"Two constraints, remember?" I said, turning in Kit’s arms to face them. "No hierarchy. And I want the full spectrum."
I grabbed Alfie by the lapels. I pulled him down. I didn't ask. I found the spot where his pulse hammered under the thin skin of his neck, right next to his scent gland.
I bit him.
He screamed, a shocked, delighted sound, and arched into me. The taste hit my tongue instantly. Burnt sugar, fizzy soda, spiced rum. I drank it down, letting the flavor map itself onto my DNA, and I marked him.
I turned to Euan. He was watching with wide, dark eyes, his collar already unbuttoned.
I pushed him back against the piano. I buried my face in his neck snf bit.
Toasted rice. Maple glaze. Smoke. The taste of him was clean and savory. He hissed through his teeth, his hands gripping the edge of the piano so hard the wood creaked, trembling as I claimed him back.
Then Kit.
He dropped to his knees before I could ask. He knelt on the floor, offering his neck, baring the thick muscle of his traps.
I leaned down.
My neck throbbed. It wasn't a sharp pain, like a soldering iron slip or a cable pinch; it was a deep, rhythmic resonance, a bass drum kicked at 60 beats per minute, reminding me with every pulse that my structural integrity had been fundamentally altered.
THIRTY-SIX
Zia
I opened my eyes. The ceiling of the collab house loft was white, cracked plaster, bathed in the soft, grey light of a London morning. Usually, waking up meant a systems check, verify location, verify exits, verify coffee proximity.
Today, the system check returned a completely new set of data.
Input 1:Heavy. Warm. Smelling of espresso and dark, wet earth. Kit’s arm was draped over me, his hand huge and heavy on my sternum as if to keep my soul from floating out of my body.
Input 2:Sharp context. Toasted sesame and roasted tea. Euan was curled against my back, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades, breathing in a precise, metronomic rhythm that vibrated against my spine.
Input 3:Chaos. Burnt sugar and blackberries. Alfie was tangled in the sheets at the foot of the bed, clinging to my calves like he was drowning, drooling slightly onto my shin.
I didn't move. I couldn't move, physically, but more importantly, I didn'twantto.
I carefully lifted a hand to my neck. My fingers brushed the skin, sensitive and hot. Three distinct topographic features.
On the left, near the pulse point: jagged, frantic, slightly messy. Alfie.
On the right, surgical placement: precise, deep, perfectly aligned with the muscle. Euan.
On the nape, the anchor point: wide, bruising, impossibly heavy. Kit.
I touched them, tracing the indentations of teeth that had locked me into this circuit. The sensation sent a shiver of pure, synesthetic gold shivering down my back. It sounded like a major chord resolving after a three-day build-up.
Marked.
I wasn't just the producer anymore. I was the master track, and they had all laid down their vocals.
I carefully extricated my arm from under Kit, wincing slightly as soreness flared in my hips. Good soreness. The kind that felt like a job well done. I sat up against the headboard, the silk sheet pooling at my waist.
The room was a disaster. Clothes were strewn everywhere like confetti after a parade. There were empty water bottles, towels, and the lingering, heavy scent of the Pack, a biological fog so thick I could taste the sweetness of it on the back of my tongue.
I needed armor. Not the defensive kind, but the claiming kind.
I reached for the floor.
