Warnings: morally bankrupt character, supernatural elements, abo dynamics (yes, that means alpha, beta, omega and yes there will be heat and knotting and all that razzle dazzle), dubious consent? mentions of murder, smut, overall mature themes (18+).
A/n: Read the tags!!!!!!!!, if you’re not into the weird shit, don’t read. Reposting because I’ll soon be done with school so I’ll have time to really write again, however, don’t ask when the next update will be because idk yet😅. Enjoy.
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“Cong, Ireland. You’re sending me to a fucking town called Cong…”
The air conditioner wheezes from the upper right corner of the room; the old thing sounds like it’s begging to be put out of its misery. A flurry of rustling papers slips from his hands and scatters across the floor.
“Shit. Fuck this. Fuck my life.” His voice is scratchy from years of tobacco abuse and booming orders she guesses.
Zoya makes no move to help the man gather the papers that litter the floor. Anyone else she would’ve, but not him. Fuck him. It takes ten minutes for the man to finally gather all the papers he spilled; he straightens his spine in his rotating chair with huffing breaths and bright red cheeks. Like the simple act of bending over while seated is equivalent to running a marathon for him.
“Yes.” He says after he inhales a few greedy breaths.
“Why? Why me?” The question comes through gritted teeth.
“I asked you to follow simple orders and you went against-”
“You had me sorting files and answering the phone for months! I solved the Metrov case! Our department brought down an actual crime lord and it’s all thanks to me! So what do you do? You rewarded me with administrative work while you and the other officers posed for pictures with the mayor and held conferences!”
The man bangs his fists against his wooden desk firmly. Zoya doesn’t flinch; instead, she stares unimpressed and it makes him even more irate. He has been desperately trying to intimidate her the moment he took over from the old chief who retired almost a year ago.
“You almost got yourself and two other officers killed because you were rash! I warned you about this before, Officer Reid.” Spittle flies from the curtain his thick mustache creates over his mouth.
“But you took all the credit, huh? You and the other officers who happen to be white and male despite the fact that none of you were even there.” It’s daring, the man could have her fired— but Zoya is beyond the point of caring. She knows the real reason why she’s being punished.
The man chuckles bitterly; “I won’t take your bait, Officer Reid, be glad I’m not dismissing you of your duties. You complained about being bored. There have been 15 murders in the past month. For a town that small, that’s a big deal. They need help from the big boys, and who’s a bigger boy than you, hm?” There’s a twinkle of something almost sinister in his watery blue eyes.
“At least have the balls to admit why you want to send me there, Chief Williams.” She stares into his eyes without blinking. Unmoving. Challenging.
The man simply reclines in his chair to take a leisurely drag of the thick cigar that was sitting in the saucer of his coffee mug.
“Six months should be enough time to catch a psycho in a town with a population under 2,000, hm?” He sputters over a particularly long drag, then clears his throat loudly as if that will also ease the humiliation.
“I wish you well and hope you return in one piece, Officer Reid. I can’t wait to hear the stories you’ll bring back with you.”
The man might as well have flat out said he’s hoping she gets murdered in the most brutal way imaginable. There’s nothing remotely sincere in his tone or his eyes. He wanted her gone the first month he took the job; he just couldn’t find a good enough reason without getting some eyebrows raised with her being the only black woman in the department. Zoya takes her time to observe him. From the sweat collecting along his forehead all the way to his neck where she can see the wild, irregular fluttering of his pulse even from a few feet across his desk. Her perusal continues all the way to his fingers that are clubbed at the tips. It’s her turn to smirk at him as steely determination simmers out the anger that was burning under the surface of her skin. Zoya makes up her mind then and there; she’ll not only go to this little assignment in Ireland, but she’ll solve the case in under the possible 4 months the man seated in front of her has before his heart decides it has had enough of his neglectful lifestyle. She’ll survive whatever Ireland throws at her out of pure spite just because she needs to see him go first.
“I can’t wait to share them. Let’s just hope you’ll be around by the time I get back.”
The amusement drains from his face reluctantly. Zoya smirks almost maniacally before exiting his office with a deafening slam of the door.
