The voice came just as I gripped the edge of the sink, a sound halfway between a whisper and a snarl.
Come to me.
I gasped, let go of the porcelain, and nearly buckled to the floor. I knew it wasn’t real. But I also knew it was real, in the way a migraine is real, in the way hunger is real. It was Shivs, calling me. Not with a phone, not with words, but with the bond—our fucked-up, supernatural hotline.
I threw on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and nothing else. I didn’t bother with makeup or matching shoes. My whole body throbbed with the need to move, to get out, to find him. I lockedthe house behind me, but I didn’t remember doing it. My brain ran on autopilot, all the executive function replaced by raw animal want.
The drive was a fever dream. The Escalade ate up the miles, headlights carving tunnels through the early-morning fog, dashboard clock ticking off the seconds like a countdown to execution. My hands shook so bad I had to grip the wheel at ten and two, knuckles white, arms rigid. I nearly ran a stop sign at the turnoff for Route 60; the tires shrieked as I jerked the wheel, and the backend skidded into the wrong lane. For a second, I thought I’d die right there, alone, a bloodstain on the blacktop. But the car righted itself, and I kept going.
It was like driving through the inside of a gun barrel—cold, loud, every sense on hair-trigger. At some point, I realized I’d been crying, but the tears evaporated before they made it down my face. My chest hurt, an ache so sharp I almost wished for the bullet wound Shivs had taken for me. At least that kind of pain made sense.
The RBMC clubhouse loomed out of the fog around four AM, all corrugated metal and floodlights, ringed by a half-dozen motorcycles lined up like cavalry. The parking lot was full, which meant there was a party or a fight, or maybe just the normal rhythm of feral men waiting for the next apocalypse.
I slammed the Escalade into park, stumbled out, and nearly tripped over the curb. My vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing in the periphery. A couple of prospects lounged by the door, both wearing vests, both smoking. They watched me with undisguised interest.
“Boss lady,” one of them said, voice half-mocking. “You look like shit.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I spat, shoving past him. My voice was raw, unrecognizable. I heard a chuckle behind me, but I didn’t stop.
Inside, the air was thick with beer and sweat and the reek of old cigarette smoke. Bikers crowded the tables, some arm-wrestling, some passed out, some eyeing me like I was the next round of entertainment. I didn’t care. I was hunting, and every instinct in me zeroed in on the stairs at the back of the room.
I climbed them two at a time, legs rubbery, head pounding. At the top, a hallway stretched left and right, lit by a single yellow bulb. Doors lined both sides. I could smell him—no, not smell, more like sense him. A trail of heat, a livewire running through the drywall, pulling me forward.
I didn’t knock. I just pushed open the door and stood there, braced in the frame.
Shivs sat on the edge of his bed, shirtless, jeans half-unzipped, a glass of something dark in his hand. He looked up, and for a second, I thought he might kill me just for showing up. But the expression on his face was something worse: hunger, yes, but also a kind of terror, a mirror image of my own.
He didn’t move. “You couldn’t stay away.”
I shook my head, words stuck behind my teeth.
He set the glass down, hands trembling, and stared at the floor. “I told you it would hurt.”
“It fucking hurts,” I said, and my voice broke.
He stood, crossed the room in two strides, and caught me by the shoulders. His hands were hot, skin feverish, every muscle in his arms vibrating with restraint. He didn’t kiss me at first; he just held me there, like he was afraid I might evaporate.
I was the one who broke the spell. I grabbed his jaw, pulled him down, and crushed our mouths together, teeth clashing, lips mashed and bruised. He tasted like whiskey and blood. I bit his lower lip hard enough to draw more, and he growled, the sound rumbling through my chest.
I clawed at his back, nails digging into old scars, then lower, fingers grappling for purchase. He lifted me—just lifted, as if Iweighed nothing—and carried me to the bed. We landed in a tangle of limbs, his body over mine, all heat and violence and need.
He tore off my sweatshirt, ripping the collar in the process. My breasts popped free, nipples already hard, skin so sensitive it felt like lightning when he touched me. He bent to suck one, hard, and I screamed, the sound muffled by his hand over my mouth.
He pulled my jeans down, over my feet and tossed them aside, spreading my legs and burying his face between them. His tongue was rough, relentless, working me over like he was trying to break the spell through sheer force. I bucked against his mouth, hands fisted in the sheets, the pleasure so sharp it almost passed for pain.
He pulled back, eyes wild, and for a second, I saw the wolf—literal, not figurative. His canines were longer, sharper. His eyes glowed green in the dark. He grinned, blood trickling from the corner of his lip, and I wanted him to devour me whole.
He lined himself up, not gentle at all, and thrust in. The sensation was instant, perfect, a plug of heat that filled every empty space inside me. I arched my back, heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper. I slapped him hard and then held his chin, gritting my teeth. “FUCK ME!”
He fucked me like an animal, and I loved him for it.
Every stroke was a hammer-blow, each one driving me closer to the edge. The mark at my throat throbbed with every thrust, the heat building until it was all I could feel. I came, once, then again, each time louder than the last, not caring who heard.
He came inside me, hard, cock pulsing in a way that was almost inhuman, and bit down on my shoulder at the same time. The pain and pleasure blurred into one thing, and I screamed his name, no shame, no regret. And then I felt his knot again, this time larger, this time more painful. I let the pain ride for several seconds, pushing my brain and body past the pain and into anexistential pleasure I’d never before experienced. For fucks sake, I didn’t want him to stop.
We finally collapsed, tangled, sweat and blood and more on the sheets, both of us gasping like drowning swimmers.
I rolled to face him, our foreheads touching. “Never let go,” I whispered.
