Colton’s release pulsed hot inside him, the man's whole body shuddering through his climax. The teeth released, replaced by gentle lips pressing kisses to the mark.
“Mine,” Colton breathed against the wound. “My mate.”
Trembling in the aftermath, Zack could only nod. Whatever had just happened, whatever that snap had been, he felt it in his bones—he belonged to Colton now, and Colton to him.
Carefully, Colton pulled out, both of them wincing at the loss. Strong arms gathered Zack close, arranging them on their sides, Colton’s front pressed to his back.
“You okay?” Warm breath tickled his ear.
“Think so.” Zack’s voice came out hoarse. “That bite... what was that?”
“Claiming bite. Bonds us together.” Lips pressed to his shoulder, right over the mark.
Part of Zack wanted to be angry about the lack of warning, but he couldn't summon the energy. Not when he felt so complete, so utterly satisfied in a way that went beyond physical. Nothing about this was normal, so why did it feel so right?
Chapter Nine
Balancing three plates on one arm, Zack maneuvered through the narrow aisle between booths. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of one mug as he sidestepped a toddler who'd escaped from booth seven. Rain hammered harder against the front windows, turning the world outside into a watercolor blur of gray and darker gray.
“Pancakes, extra syrup,” he announced, sliding the plate in front of an elderly woman who definitely hadn't ordered pancakes.
She blinked up at him through thick glasses. “I asked for the omelet, dear.”
“Right. Yes. Omelet.” Heat crawled up his face as he retrieved the plate. “Be right back with that.”
Behind the counter, Jace caught his eye and mouthed something that looked like “wrong table” while pointing at booth three. Great. Fantastic. Maybe his brain was still tangled up in sheets and the memory of teeth sinking into his shoulder.
Definitely not the time to think about that.
Refocusing, he delivered the pancakes to their actual destination, grabbed the omelet from under the heat lamp, and circled back. Every surface in the diner gleamed with condensation from the humidity pressing in through the door each time it opened. Smells layered thick in the air—bacon grease, fresh coffee, maple syrup, wet pavement tracked in on shoes.
Another crack of thunder made the lights flicker again. A woman near the window jumped, nearly knocking over her water glass.
“Storm’s getting worse,” Jace said as he passed him, arms loaded with dirty dishes. “Bet we lose power before noon.”
“Optimistic today, aren’t we?” Zack managed a grin even as he felt the weight of exhaustion pulling at his edges. Between Olympic-level sex and lack of sleep, his body was running on fumes and caffeine.
Orders kept coming. Table six wanted more coffee. Table two needed ketchup. Booth four had a screaming baby and parents who looked like they’d aged ten years since sitting down. Rain turned the morning into a soggy marathon, customers lingering longer than usual because nobody wanted to go back out into the downpour.
Somewhere between refilling coffee and clearing plates, a prickle of awareness crept up Zack’s arms. Not painful, just... there. Like static electricity building before a shock.
Pausing mid-step, he glanced around the diner, scanning faces. Most people were focused on their food or their phones. A couple near the back argued quietly. Jace was taking an order at the counter. Nothing seemed out of place.
But the feeling didn’t go away.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head toward his section. Booths lined the wall, two-seaters scattered near the windows. At the farthest two-seater, tucked into the corner like they were trying to disappear into the vinyl, sat someone watching him.
Not just looking. Watching.
Zack’s stomach did something unpleasant. Eye contact would’ve been normal—people looked at their servers all the time. But this person's gaze felt different, heavier, like they were memorizing him.
Guy around Zack’s age, maybe. Nondescript clothes, dark jacket still wet from the rain. Hands folded on the table, fingers twitching every few seconds. When Zack’s eyes found them, they immediately looked down at the menu, jaw working like they were chewing the inside of their cheek.
Nerves radiated off them in visible ripples—the way their leg bounced under the table, the constant adjustment of their napkin, the death grip on the menu that was probably leaving fingerprints.
Something about it felt wrong. Not dangerous, necessarily, but... off.
Grabbing his notepad, Zack crossed the diner floor, weaving between tables. Rain drummed a steady rhythm overhead, competing with the clatter of dishes and low murmur of conversation. By the time he reached the two-seater, his palms were damp.