The goodbyes were rushed and half hearted. A pat on the back or shoulder here and a tight lipped smile and mumbled words there. The only thing that would truly miss Zoya in Chicago is Tyr— her jet, black great dane who whimpered and whined in confusion the entire time while she checked him into the most trusted kennel in town. Her heart still aches hours later while she sits, cramped in the economy class her department was so kind to place her in. Zoya desperately tries to blur the overstimulating wails of babies, cooing mothers, loud snores and people hollering for the attention of flight attendants. And for the hundredth time, anger— hot and white licks up her spine at the unjust treatment she’s receiving just for being daring and black. With a steadying breath, her finger delicately taps against the screen and the soothing voice of Fka Twigs comes like a smooth caress against her eardrums. Zoya releases all the air from her lungs in a loud whoosh before focusing her attention on the screen of her ipad. She knows very little about Ireland and especially Cong. At first, she assumed the Chief was being the cheeky cunt he is when he mentioned the town’s population being under 2,000. Turns out the man was right; not only that, the stories from eyewitnesses interviewed by their small sheriff’s department are chilling in a way that makes even her physically shiver. And as Zoya tunes out the world around her, reading about the small town where folklore still seems to intertwine too closely with reality even in 2025, she can’t help but feel that this assignment will impact her in a way that she’s completely unprepared for.
The density of the trees grow thicker the further they move away from the airport. The hills get steeper, the air thinner— crisp, like cool, fresh spring water; refreshing for her lungs that have been exposed to the polluted, heavy air of the big city for decades. Soon enough, the only thing to be seen on either side of the vehicle are nothing but tall, thick trees with an over abundance of vines and shrubs. Zoya counts three cars total since they’ve hit the long, winding road that leads out of the busy city. And they were all headed in the opposite direction. The man in the driver’s seat of the older model suv that screeches on every sharp turn, introduced himself as the deputy sheriff and those were the only words he muttered since. His skin is brown, not a deep mocha like her own, but still rich enough to be noticeable. Zoya guesses he has an indigenous background based on the way he wears his hair— long, jet black with a single braid down his back along with his accessories that have a mixture of various beads, shells and small little feathers. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was unimpressed by her, but as she continues to observe him, Zoya is beginning to think he’s just naturally aloof. He didn’t return any of the friendly smiles the pair of them received while making the small trek to the parked van at the airport. Even when they made a brief stop at a small convenience store just outside the city, she was the only one to return the cashier’s enthusiastic greeting.
“Is it alright if you took me to the station before the house?”
His dark eyes swing up to stare at her in the overhead mirror. He only gives a subtle nod in acknowledgment.
The station is half the size of the one she left behind in Chicago. The inside smells like something damp or moldy. There are piles upon piles of files stacked haphazardly on top of one the four tiny desks inside the station. The man she assumes is the sheriff, comes stumbling out of a tiny room toward the back of the building. Pulling the door closed behind him, she sees the label that reads ‘restroom’ on it; the tall, slim, Caucasian man startles slightly at their presence.
“Oh! You’re detective Reid! You’re back quickly, Deputy Alhuwalia must’ve been going 100 miles an hour!”
Zoya forces a chuckle when she realizes the deputy has no intentions of sharing in his amusement.
“Sorry, I’m Sheriff Townsend.”
She accepts his offered hand for a firm handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Sheriff Townsend. Can you give me a rundown of what we’re dealing with here?” Her eyes are drawn to the files like a moth to a flame. She’s itching to start rooting and reading.
“Oh… um… aren’t you a little tired or hungry? I was thinking we could make a stop by the diner then we’d take you home. You’ve had a long flight.” Townsend eyes her in concern.
“Uh… I could use some food but is it possible for me to take some files home? I need to start or I’ll go insane.”
The man nods before speaking; “Okay. How about I join you for dinner? I’ll give you all the information to get you up to speed.”
He gestures to the deputy then to the files on his desk. The other man walks over and picks up the first ten off the top of the pile with surety.
“You’ll have one of the police vehicles for personal use; public transportation isn’t really reliable here. It’s a small town so most people carpool or hitchhike in a sense.” He reaches for his coat and the files from the deputy’s hands; “are you joining us, Alhuwalia?”
The man gives a shake of his head.
“Are you sure? Mckinley and Russo have already left for the day. You’ll be alone here for the rest of the evening.”
The deputy pretends not to hear him as he busies himself with flipping open a document.
“Real joy, that one.” Townsend jokes with his Irish accent thick.
