Chapter 10
Faye
The first thing I registered was the weight.
It was heavy, warm, and encompassed me completely. It felt like being buried under a heated blanket that breathed.
The second thing was the smell. Cedar. Rain. Musk. The scent was so thick in my nose it felt like I had inhaled a forest.
I blinked my eyes open, groggy and disoriented.
The light filtering through the massive attic window was grey and sharp—the kind of winter morning light that exposed everything.
It cut across the charcoal duvet, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and the man wrapped around me like a vine.
Oakley.
Memory crashed into me with the force of a linebacker. The party. The bruises. The ice pack. The way he had looked at me when he said I'm keeping you.
I shifted slightly, and a dull, sweet ache radiated through my hips and inner thighs. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was a physical reminder. A brand.
I looked down.
Oakley’s arm was draped over my waist, his hand massive against my stomach. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and steady against my skin. He was asleep, his eyelashes dark fans against his cheekbones, the tension finally erased from his features.
But as I watched him, his nose twitched. He inhaled deeply, dragging in my scent, and his arm tightened instinctively, pulling me flush against his chest.
His eyes opened.
They weren't hazy with sleep. They were instantly awake, instantly gold, and instantly locked onto mine.
"You're still here," he rasped, his voice a gravelly ruin that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"I am," I whispered. "Did you think I'd leave?"
"I thought I might have dreamt it," he admitted, reaching up to brush a thumb over my lower lip. His touch was reverent, careful. "Or that you'd come to your senses and run for the hills."
"No running," I said. "My legs are too sore to run anyway."
A shadow crossed his face. The golden light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a flicker of guilt. He sat up abruptly, the sheet pooling at his waist, exposing the broad expanse of his chest and the dark bruise blooming on his shoulder from the game.
"I hurt you," he said flatly. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation against himself.
"Oakley, no—"
"I was too rough," he interrupted, running a hand through his messy hair. He wouldn't look at me. He was staring at my shoulder.
I followed his gaze.
There, on the pale skin of my shoulder, was a mark. It wasn't a bruise, not really. It was a suck mark. A love bite. Dark purple and undeniable. And below that, faint red scratches where his stubble had burned my skin.
In the harsh light of day, the evidence of what we had done was startling. I looked like I had been mauled.
"I marked you," he murmured, looking horrified. "Jesus, Faye. I promised I wouldn't break you, and look at you."
He started to pull away, scooting toward the edge of the bed. The distance he created felt like a chasm opening up between us.
"Oakley Thorne, don't you dare move," I commanded.
He froze, his back muscles tensing.
I sat up, ignoring the stiffness in my body, and reached out to place my hand on the center of his back, right over his spine. His skin was fever-hot.
"Look at me," I said.
He turned his head slowly, his expression guarded. The Wolf was there, lurking behind his eyes, ashamed and wary.
"I'm not broken," I said firmly. "I'm not glass, Oakley. I'm flesh and blood. And yes, you marked me. But I marked you too."
I pointed to his chest.
There were scratch marks—my scratch marks—running down his pectorals. Bright red lines where I had dug my nails in when he had driven me over the edge.
He looked down, tracing the lines with his own fingers. He seemed surprised they were there.
"That's not pain," I whispered, moving closer until my knees touched his hip. "That's passion. There's a difference. Don't insult me by treating me like a victim."
He searched my face, looking for the lie. When he didn't find one, the tension slowly bled out of his shoulders.
"You're terrifying," he murmured, a small, crooked smile touching his lips.
"I'm pragmatic," I corrected. "And I need a shower. I smell like a locker room."
"You smell like me," he corrected possessively.
"Exactly. A locker room."
I went to slide out of bed, grabbing the sheet to wrap around myself. Modesty, a belated and ridiculous instinct, kicked in.
But Oakley moved faster.
He lunged, scooping me up into his arms before I could even squeak. He lifted me effortlessly, cradling me against his chest like I weighed nothing. The sheet fell away, leaving me bare.
"Oakley!" I gasped, clutching his shoulders.
