Page 21 of Talk Howly to Me

She let out a short, humorless laugh and stared into the fire. "Well, I was bartending one night and my co-worker mentioned it was a way to make good cash." She hesitated for a moment. "See, I'd been on my own since I was eighteen, just… constantly struggling to make ends meet. So I figured I'd try it." She shrugged. "Turns out I was really good at it. I guess my street fighting skills and my chaotic foster-kid life were unusually suited for cage fighting. So, for the past year, I trained, got better, and excelled. Made enough money to live a bit more comfortably. I didn't have to couch-hop anymore, and I had a place to call my own." Her voice grew quieter. "Then last night happened. So… I'm here now."

The raw summary of her survival carved another piece out of his heart. Kozue leaned forward, his full attention on her. "I'm sorry you had such a difficult life. But maybe… this place can offer you something more stable. Something permanent for a change."

She looked into the fire as if searching for that future in the flames, her expression one of aching hope and deep-seated fear. "I don't think I deserve something this good," she whispered, the confession ripped from her. "I don't think I deserve to have men like you and Ronan care about me, protect me, the way you're offering so freely."

That broke him completely.

The rational plan, the careful distance—it shattered. Kozue moved, closing the space between them in one fluid motion, and cupped her face in his hands. Her skin was so soft, and her breath hitched as her hazel eyes widened.

"Sloane," he said, his deep voice a low command infused with a tenderness he didn't try to hide. "You deserve the world. And I will give it to you if you let me."

A tremor went through her. "I don't trust this," she breathed. "And I don't understand why I feel the way I do about you. About Ronan. About this place. It doesn't make any sense."

It makes perfect sense, his wolf screamed. You're ours.

But before he could form any reply, she spoke again, her gaze filled with a desperate, beautiful courage.

"Kozue, will you spend the night with me? Will you, for one night, just pretend this all makes sense?"

His control snapped. "Yes."

The word was a vow and a surrender. Then her hands were in his hair, pulling him down, and her lips crashed against his.

The kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming. It was her hunger meeting his, her years of loneliness clashing with his decades of self-sacrifice. It was heat and desperation and a rightness that shuddered through his entire being. His arms wrapped around her, dragging her from her corner of the couch and into his lap, and she straddled him, her weight perfect against him. He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down her back to press her closer. For one night, he would allow himself to have the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world.

Her hands were everywhere, a wildfire of frantic touch, but when they closed on the hem of his henley, Kozue knew what she wanted. He broke the kiss, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he pulled back and gripped the fabric at his nape, wrenching the garment up and over his head in one swift motion and tossing it aside.

The firelight bathed his torso, highlighting the dense muscle of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen, and the faint scars that mapped a history of loyalty written in violence. Sloane's breath hitched and her eyes, already dark with desire, drank him in with a reverence that made his heart race. She lifted her hand, her fingers hovering for a heartbeat before they made contact with his skin, and traced the longest, most prominent scar that slashed across his left pectoral.

"This one's deep," she murmured. "How did you get it?"

The truth—the blood, the screams, Ronan's broken body in his arms—sat on his tongue.

I fought a pack of rogue wolves to save my brother, the only family I had left. But that story came with a world she wasn't ready for. Wolf shifters. Pack wars. Triad mate bonds. It was too much, too soon. He wouldn't bury her under the weight of his world tonight.

"Bad fight," he said, his voice a gravelly rasp. He caught her hand and pressed her palm flat over the scar, over his pounding heart. "Twelve years ago."

Her gaze searched his face, seeing the shadows he didn't voice. "You don't strike me as the fighting type."

"I only fight when I need to protect those I love."

The raw truth in that statement seemed to ignite something deeper in her because her pupils dilated and the scent of her arousal flooded his senses. His wolf preened, demanding he take, claim, and mark.

But her answer was to lean in and capture his mouth again, a kiss of pure hunger. Then her fingers were at the button of his jeans, fumbling in her urgency. So he helped her, shoving the denim and his boxers down his hips in one rough push, and his cock sprang free, thick and painfully hard.

Sloane's eyes dropped. "Oh, wow."

The undisguised hunger in her voice was the sweetest praise he'd ever received. But he didn't give her time to look her fill. He needed her bare. Needed to see all of her. He reached up and pulled her white t-shirt off, then reached behind her to unsnap her bra. The lace fell away, and her full breasts spilled into his waiting hands.

"You are breathtaking," he said, the words torn from him.

She smiled, a real, unfiltered smile of pleasure and power, and stood from his lap to finish undressing. She shimmied out of her jeans and panties, kicking them aside until she stood before him, gloriously naked, painted in gold and shadow by the fire. Every curve, every taut line of muscle, every small, silvery scar was a masterpiece.

Ours, his wolf snarled, the possessive urge a physical ache.

He wanted to lay her down and worship every inch. He wanted to trace every scar with his tongue and learn the stories behind them. He wanted to move with agonizing slowness until she begged. But Sloane had other plans.

She straddled his lap again where he sat on the couch, her skin searing against his. "I need you, Kozue."