front windows. The long, polished bar runs the length of the room, completely empty.
Last night I stood right there and told him it was just one night. No strings. The memory burns worse than the bite on my neck.
I push open the back door. The cold hits so hard my teeth click together. It’s the kind of damp, pre-dawn chill that seeps right into your bones. Instinctively, I pull the Henley tighter around me and immediately hate myself for it.
The alley is all wet pavement and the sour smell of last night’s beer. Underneath it, there’s him. On me. His scent is in my hair, on my skin, sunk deep into the collar of this goddamn shirt.
I start walking. The mark on my neck is a low, steady throb, a compass needle trying to pull me back around. I fight it, and the walking gets faster.
Soon I’m running. Not jogging. A clumsy, panicked sprint through the quiet streets.
My jeans are stiff, the Henley is huge and flapping around me, and his scent billows with every fucking step.
I feel like the whole world can smell my mistake.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m already drafting a text: So I got claimed.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just need a spreadsheet and maybe a branding overhaul.
I skid to a stop at a crosswalk, chest heaving, the little red hand flashing at me. Getting flattened by a garbage truck would be a new low, even for me.
My own hands are shaking. Before I can stop myself, I lift the collar of his shirt to my face and take a deep breath. Cedar, cotton, whiskey. Him. A raw, furious sound gets caught in my throat. The pull isn’t just in my head. It’s a physical drag in my gut, a rope hauling me back toward Byrne’s.
I yank the shirt away from my face like it’s hot. “This isn’t happening,” I tell the empty street.
The light changes. I run again.
By the time I make it to the apartment, my lungs burn and my legs are shaking so hard I can barely stand.
I fumble the key twice before the lock clicks open.
Inside, it’s dark and still. Soren’s bedroom door is closed, a soft blue glow spilling under it—he’s probably asleep with his phone still in his hand. Thank God.
I creep upstairs, skipping the bathroom. No mirrors. Not yet. I don’t need to see it to know what’s there.
My room is exactly how I left it. The bed is made with sharp corners. My laptop is closed on the desk next to the planner I use because if it’s not written down, it’s not real. Everything is in its place. It’s supposed to be my fortress, but right now it just feels like a stage.
I lean back against the closed door. I should take this shirt off. I should probably burn it.