11
Ruby
Inever thought I’d see Hamilton Porkwell covered in mud with a genuine smile on his face.
Not the corporate polished smile he wears in boardrooms, but an actual, honest-to-god, happy expression.
It’s unsettling.
Like catching a shark taking swimming lessons.
And yet, here we are—three mud-covered pigs and one slightly cleaner wolf—all laughing like idiots on the shore of my family’s sacred lake.
“Admit it, Hamilton,” I call out, shifting slightly, watching him roll around with his brothers. “You’re having fun in the dirt like a common farm animal.”
Hamilton looks up, mud plastered across his chiseled jaw, and for once, there’s no angry comeback. Just a snort and another roll.
Percy is practically swimming in the stuff while Prescott is creating what appears to be a mud castle with his snout.
He’s methodical, even in filth.
“Alright, mud monsters, I’m going to clean up,” I tell them as I walk back to the lakeside and wash off the mud.
Water drips from my fur as I wade in deeper, letting the cool liquid rinse away the mud that moments ago had us all laughing like kids. There’s something about being covered in muck that breaks down barriers—even between wolves and pigs who should be at each other’s throats instead of rolling around together like lifelong friends.
I shake myself vigorously before I shift, my human form emerging from where my wolf had been. Behind me, I hear the distinctive sounds of the Porkwell brothers doing the same.
I don’t turn around right away.
Not because I’m suddenly shy—hello, I’ve been naked in front of two of them already—but because something in the air has shifted.
The playful energy that had us squealing (well, them squealing, me howling) in the mud just minutes ago has morphed into something heavier.
Something electric.
“Much better,” Percy says, his voice closer than I expect.
When I finally turn, they’re all there—three very naked, very well-built pig shifters with water cascading down their bodies. And they’re all staring at me like I’m the answer to a question they’ve been asking their entire lives.
“Speak for yourself,” Hamilton replies, but his usual sharp edge is soft, almost teasing. “I was just getting used to being filthy.”
Prescott doesn’t say anything at all. His eyes are wide behind water-splattered glasses, which he finally remembers to remove and clean on a relatively dry patch of his arm. It’s adorable and weirdly hot at the same time.
I should say something witty.
Something cutting about how we need to get dressed and go back to the cottage. Instead, I’m transfixed by the sight of three very different, very aroused males.
Hamilton’s cock stands proud and thick—no surprise there. Percy’s is elegant like the rest of him, perfecting his leaner eight-pack frame. And Prescott… well, who knew the quiet ones really packed a surprise?
“See something you like, Wolfhart?” Hamilton’s smirk should irritate me. It usually does.
“Just calculating the odds of three pigs satisfying one wolf,” I shoot back, but my voice comes out huskier than intended.
Percy wades closer, water swirling around his hips. “Those are calculations I’d love to test empirically.”
“For science,” Prescott adds with unexpected boldness, adjusting his glasses.
“For science,” I echo, a laugh bubbling up that doesn’t quite make it past my throat because Hamilton is suddenly right in front of me, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.
