A growl tore loose from Rick’s throat. He dragged his mouth away before instinct swallowed him again. “Not what this is.” The words came rough, half to Ash, half to himself. Still, he lingered, staring at the mess he’d made, fighting the urge to dive back in and feast.
Finally, he pushed up, muscles singing, every nerve purring. Reaching for the nightstand, he fished a small key from the drawer and worked the broken cuff loose from his wrist. Metal clinked onto wood. He flipped open the shabby Marlboro pack, struck a match, and lit two cigarettes from the same flame. One he passed to Ash; the other he kept clenched between his teeth, placing the ashtray onto the bed between them.
They smoked in silence, side by side, the room thick with haze and morning shadows. Rick let the nicotine burn settle him, ground him back into his body. He sprawled against the headboard, one knee up, cigarette balanced between his fingers. He drew deep, exhaled slow, studying the kid through the veil of smoke. “So…” He managed a humorless smile. “I guess we need to talk.”
Ash settled cross-legged at the foot of the bed, cigarette smoldering on his lips, watching him with those deep amethyst eyes, twilight pools that could drown a man whole. “Yes, we do.”
Rick flicked ash into the tray, shoulders taut with the weight of the words he hadn’t said yet. “I, um… I’m not exactly what you’d call… standard issue.”
“You don’t say.” Ash let the smoke curl around his grin, the humor not quite reaching his gaze. “Growling, claws, trying to bite my throat open—that wasn’t just kinky roleplay?”
“Smartass,” Rick muttered, but his mouth tugged crooked at the corner.
Ash cocked a brow, expression cool, but his thumb stroked idly across his knee, a soft, restless tell that undercut the mask. “So. A werewolf, huh?”
Rick pulled on the cigarette, let the smoke trail ceiling-ward. “Been one all my life.”
Ash tilted his head, mulling it over. “But you didn’t… turn into a wolf.”
“Werewolves aren’t storybook shapeshifters. We grow fangs, claws, fur, but we stay human-shaped. Brains go primal, though. Pure animal. The man takes a back seat.”
Ash leaned forward. “Can you control it?”
“Most of the time. Not under a full moon. That’s when the beast runs the show.”
“But you recognized me.”
“Yes.” Rick held his gaze. “That doesn’t usually happen.”
Ash’s mouth quirked. “Wait. Does that mean I’m gonna sprout fur next full moon? You bit me. Scratched me.Bredme. I feel like I should be checking for paw prints on my ass.”
Rick barked a laugh. “Jesus, kid. No. You can’t catch it. That’s Hollywood crap. Lycanthropy isn’t some bug you spread around. It’s in the DNA. You’re born with it, or you’re not. It’s not an infection.” He paused, then added, “Not like vampirism.”
Ash froze mid-drag. “Hold on.Vampires?” His eyes widened, incredulous.
Rick’s tone went flat. “Yeah. But forget the capes and old-world charm. They’re parasites, animated corpses—fast, deadly, mean sons of bitches. Closer to zombies than heartthrobs.” He ground his cigarette down, voice hardening. “And before you ask, no, zombies aren’t real.”As far as I know.
Ash slumped back with a low exhale. “Good to know.”
Silence stretched, the kind that made the walls feel farther apart. The gray daylight seeped in through the blinds, carrying the faint hum of the city. Ash tipped his head back, hair falling into his eyes, then dropped his gaze to trace Rick’s body through the haze. Like he was mapping out faultlines. Like he was memorizing.
“So your thing,” Ash murmured, “it’s genetic. Like male pattern baldness.”
“Except with claws and rage issues,” Rick said, dry as sand. “It runs in certain bloodlines, but crooked. My grandfather had it. My father, my brother—they didn’t. Me, I got the short straw.”
Ash’s gaze softened, cigarette forgotten. He bent forward, snubbed it out without breaking eye contact. “That must’ve been tough.”
Something in his voice hit harder than pity ever could. Rick gave a brittle laugh. “Yeah. They wanted me married young, having kids. Keep the line alive, pass the ‘gift’ down. Only, most of the time, it feels more like a curse. No way in hell I’d damn a kid with this.”
“What happened?” Ash’s words came low, careful, as if he knew he was brushing against scar tissue.
“I avoided it for as long as I could,” Rick said. “Joined the Marines at eighteen. Spent six years overseas. When I came home, my mother was dying. Made me promise I’d do my duty. Keep the bloodline going.” He took a long drag, held it, let it burn. “So I did. Got married, played the part. But I kept putting off kids.” The words scraped his throat on the way out. “Then Lucas died. My baby brother. He was the good one, you know?” He tapped ash into the tray, not meeting Ash’s gaze. “After that, I snapped. Told my old man I was done pretending. Easier said than done, with the whole pack breathing down your neck. Took a few years—it wasn’t clean, but I finally cut ties. Got divorced. Just recently. He drank himself into an early grave somewherealong the way.” His jaw worked. “Now I’m an outcast. That’s the story.”The clipped version.
Ash said nothing at first. Didn’t need to. Just shifted closer, hand squeezing Rick’s calf, brief, grounding. “Join the club.” His tone was soft, almost mournful. He knew loneliness. He knew what exile felt like.
Rick watched him through the murk, saw the kid’s armor and the hairline cracks beneath. And for once, Rick felt something loosen in his chest. He’d never spoken this much truth to anyone. Not Frank. Not his ex-wife. Nobody.
He grunted, rubbed at his face. “You’re taking this damn well.”
