Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ELIAS
The truck groans as it climbs the old service road, and I swear Boone is judging the engine with the same skeptical concern he uses when I try to carry too much equipment at once.
He sits in the passenger seat—my passenger seat—large and solid and very much in human form. I’m trying not to stare at him, but it’s difficult when a six-foot-something mountain of muscle and stoic beauty is folded into the space beside me like some sort of resentful origami.
He keeps adjusting his seat belt like it’s personally attacking him. Which, to be fair, it probably is.
“This restraint device is unnecessary,” he grumbles for the third time.
“It’s a seat belt,” I say brightly. “It keeps you safe.”
He shoots me a look. “It keeps me irritated.”
I grin and tap the radio. “Want me to choose some music?”
His expression becomes distinctly alarmed. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve heard what you listen to.”
I pretend to be offended. “You’ve heard one playlist.”
“I’ve heard enough,” he says, like he’s recalling a traumatic war memory. “That noise you played last night—”
“It was indie folk!”
“It was lamenting.” He pauses. “At several points, I’m certain an instrument was crying.”
I laugh. “The violin was emotional.”
“It was begging for release,” he mutters.
I snort so hard I nearly choke. “Okay, then you choose something.”
He stiffens like I’ve asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spatula.
“What do you normally listen to?” I prompt.
“Silence.”
“Boone.”
“And sometimes storms,” he adds grudgingly.
“Well, that’s not an option!” I thumb the radio on. “So you get human music.”
He groans like the radio personally wronged him.
I flip through stations until I land on an upbeat and energetic tune. Boone flinches like the drumbeat physically struck him.
“What is this?” he demands.
“Pop rock,” I say, already delighted.
“It sounds like bees being electrocuted.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic. Relax!”
“I am relaxed. This is my relaxed face.”
“This?” I point at his expression—a tight line of a mouth, brows slightly drawn, the embodiment of “I’d rather be anywhere but here.” “This is relaxed?”
“I’m breathing,” he says. “That’s as much as you’re getting.”
I have to laugh again because I’m trying desperately not to look at him too long.
Because here’s the thing: Boone’s human form is beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.
Chiseled jaw, copper-dark hair tumbling over his forehead in waves, broad shoulders that strain against the T-shirt he reluctantly agreed to wear. His forearms flex when he adjusts his seat belt again. His profile is sharp, dignified, almost regal.
He looks like he was carved from the same mountain range he calls home.
And yet… my heart aches a little every time I glance over. Because this isn’t the version of him I fell for first.
I keep thinking about the other him—the real him—massive and warm and covered in thick russet fur that glints like sunlit redwood bark.
Shoulders so much bigger than his human form.
Hands that could lift me easily. And eyes…
those golden eyes that glow faintly in the dark, like embers that know secrets.
A flush races up my neck.
I’d miss that form even if I weren’t… wildly attracted to it. Even if I weren’t still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’ve kissed him, touched him, held him. Even if I weren’t lying awake at night imagining… well. Things.
Things involving eight feet of gorgeous cryptid. Things involving proportions that should probably alarm me. Things I am embarrassingly open-minded about.
And yes, I’m absolutely talking about his cock.
But no, Elias, think about science. Think about your research. Think about… bees being electrocuted, apparently.
Boone shifts in his seat, and out of the corner of my eye, I see him looking at me. Assessing me. Maybe even amused.
I clear my throat and look forward quickly.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m driving.”
“You’re thinking.”
He says it like he knows exactly what kind of thinking I’m doing, which is unfair because I’m doing my best to appear calm and collected and not like someone who has been mentally evaluating cryptid anatomy logistics for the past twenty minutes.
“Just planning ahead,” I lie.
“Mm.” His gaze lingers on me like he’s not buying it.
I grip the wheel a little harder.
Our first stop is less than an hour away—a node somewhere along the forest ridge where the Wenatchee foothills begin. Boone explained that the device there keeps flickering out because the giants who live nearby occasionally throw rocks at it when they’re annoyed.
Which raises questions I’m not sure I want answers to.
Boone told them we were coming through. No visits planned, just maintenance. Which is good because I am not ready to meet a giant. I need a day or two more of mental preparation for that.
“Turn here,” he says, tapping the dashboard lightly.
I guide us up a small path barely wide enough for the truck. “You’ve come this way before?” I ask.
He snorts. “No. Your vehicle is too slow. I usually run.”
Right. Yes. Of course he does.
