Epilogue #4
The question was genuine—offering choice, control, partnership. One of countless ways he balanced the natural dominance of his Alpha nature with respect for his mate’s autonomy.
“Like this,” I decided, pulling him over me. “Want to see you.”
His preparation was thorough but efficient, years of intimacy having taught us exactly how to ready each other’s bodies. By the time he positioned himself between my thighs, I was nearly vibrating with anticipation.
“Mine,” he murmured as he pressed forward, the familiar stretch and burn giving way to pleasure as our bodies reconnected after days apart. “My mate. My Eliot.”
“Yours,” I agreed without hesitation, the word punched out of me as he established a rhythm we’d perfected over countless nights together. “Always yours.”
His movements were more intense than usual, the approaching full moon lending an edge of desperation to his usually controlled passion. One hand gripped my hip while the other braced beside my head, his body covering mine completely as he moved within me.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, changing the angle to take him deeper, earning a growl of approval that was more wolf than human. His eyes were fully gold now, a sign of how close his transformation was beneath the surface.
“Close,” he warned, movements becoming less coordinated. “Need you with me.”
His hand slid between our bodies, wrapping around my neglected arousal with practiced skill. The dual stimulation pushed me rapidly toward the edge, especially when combined with the visual of Rafferty above me—powerful, beautiful, partially transformed with elongated canines and glowing eyes.
“Yes,” I encouraged, arching into his touch. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
My release hit with stunning intensity, waves of pleasure crashing through me as I cried out his name. Rafferty followed moments later, burying himself deep with a sound that was definitely more howl than groan, his body shuddering against mine as he found his completion.
For several long moments, we remained frozen in that position, both catching our breath.
Then, with characteristic tenderness, he eased himself from my body and gathered me against his chest, arranging us in the position that had become our default—my head on his shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around my waist.
“Adequate reunion?” he asked when speech became possible again, the teasing question belied by the satisfaction evident in his voice.
“Empirical evidence suggests satisfactory performance,” I replied in my best academic tone, though the effect was somewhat undermined by my still-irregular breathing. “Further trials may be required for conclusive results.”
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “Your dedication to thorough research is admirable, Professor. Perhaps we should conduct additional experiments after a recovery period.”
“A sound methodology,” I agreed, tracing patterns through the hair on his chest. “Though I should note that baseline measurements may be skewed by proximity to the full moon.”
“Always the scientist.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Even after being thoroughly claimed by your werewolf husband.”
“Guardian,” I corrected automatically. “And the scientific method applies to all experiences, supernatural or otherwise.”
His smile was soft in the dimness of our bedroom. “Would you change it? If you could go back five years, knowing what you know now—would you still walk into The Lucky Hound to debunk our ‘ridiculous’ legend?”
I considered the question seriously, as was my nature.
Five years ago, I’d been a different person—rigidly rational, academically ambitious, emotionally isolated.
Now I was mate to a werewolf, parent to a potentially supernatural child, historian to a secret society that defied scientific explanation.
“Without hesitation,” I said finally, meeting his gaze. “Though I might pack more appropriate clothing for running through forests at night. The tweed was really impractical.”
Rafferty’s laugh filled our bedroom—that same booming sound that had first caught my attention all those years ago. “I loved the tweed. Made you look like a sexy professor straight out of my fantasies.”
“I was a sexy professor,” I reminded him. “Just one with an unexpectedly open mind about impossible creatures.”
“Lucky for me.” He pulled me closer, his supernatural warmth enveloping me completely. “Lucky for both of us.”
As we drifted toward sleep, wrapped in each other’s arms in the home we’d built together, I reflected on the strange, wonderful path that had led me here. I’d come to Cloverton to disprove a legend, armed with facts and skepticism and academic rigor.
Instead, I’d found family, community, purpose—and love in its most unexpected form.
Sometimes, it seemed, legends deserved not to be debunked, but embraced. Especially when they came with a booming laugh, eyes that flashed gold in moments of passion, and a heart big enough to transform a skeptic into a believer.
Not in werewolves, though they certainly existed.
But in magic. In possibility. In the kind of love that transcended rational explanation.
And that, I’d discovered, was the most valuable research finding of all.