Boone was shirtless in jeans, Silas too.
Kenny walked in from the kitchen holding two mugs and handed her the tan coffee while he kept the black.
She took a sip and eyed him. He was in jeans, too, but he wore a Santa shirt complete with white faux fur at the neck and wrists, but it was unbuttoned, showing his chest and ripped abs. And he wore a Santa hat.
He looked like a pinup fantasy. Alpha Claus, ready to dole out punishment instead of presents.
Apparently, the dress code for Christmas morning was wolves in denim and not much else.
Kenny leaned in to give her a peck on the lips when she lowered her coffee mug, and then he took his hat off and settled it onto her head.
“There. Now we’re festive.”
She smiled up at him, and he looked over at the other two.
“Everyone have a seat near the tree. We’re going in order. I’ll go first, then Silas, then Boone, and then our girl.”
Willow moved toward the tree and sat on the footstool in front of Boone. She felt the heat of the fire from across the room, and the weight of three dominant gazes on her skin.
Her pulse quickened. This was Christmas, wolf-style.
Kenny went to the tree and picked up a box wrapped in glossy black paper with a crimson ribbon, and handed it to Silas.
Silas tugged the ribbon free, unfolded the paper, lifted the lid, and peeled back the velvet covering.
His expression shifted.
Willow could see what it was — an elegant, beautiful straight razor kit. The handle was dark walnut, grain gleaming, and the spine of the blade was etched with a stylized wolf’s head. A stropping leather lay folded beside it, along with a small bottle of blade oil, and a honing stone polished to a mirror finish.
Silas stilled. The air seemed to tighten around them.
His voice came low. “Is this… approval?”
Kenny met his gaze and nodded.
Willow blinked, looking between them. “Approval for what, Sir?”
Silas’s head turned slowly toward her. His grin was slow, wicked. “To cut you, my adorable little painwhore.”
Her breath caught in her throat and every nerve lit up from the sheerpossibility.The threat in his voice, the hunger in his eyes. Her thighs clenched without permission, heat and fear colliding in her gut like a punch.
Kenny’s voice was softer than usual. “Not today, but he’s wanted to for a while. It’s my job to see everyone’s needs are met. This’ll fulfill another of his.”
She froze, her eyes fixed on the box like it might bite. Staring. It wasn’t a hard limit, and she’d heal from a steel blade, butfuck. A gift-wrapped razor under the Christmas tree, ribboned permission to slice and draw blood. She hadn’t expected that.
Silas traced a finger along the razor’s spine, slow and deliberate, and Willow could feel the shift in him — already picturing the blade slicing into her skin, sharp and unforgiving. She imagined being bound, cut, and his nostrils flared theinstant her arousal spiked again. He looked up with a wicked smile. “Merry Christmas to me, indeed.”
He looked to Kenny, his face serious. “Thank you.”
Kenny just nodded, already turning toward the next box.
But she was still stuck on Kenny giving him permission, buying him the nice set without talking to her about it. Negotiations had happened, now her men made the rules. She didn’t have to be brought into the loop. She belonged to them, and it wasn’t conditional, wasn’t pretend. It was solidly carved into the foundation now, the exchange of power as real as it can ever get and still keep the consensual part of the consensual-non-consent line they balanced on.
She’d already had bits and pieces of her fantasy in her everyday life. Not enough to dehumanize her, but enough to give her the structure she needed. Enough to remind her she’s owned and someone else is in control. Clearly, after her silent, obedient night, her men intended to take it further day-to-day, and her inner masochist rejoiced. She couldn’t wait until Kenny’s two-week window was up so she could offer them the rest of her, without limits. Except for maybe gross food, but she hadn’t decided for certain about that one.
Kenny returned to the tree and grabbed a much larger box this time, and heavy enough he carried it with both hands. He set it in front of Boone with a faint grunt of effort, then stood back with arms crossed, waiting.
Boone cocked an eyebrow. “You build me a damn boat, Kenny?”
