Chapter 11
The whiskey did nothing to quiet the noise in Ben’s head. He poured another two fingers anyway, watching the amber liquid catch the low light of his office. Outside his office, the Moonlight Tavern sounded the way it always did on Friday nights. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
None of them drowned out Sara’s voice.
She was out there. He’d known the moment she walked in, her scent cutting through the tavern’s usual mix of beer, fried food, and a hundred different Others like a blade through fog. Vanilla and sugar and something underneath that was just her—warm skin and contentment and home.
Home. He was losing his damn mind.
He dropped into his desk chair, the leather creaking in protest. His ears swiveled towards the door without his permission, tracking the distant murmur of female voices. Sara’s laugh drifted through—bright and genuine, the kind of sound that made his chest ache.
She was having a good time. That was fine. That was good.
He took a long swallow of whiskey and tried to believe it.
Three days since the kiss. Three days of avoiding her, of burying himself in inventory and staff schedules and anything that kept his hands busy and his mind occupied.
It hadn’t worked. Nothing worked. He played guitar until his fingers bled and still couldn’t stop thinking about the soft gasp she’d made when he pressed her against the fence post.
The way she’d melted into him. The taste of her mouth.
The sound she’d made when he pulled away.
His claws pricked against the whiskey glass. He forced them to retract, one by one, breathing through the surge of possessive heat that threatened to swamp his better judgment.
This is why you walked away, he reminded himself. This is exactly why.
Six years of control. Six years of keeping everyone at arm’s length, of building something steady and quiet out of the chaos he’d left behind.
He’d been proud of that discipline. Proud of proving that he wasn’t the same reckless creature who’d burned through women like matches, chasing sensation without ever finding satisfaction.
Then Sara Cartwright had moved in next door with her warm smile and her brownies and her complete inability to be intimidated by his bad mood. And suddenly six years of control felt like tissue paper against a hurricane.
A burst of male laughter from the main room made his ears twitch. He recognized that laugh. Adrian. The werewolf was out there, probably sitting at the same table as Sara, probably leaning in too close with that charming smile that made Ben want to rip his throat out.
His hand tightened on the glass until he heard it creak.
Easy. You don’t own her. You don’t even have the right to want to.
But he did want to. God help him, he wanted to so badly it was making him stupid. The urge to storm out there, and insert himself between Sara and anyone who might touch her, to mark her with his scent until every Other in a ten-mile radius knew she was—
Not mine, he told himself savagely. She’s not mine.
He couldn’t claim her. He’d given up that right when he’d pushed her away and told her finding someone normal was better for her. The smart thing—the decent thing—was to stay in this office until she left. He should let her enjoy her night. Let her move on.
He drained the rest of his whiskey in one burning swallow.
He was pouring another when someone knocked on his door.
“Busy,” he growled.
The door opened anyway.
Sara stood in the threshold, backlit by the warm glow of the hallway, and he forgot how to breathe.
She’d dressed up tonight in a soft pink sweater dress that hugged her curves in a way that made his throat go dry. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, leaving her neck bare and vulnerable. She looked warm and soft and utterly devastating.
“Nina said you were hiding in here.”
“Nina talks too much.”
“Nina also said you’ve been in a mood for days.” She stepped into the office, closing the door behind her. The soft click of the latch felt like a declaration of war. “Something you want to tell me about?”
He set down his whiskey with more force than necessary. “You should go back to your friends.”
“I should do a lot of things.” She moved further into the room, her eyes taking in the cluttered desk, the music posters covering the walls, the worn leather couch pushed against one wall. “You play in here sometimes, don’t you? Late at night when you think no one can hear.”
His jaw tightened. “What do you want, Sara?”
“Answers.” She settled into the chair across from his desk, crossing her legs in a way that made the pink fabric tighten temptingly around her luscious thighs. “Starting with why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been—”
“You ran away three days ago, and you haven’t looked at me since. If that’s not avoiding, I’d hate to see what is.”
Her voice was steady. No accusation, no hurt—just calm observation. Somehow that was worse than if she’d been angry.