"No sheets," he growled, walking toward the ensuite bathroom. "No hiding. If we're doing this, Faye... if we're really doing this... you don't get to hide from me. And I don't get to hide from you."
He kicked the bathroom door open.
It was a masterpiece of slate and glass. A massive walk-in shower dominated one wall, big enough for the entire defensive line. A wide vanity with a wall-to-wall mirror stretched across the other.
He set me down on the cold tile floor in front of the vanity.
"Look," he commanded softly, pointing at the mirror.
I looked.
The reflection took my breath away.
I looked small. Beside him, I looked like a doll. He was a towering wall of tanned muscle and ink, scarred and hard. I was pale curves and softness. The size difference was almost comical, bordering on frightening.
But it wasn't the size that held my attention. It was the way we fit.
His hands rested on my hips, his fingers spanning the entire width of my pelvis. His chest pressed against my back. His chin rested on top of my head.
We looked like two halves of a whole that had finally snapped together.
"Do you see it?" he whispered, his eyes meeting mine in the glass.
"See what?"
"How much you belong to me," he said. The gold in his eyes flared, glowing with a bioluminescent intensity that made my heart stutter.
He moved one hand up, tracing the purple mark on my shoulder.
"I did that," he murmured, watching the reflection. "I put my mouth on you and I claimed you. Everyone who sees this will know. The other wolves... they'll smell it, but they'll see this first. It's a warning."
"I can't wear a tank top for a week," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Good," he said. "Wear my sweaters. Hide it from them. Keep it for me."
He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted to see you like this," he confessed, his voice dropping to a dirty whisper. "Naked. Marked. Standing in my bathroom with my scent all over you. It's all I've thought about for weeks. In class. On the ice. I'd close my eyes and see this."
My knees went weak. The sheer, unadulterated lust in his voice—mixed with that terrifying adoration—was a potent drug.
"Oakley," I breathed, leaning back against him. "You're going to make me fall."
"I've got you," he promised. "I've always got you, Good Girl."
He turned on the shower. Steam began to fill the room instantly.
"Get in," he ordered.
I stepped into the spray. The hot water hit my skin, soothing the aches, but stinging the scratches. Oakley followed me in, closing the glass door, sealing us in the steam.
He grabbed a bar of soap—cedar and charcoal, of course—and lathered his hands.
"Turn around," he said.
I turned my back to him.
He began to wash me.
It wasn't sexual at first. It was methodical. Caretaking. His large, rough hands slid over my shoulders, down my back, soaping my skin. He was gentle, careful of the bruises, treating me like fine china.
But as his hands moved lower, the atmosphere shifted.
The steam grew thicker. The air grew heavier.
His hands slid over my hips to my stomach, pulling me back against his erection. He was hard again. Impossibly hard.
"You're insatiable," I whispered, tipping my head back against his shoulder.
"I'm starving," he corrected, nipping at the wet skin of my neck. "I've been starving my whole life, Faye. And I finally found the only thing that fills the hollow."
He slid his soapy hand down, between my legs.
I gasped, my legs widening instinctively.
"That's it," he praised, his voice thick. "Open for me. Show me how wet you are."
He found me. I was slick, swollen from the night before, and sensitive.
"Sensitive?" he asked, feeling me flinch slightly.
"A little," I admitted.
"I'll be gentle," he promised. "I'll take care of you."
He didn't use his fingers this time. He just rubbed, slow and teasing, using the heel of his hand against my clit while his other arm banded across my chest, holding me up.
"Look at the glass," he whispered.
I looked at our reflection in the fogged-up glass door. It was blurry, a painting of skin and steam.
"Tell me what you want," he demanded. "Don't just take it. Ask for it."
"I want you," I whimpered.
"How?"
"Inside. Please. I need you inside."
He groaned, a low rumble that vibrated against my back. "Turn around. Face me."
I turned.
He lifted me.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, my back pressing against the cool tile wall. The water cascaded over us.
He positioned himself at my entrance. He didn't just shove in this time. He paused, the head of his length teasing the opening.
He looked me in the eyes. Water dripped from his eyelashes, but his gaze was clear. Lucid.