The sun slowly sinks behind the horizon in a blazing ball of orange as they pull into the small parking lot of a diner called ‘Cian’s.’ The medium sized building is quaint with checkered decor and even a jukebox that plays what sounds like traditional Irish folk music. The smell of bacon is heaviest in the air; there are about eight people present: four in a group together in a booth, a couple and two sitting by themselves.
“Ah, Townsend!” A man shouts from his place behind the counter. He’s quick to duck under the long, white surface to amble in their direction.
“And who might this be?” His tone is filled with nothing but pure curiosity. His green eyes seem to twinkle under the bright, white lights in the diner.
“This is Detective Reid. All the way from Chicago. She’s here to help out with….uh… you know.”
The mood suddenly grows solemn.
“Nice to meet you, Detective Reid. I’m Cian. Owner of this establishment and a grieving brother.” Cian’s mouth is pulled down a deep frown.
“Cian’s brother was the latest victim of…”
Zoya’s expression grows stony with determination. “I promise you, Cian. I’ll do all I can to bring whoever this psychopath is to justice.”
“Or whatever.” Cian timidly adds.
“I saw what my brother’s body looked like, Detective. We’re either dealing with a cannibalising sociopath or…”
Townsend sighs in exhaustion; “Some are speculating it might not be human.”
“And?” She keeps her eyes glued to his face, wanting to see every twitch, every expression no matter how small. And even before he speaks, Zoya knows. He also believes.
“Cian, we might be here a while; how do you feel about steak and beer, detective?”
Zoya nods absentmindedly, desperate to get back to their conversation.
Townsend fires their orders at Cian who nods before leaving them alone again.
“So?” She can’t keep the edge of impatience out of her voice.
“I… I don’t know what to think. We found what we determined was wolf fur on Cian’s brother’s body.”
“But???? because I’m sure you didn’t call in for help if you thought you just had a wolf problem.”
Townsend licks his chapped lips, his Adam's apple bobs with a tight swallow. Then, he’s scrambling to flip one of the files open. He inspects its contents briefly before sliding it across the table to her.
Zoya almost gasps out loud at the picture. It’s the kind of gruesomeness that makes even her uneasy after years of dealing with statement killings done by gangsters or personal murders done by slighted lovers.
“See that? His throat is completely ripped open, he was nearly decapitated.”
“But… it’s so clean.” Zoya whispers timidly.
“It wasn’t hacked at. This looks like one clean bite.” As the puzzle pieces slowly fall into place, goosebumps steadily begin to prickle her skin.
“But the average wolf, especially against a man who is 6 '2 and almost 300 pounds… they wouldn’t be able to leap that high and almost take his head off with one bite. There are no claw marks to even indicate a struggle…”
“That shouldn’t… that wolf would have to be-”
“At least 6 ft tall with fangs triple the size of the average wolf’s.”
A chill dances up her spine as she stares at the Sheriff in wide-eyed stupor. And for the first time in a long time, Zoya feels like she might be a little out of her depth.
Zoya is up before the sun and she isn’t surprised. Her sleep was fitful, restless. A quiet hiss escapes her mouth as her bare feet touch the cold, wooden floor. It’s late into summer— August, but the hills of Ireland seem not to respect the seasons. It has been chilly since she got here, even when the sun was out. Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, Zoya sighs at the time on screen: 6:02 am. Townsend won’t be picking her up until 8:30. That leaves Zoya with nothing to do but think. Her eyes wander around the small house that’s more of a modernized log cabin. It’s small but comfortable and a bit charming. Just a single bedroom, a kitchen that blends into a tiny living room and a bathroom. With a quiet huff, she gets to work doing what she wanted to put off for as long as possible— unpack.
Zoya files it away to go grocery shopping after work when her stomach protests while she slips her nude coat over her brown button down and jeans. Townsend arrives at exactly 8:28 after she’s done putting her silk pressed hair in a neat bun. Grabbing her keys, bag and badge in a flurry, Zoya races out the door after locking up.
“Morning, Reid. How’d you sleep?”
Zoya focuses on strapping the seatbelt across her body so he doesn’t see the obvious lie in her grimace when she answers; “Really well, thanks for asking. The house is really nice too.”
“Good. This jeep here, you’ll be driving it while you’re in town.”
Though still an older model, it’s better than the one the deputy drove yesterday.