We pull into a small clearing with a single metal tower rising between the trees—half technological, half… not. Part of it looks like human hardware. The rest looks like carved stone fitted with glowing runes.
“Whoa,” I breathe.
Boone huffs, climbs out of the truck, and stretches, which gives me a truly unfair view of muscles shifting under his tee.
Then, without hesitation, he pulls the fabric off.
I make a noise. A small noise. A deeply unprofessional noise.
Because Boone is… well. He’s built like a dream sculpted by someone who has strong opinions about shoulders.
“I need room,” he says, already tugging down the gray sweatpants that are far too short in the leg for him.
I think my soul leaves my body.
“Oh—oh, okay,” I say, sounding very much like someone who has never seen a naked man before. “Sure. Yes. Absolutely. I mean—do what you need. I’ll just—I’ll stand… somewhere.”
He smirks. It’s devastating.
Then he pushes the sweatpants down.
I absolutely do not squeak. Because I am an adult. A grown man.
Boone stands completely naked for two seconds—two seconds in which my brain short-circuits—and then shifts.
The change is fast but smooth, a ripple of magic and muscle that expands outward, expands upward, until—
There he is.
The real him.
My breath catches.
Massive, powerful, fur shining in the afternoon light, features familiar yet larger-than-life. His presence fills the clearing like gravity.
My whole body warms.
Great green forests, he’s beautiful.
And now that he’s in his cryptid shape—now that he’s towering over the device he’s about to fix—my brain promptly betrays me.
It imagines him above me. On top of me. Around me.
“Oh no,” I mutter to myself. Because my body reacts both immediately and enthusiastically.
I shove my pack in front of my crotch, already feeling the dampness on the front of my briefs from my precum.
Boone pauses mid-step. His head lifts. His nostrils flare. His golden eyes shift toward me—slow, predatory, amused. “Hmmm. That is distracting,” he rumbles.
My entire face bursts into flames, because of course his sense of smell is ridiculously impressive. “No, it’s not.”
“It is,” he says smugly.
I groan. “Please do your maintenance and pretend you didn’t… scent anything.” My skin burns hotter, hardly believing I’m saying these words to him.
“I could,” he says lightly, turning toward the device, “but I won’t.”
I bury my face in my hands. This trip is going to kill me.
After a few minutes of him adjusting runes and replacing a stone plate, he steps back. “Functional,” he says.
I am extremely functional too, unfortunately.
I swallow hard. “Great. Good. Perfect. Should we—uh—camp?”
“Yes,” he says. “Here.”
Relief and need race through me.
Not under the stars, he said originally. Safer in a tent, he insisted. But I am absolutely not sleeping five feet away from him.
I want his warmth. His size. His arms around me. I want everything we’ve only started to explore.
And tonight? I want more intimacy. I want him.
I just have to convince my sexy, grumpy cryptid.
Boone shifts back into human form so fast I barely get a chance to prepare myself.
One second he’s towering and magnificent, all russet fur and golden eyes and power.
The next?
Suddenly there’s a very naked man standing a few feet away, steam rising off his skin from the residual heat of shifting, muscles rippling as he stretches his shoulders.
I make a sound that can only be described as a soft, strangled oh no.
Boone smirks—actually smirks—and says, “Staring again.”
“I am absolutely not,” I lie, staring directly at him.
He glances down meaningfully.
My face grows so warm I’m surprised it isn’t visible from orbit.
“Elias,” he says, voice far too satisfied, “humans are very bad at hiding arousal.”
“I’m not aroused,” I say unconvincingly. “I’m just… admiring the craftsmanship.”
His eyebrows lift. “Craftsmanship?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Whoever built you did a great job.”
He laughs—laughs—and the sound rolls through me like a warm shock wave.
I turn away before my knees give out. “Get dressed,” I mutter. “Some of us are weak.”
His grin widens, smug enough to power a small city. But he does pull on his gray sweats, and for that I am extremely grateful, because the thick, heavy weight between his legs is…
Nope.
Not thinking about that. Not thinking about whether the proportions are better—safer—in human form. Not thinking about how absolutely game I am to try the cryptid form eventually.
No thoughts. Just camping.
“Elias,” he calls. “Your face is still red.”
“Heat rash,” I lie weakly.
“It’s sixty degrees.”
“No further questions.”
He snorts, but he lets it go.
We set up camp in the clearing. The golden light of late afternoon filters through the trees. Boone gathers fallen logs with the casual ease of someone lifting pillows, and I try not to swoon when he carries three at once.