"Faye," he said, his voice stripping away all the banter, all the walls. "This isn't just sex. You know that, right? Wolves... we don't mate lightly. If I do this again... if I keep doing this... I am tying myself to you. Biologically."
"The knot?" I whispered, the fear of the unknown spiking in my chest. I knew the biology from textbooks, but the reality was different.
"Not yet," he assured me. "I can control the knot. For now. But the instinct is there. My body wants to lock into yours. It wants to make sure you can't leave. It wants to breed you."
The words were crude, primal, and terrifyingly hot.
"I'm on the pill," I said, the mundane human detail sounding ridiculous in the steam.
"I know," he said. "I can smell the hormones. It's the only reason I'm letting myself do this. Because if you weren't..." He trailed off, his eyes darkening. "If you weren't, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from filling you with a pup."
My breath hitched. The breeding kink. The absolute, biological imperative.
"Do it," I whispered. "Tie yourself to me, Oakley. I'm not afraid."
"You should be," he growled.
And then he sank into me.
It was slow. Agonizingly slow. He filled me inch by inch, stretching me, claiming the space. I buried my face in his wet shoulder, muffling a cry.
"You feel so good," he groaned. "So tight. You clamp down on me like you were made for it."
"Maybe I was," I gasped.
He began to move.
It was different from last night. Last night had been a sprint. This was a marathon. He held my hips, controlling the pace, driving deep and withdrawing almost completely before slamming back home.
The water pounded around us. The steam swirled.
"Look at me," he commanded again.
I lifted my head.
"Good girl," he praised, seeing the haze of pleasure in my eyes. "Take every inch. Take it all."
He increased the pace. The friction was unbearable. The sound of skin slapping against skin, the splash of water, the heavy rasp of our breathing filled the small space.
I felt the pressure building again. Faster this time.
"Oakley," I panted. "I'm close."
"Come for me," he ordered. "Let me feel it."
He hit that spot—that deep, internal trigger—and I fell apart.
I screamed his name, my inner muscles spasming around him.
The feeling of me tightening around him broke his control. He roared, driving into me hard, three, four, five times, before he stiffened.
He buried his face in my neck, his body shaking as he poured himself into the condom, into me.
He held me there against the wall for a long time, letting the aftershocks fade, letting our heartbeats synchronize.
Eventually, he lowered me slowly to the floor. My legs were like jelly. I would have fallen if he hadn't kept an arm around my waist.
He turned off the water.
He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around me, tucking the end in with surprising dexterity. Then he wrapped a towel around his waist.
We walked back into the bedroom.
The cold air hit my damp skin, bringing reality with it.
We sat on the edge of the bed. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was heavy. It was the silence of a contract being signed.
Oakley reached out and took my hand. He ran his thumb over my knuckles, studying them.
"This changes everything," he said quietly.
"I know."
"The team... they'll know. They'll smell you on me. They'll smell me on you."
"Let them," I said. "I don't care."
"My father will know," he added, his voice darkening. "He has spies everywhere. If he finds out I've claimed a human... he's going to come. And he's going to try to break us."
I squeezed his hand. "Then let him come."
Oakley looked up at me. The vulnerability in his eyes—the fear of a boy who had been hurt by the man who was supposed to protect him—shattered me.
"I think," he started, then stopped. He swallowed hard. "I think I'm in massive trouble, Faye."
"Why?"
"Because," he whispered, lifting my hand to press a kiss to my palm. "I think I could love you. And for a Thorne... love is usually a death sentence."
My heart stopped, then restarted with a frantic, hopeful rhythm.
"Then we'll change the sentence," I said. "We're not your parents, Oakley. We're us. And I'm not going anywhere."
He pulled me into his lap, burying his face in my damp hair.
"I hope so," he murmured. "Because if you leave now... there won't be anything left of me to save."
I held him tight, staring out the window at the snow-covered world.
I was in love with the Wolf. I had surrendered.
But as the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the floor, I knew the easy part was over.
We had survived the surrender. Now, we had to survive the war.