“Thank you. So, what’s first on the agenda?” This isn’t just about wanting to solve the case for bragging rights anymore, Zoya is a little shaken by the discovery they made last night. She’s trying not to believe in superstitions, but what else is she to make of what she saw?
“We get some breakfast at Cian’s. I’ll show you the grocery store on our way to the station.”
“Who was the last person to see O'Connor alive?”
Zoya swallows the rest of her lukewarm coffee in one go. It sloshes comfortably in her stomach filled with bacon, eggs and toast.
Townsend stands to gather both their takeout boxes and disposes of them in the bin by his desk.
The man fidgets as he moves around the space… almost as if he doesn’t want to say.
“Virgil.” Alhuwalia supplies sharply. The man has been sitting quietly to himself since they arrived almost thirty minutes ago. He only nodded in response to their greetings.
Townsend sighs heavily; “Pub owner. We technically don’t know for sure who saw him last, we just know the pub is the last place he was spotted.”
Alhuwalia scoffs; “Big city detectives… used to their gadgets and technology.”
Zoya’s spine stiffens defensively; “So what? It’s why we’d already have a possible lead if a cannibalising maniac was running around. You could adopt a thing or two from the big cities you obviously hate so much.”
“Alright, let’s not.” Townsend rubs the bridge of his nose harshly.
“CCTVs are beyond everyone’s budget here. Plus it’s usually a quiet town, the residents never felt the need for all that.”
Zoya nods in understanding. “Okay, but the pub was the last place he was seen, yes? Then I need to talk to some people.”
“We already spoke to them. We questioned everyone who was there that night.”
“Trust me, Sheriff. I… have a way with words.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief as she smiles up at him.
“Alright. Let’s go then.”
The pub is a ten minute drive away from the station. It’s made out of log wood and Zoya wouldn’t describe it as sloppy but it looks a little clumsy. Like it was handmade by someone who isn’t specialized in masonry.
Almost as if Townsend read her mind, he speaks; “He built this, you know? All by himself. Went into those very woods and logged every single thing he needed.”
Zoya quietly assesses the area, eyes dragging from the dense woods a few yards away from the humble building. The first line of trees are still intact, that means the man would’ve had to walk quite a bit while carrying logs.
“Must be quite some man.”
Zoya startles slightly, she didn’t mean to say it out loud but she has always had trouble using her inside voice. “Um… the line of trees here are all intact. So I assumed he had to venture further into the woods while carrying loads of logs. He must be some specimen.”
And it’s as if he’s just now thinking about it for the first time. Townsend’s eyes do a slow, deliberate move from the innocent looking pub all the way to the line of trees out back. Calculating. The man clears his throat while adjusting his collar.
“Must’ve had a bike or something.” He feigns nonchalance with a shrug.
She doesn’t bother asking anymore questions. Zoya falls in sync with his marching steps as they head toward the pub. The sun is just reaching its peak in the sky. Almost midday in August yet her coat feels like a necessity.
Townsend pushes the door open with a lot more force than necessary; it bangs loudly against the wall before slowly swinging closed behind them. Zoya blinks rapidly, desperately trying to get her eyes to adjust to the inside of the pub that completely blots out the rays of the sun. It takes a while for the dark spots to fade from her line of vision; the room is only lit up from sunlight distorted by a singular, stained yellow glass window. She immediately notices that the place is almost packed despite the early hour of the day. They have the attention of every single man in the building.
“Townsend, what can I do for y’er?” A tall, blonde rugged man smiles at the sheriff asks while smiling with too many teeth. The gesture feels more threatening than welcoming.
Zoya steps into his line of sight to flash her badge a little too closely to his face. The man peers down at her with a scowl.
“Detective Reid. Are you Virgil? And don’t make me ask a third time. I won’t be so nice.” Zoya holds her ground despite the shimmer of amusement that she sees in his deep, blue eyes. She’s used to men underestimating her, it always makes proving them wrong even more fun.
“That’s not him, Reid. That’s Riley and he loves to fuck around.” Townsend hisses from behind.
Riley smirks at the sheriff above her head. “Mhm, you know me quite well, Townsend. By the way, Laoise says hi.”