“It’s complicated,” he managed.
“Then uncomplicate it.” She leaned forward, and Ben caught a stronger wave of her scent—vanilla and sugar and underneath it, something warmer.
Arousal. She was aroused, sitting in his office, looking at him with those sharp green eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ben. So you can either explain why you kissed me like I was oxygen and then told me to find someone else, or we can sit here all night while I make increasingly creative guesses. ”
A sound escaped him that was almost a laugh. “You’re infuriating.”
She shrugged. “Just persistent.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the short fur ripple under his fingers. His ears kept swiveling towards her like they couldn’t help tracking her every breath.
Tell her, a voice whispered. Tell her everything and let her decide.
The thought was both terrifying and liberating. And possibly the worst idea he’d had in six years.
“I used to be someone else,” he said finally.
Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture softened. “The band.”
“You know about that?”
“Posy mentioned it. And there are…” She gestured at the walls. “Kind of a lot of clues.”
Right. The posters. The stage he never used. The guitar that everyone knew he played but no one had heard in public for years. He wasn’t exactly subtle about his past—he’d just never talked about it.
“The Bite.” The name tasted strange on his tongue after so long. “We toured for almost a decade. We started small—clubs, dive bars, anywhere that would let a bunch of Others play—and then we got big, really big.”
“I’ve heard of you.” Her voice was careful. “Classic rock stations still play your stuff sometimes.”
“‘Midnight Run’ and ‘Claws Out.’ Yeah.” He poured himself another whiskey, then reconsidered and poured one for her as well. She took it without comment. “We were everywhere for a while. Sold-out arenas, magazine covers, the whole thing. And I…” He stared into his glass. “I did not handle it well.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I was an arrogant, reckless, out-of-control mess.” The words came easier than he’d expected, like they’d been waiting to escape. “The touring, the crowds, the constant stimulation—it was like being high all the time. And then there were the women.”
She went very still.
“Groupies, fans, strangers who just wanted to say they’d slept with the rabbit from The Bite.
” His lip curled with the old disgust—directed at himself, not them.
“I never forced anyone. Never even had to try. They just… offered. Constantly. And I took what they offered because I was young and stupid and my instincts were screaming at me to take, take, take.”
He risked a glance at her. Her face was unreadable, but she hadn’t left. She hadn’t thrown her drink at him or called him a monster.
“Mating season was the worst,” he continued.
“Every spring, the urge got so intense I could barely think straight. And instead of fighting it, I just… indulged. Different women every night, sometimes more than one. I told myself it was fine because they wanted it too, because no one was getting hurt.” His claws pricked against the glass again.
“But I was hurting myself, chasing something I never found.”
“What were you looking for?”
The question cut straight to the heart of everything.
“I don’t know.” His voice roughened. “A mate, maybe. Someone who made the hunger feel like more than just biology. But I was going about it all wrong. I was trying to satisfy an instinct I didn’t understand with quantity instead of…
” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was a mess, Sara. A functioning disaster wrapped in a leather jacket.”
“What changed?”
He was quiet for a long moment. The sounds of the tavern felt distant now, muffled by the weight of his memories.
“We had a huge show in Chicago. I was already half out of my mind—spring was hitting hard that year—and after the show, I went back to the hotel with two women I’d met at the afterparty.
” He could still remember their faces, though he’d long forgotten their names.
“I woke up the next morning, and they were gone. They left a note thanking me for the experience. Signed it ‘from your fans.’”
Her breath caught.
“That’s when I realized what I’d become.
Just an experience. A story they could tell their friends.
Not a person—just a… a thing to be consumed.
” He set down his glass, the clink sharp in the quiet room.
“I walked out of that hotel, drove to the nearest real estate office, and bought a building in the first small town I found. Three weeks later, I opened the Moonlight Tavern. And I haven’t touched anyone since. ”
The silence stretched between them, heavy with everything he’d just revealed.
“Six years,” she said finally.
“Six years.”
“That’s…” She shook her head slowly. “Ben, that’s incredible discipline.”