“You sound like you’ve had experience,” I said.
Wrecker shrugged. “You know my past. Been in high stress, life or death scenarios… Seen worse. Keep an eye on her, though.”
I nodded. “I’ll keep two on her.” Then I glanced down the table. Brie was animated, cheeks pink, hands slicing the air as she debated with Harper about the best Instagram filter for baby pictures.
She caught me looking, held my gaze for a long moment, then mouthed “thank you.”
I gave her a wink, heart thumping. Fuck, even stretched to the breaking point; she was the most alluring thing I’d ever seen.
The food arrived in waves, like an edible apocalypse. Pearl herself delivered two platters of her famous chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy so thick you could patch drywall with it. The whole table dug in, forks and knives a blur.
Halfway through the meal, Bronc raised his glass. “To the opening night of Wildbrush Gallery. May it bring as much chaos as it does culture.” The pack howled and clapped, even the human regulars getting in on it.
Brie beamed, radiant, the shadows gone for the first time in days. Fuck if I wasn’t proud to be her mate.
After dessert (bread pudding, sweet enough to stop a heart), we lingered until the place emptied out. The girls hugged goodnight, promises flying about outfits and carpooling. The men did their usualslap-on-the-back routine, then drifted into the night, bellies full and spirits higher than they’d been all week.
I drove Brie home in silence, her head resting on my shoulder, her hand warm in mine.
That night, after she brushed her teeth and washed her face, she stood next to me at our big bathroom double sink, hair damp and face clean of makeup. She looked up at me, eyes clear and full of something fierce.
“Do you want me, Finn?”
The question nearly broke me. I didn’t answer with words. I gathered her up, lifted her onto the edge of the counter, and kissed her until her lips were bruised and she was breathless.
She laughed, soft and wild, as I peeled off her shirt and bared her skin. She slid her hands under my shirt, fingers tracing the lines of my back. I pulled off the rest of my clothes and carried her into the shower, turned the water hot, and let it cascade over us both.
I took my time, washing her hair with slow, careful strokes, running my hands over every inch of her. She pressed herself against me, wet and slippery, her nipples hard against my chest.
When I knelt in front of her, she tangled her hands in my hair and moaned as I licked her open, tasting her, loving the way she trembled under my tongue. It wasn’t long before she came hard, thighs clamped around my ears, her whole body shuddering.
I stood, kissed her mouth, and lifted her up to wrap her legs around my waist.
“No knot this time,” I growled, voice rough. “I need it hard and fast.”
She bit my shoulder, giggling. “Yes, Sir.”
I turned her around, pressed her hands against the shower tile, and drove into her. She gasped, clenching around me, her ass slick and perfect in my hands.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” I said, thrusting harder, faster, until I felt the pressure build and explode, both of us crying out as we came together.
When it was over, I held her there, both of us shaking, the water washing away everything except the need to be close.
I dried her off with the soft, fluffy towel, tucked her into my shirt, and carried her to bed. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow, face peaceful for the first time in weeks.
I stayed up a little longer, watching her, listening to the storm roll away.
Tomorrow would bring whatever it brought.
But tonight, my mate was safe.
The air in our bedroom was thick with that scent again. Not Brie, not me, not even the trace of cedar from my freshly laundered t-shirt on her skin. This was metallic—so heavy it made my gums tingle, so sharp it sliced through sleep like a razor through silk. I tried to move, to shake it off, but my limbs were heavy, lashed down by some invisible gravity.
It was pitch black. The clock on the dresser read 2:34, its red digits bleeding into the dark. Brie was next to me, tangled in the sheets, her body thrashing as if she were running in her sleep. I reached for her, but my hand wouldn’t budge. It was like being held under ice—aware, but unable to break the surface.
I forced my eyes wider. The darkness was wrong. Thicker than it should be, like tar, it dripped down the walls and pooled at the corners of the room. And then, just for a heartbeat, the black shimmered, peeled back, and I wasn’t in our bedroom anymore.
The floor was stone, cold and pitted beneath my knees. My wrists were chained, thick iron links bolted to the ground. The air was still, hot and suffocating, lit from above by a sickly yellow light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
