"He was not—"
"He called you cute. Twice. And he did that thing where he grabs your wrist and feels your pulse. He only does that when he's interested."
My face heats despite my best efforts. "He does that a lot?"
"Enough that I recognize it." Robin's grin widens, delighted by my obvious embarrassment. "He's very tactile. Very physical. Likes to touch things he wants."
"Robin," Toby warns from Knox's lap.
"What? I'm just saying. Jason's clearly into him—"
"I'm not—"
"—and Ash is clearly into Jason, so Tuesday should be interesting. I'm just trying to prepare everyone."
"Nothing is going to happen Tuesday."
"Sure." Robin doesn't sound convinced. Not even a little bit. "Whatever you say."
He settles back on the couch, still smiling, and I give up on arguing. My pack already knows I'm attracted to Ash. There's no point pretending otherwise when my heart rate probably gave me away to every shifter in the room.
The question is what I'm going to do about it.
Later that night, I'm in my room above the bar, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling. The room is small—just big enough for a bed, a dresser, and a tiny closet—but it's mine. My space. The only space in this building that's completely my own.
Through the thin walls, I can hear the muffled sounds of Knox and Toby, which means they're at it again. Knox's low rumble, Toby's higher gasps, the rhythmic creak of the bed frame that we've all learned to tune out. Day four of the feral honeymoon, apparently.
I should be annoyed. Should be thinking about noise-canceling headphones or maybe sleeping in the garage like Ezra. Instead, I'm thinking about hands and hazel eyes and a voice like gravel and whiskey.
What would it feel like to have Ash's hands on me? Not just my wrist—everywhere. Those calloused palms sliding over my skin, gripping my hips, pressing me down into the mattress. Would he be rough, all that controlled violence finally let loose? Or would he take his time, methodical and precise, taking me apart piece by piece?
My hand slides down before I consciously decide to move it. I'm already hard—have been on and off since he left—and I stop fighting it.
I think about him finding me in the garage tomorrow. Think about him crowding me against the workbench, thosemassive hands pinning my wrists to the metal surface. Think about that gravel voice in my ear, low and rough: Pretty bike. Prettier owner. Think about him pressing his hips against my ass so I can feel exactly how much he likes what he sees.
Cute, he'd say, but it wouldn't sound like a dismissal. It would sound like a promise.
I come embarrassingly fast, biting my lip to keep quiet, his name caught between my teeth.
And then I lie there in the dark, heart pounding, knowing I'm in trouble.
He's been here one day. I've talked to him for maybe an hour, total. And I'm already jerking off to fantasies of him like a desperate teenager, already imagining scenarios that will probably never happen, already wanting things I have no right to want.
Robin warned me once about this. Said I fall too fast, want too much, let my lion pick people before my brain catches up. Said I dive headfirst into infatuation like it's a swimming pool and never check if there's water in it first.
He's right. He's always right.
But Ash looked at me like I was worth looking at. Noticed my bike, noticed my work, noticed me in a way that felt real and heavy and significant. And I want to know what happens if I let him catch me.
Tuesday. I can make it until Tuesday.
Probably.
Chapter 2
Ash
The evening air hits me as I walk out of the bar, and I take my first real breath since I arrived.