A round of laughter suddenly rings around the room. Zoya glances at the Sheriff briefly to find the man physically shaking, his face red with ire. Whoever this Laoise is, it must be a very sore topic. Zoya makes up her mind in a second and her limbs lash out before she thinks to control herself. One quick knee between his legs then a fist square on his mouth as he doubles over with his hands cupping between his legs. The laughter immediately ceases, replaced by Riley’s pained groans.
“Now that I have your attention; Virgil, where is he?”
The man takes his time to breathe through the pain. “Not in yet. He asked me to open for him today.” He says through gritted teeth. The blood trickling from his split bottom lip makes her cringe subtly. She didn’t mean to hit him that hard.
“Well? What time will he be in?” Zoya asks calmly, eyeing up the other men in the pub who stare at her warily.
“Never said. Probably tonight.”
She gives a subtle smirk; “Guess I’ll be seeing you again tonight, Riley. You best behave, yeah?”
Riley glares up at her before finally straightening his spine from his hunched position; “I guess so.”
Just as Zoya turns her back to stride out the building, he calls out to her;
“Be careful though, Detective. It’s a full moon tonight.”
A strange sense of dread fills her body after he speaks. Swallowing thickly, she exits the pub behind Townsend, trying to shake the anxiety his vague words have caused.
“You know you just physically assaulted someone? That could get you in trouble.”
“Are you going to report me, Sheriff?” She keeps her eyes straight ahead as they walk to the jeep.
“Good.” Zoya weighs her mind then ultimately decides she’s too curious.
Townsend picks up his pace before he answers; “His wife. But she was my wife first.”
Zoya ambles out the small grocery store in a daze— she’s exhausted. Her entire day was spent perusing every single file connected with the series of recent murders. She tries to fight against the frustration that begins to build every time she thinks of the unsuccessful day. Zoya knows it’s only her first official day on the case; she shouldn’t beat herself up. But they didn’t even manage to find a single clue to point them in the right direction. She hates feeling stuck. The moon hangs heavy and full in the sky. Zoya stares up at it with a little tremor in her bones. They went back to the pub but neither Virgil nor Riley were there. She had planned to confront him about his full moon statement; it had pricked at the perimeter of her mind all day. With a small shake of her head, Zoya scrambles to stuff the bags into the back of the jeep before hurriedly pulling out of the empty parking lot. She’s five minutes into her journey home on the moonlit deserted road, when she feels the jeep starting to rattle a lot more than she’s used to.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Zoya slowly pulls over onto the side of the road. Her skin prickles as soon as she exits the vehicle to examine the outside. She keeps her eyes trained away from the dense, dark woods that suddenly feels like it’s watching her. Flat tire.
“Fuck.” It’s a tremulous whisper from her lips while she hurries to retrieve the spare tire and jack from the trunk. Zoya works as quickly as she’s able to with her quivering fingers feeling they’re not properly attached to her body. She’s securing the spare tire in place when suddenly, all the hairs on her body stand on end. The wind picks up, carrying a musky, spicy scent with it. And despite all her training and experience, Zoya freezes. It could be the exhaustion or she’s just paranoid from being alone on the dark, deserted road at almost 10pm; but she feels it. A presence: heavy and consuming. The sound of panting breaths causes her heart to skip a few beats in her chest. She can feel the presence growing closer; then warm breaths caress the skin of the back of her neck. A whimper tumbles from her throat helplessly. The faintest voice in her brain screams at her to reach for her gun— to do what she knows she should in a situation like this. But she feels as if her body is being controlled by someone else. Her limbs are heavy and strangely, a voice is screaming at her to get on her hands and knees and—
A pair of blinding headlights suddenly illuminate the entire road and Zoya feels as if she’s finally in control of her body again. Scrambling to her feet, she sucks in deep, greedy inhales in an attempt to calm the wild fluttering of her heart and the hazy cloud that hangs over her brain. The truck rolls to a stop beside her and even the sight of a smug, smirking Riley brings her relief.
“Detective Reid. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Piss off.” Her voice is surprisingly stern despite how shaken she feels.
His eyes move to the flat tire by her feet.
“I’m good.” But she can’t help the way her eyes do a quick, timid sweep of the woods behind his truck.
The man follows her line of sight, then returns his gaze to her. His expression is somber when he does.
“You should hurry home, Detective.”
Zoya nods absentmindedly, almost tripping over her feet to load the tire and tools back in her trunk. He waits until she’s safely seated in her jeep before speaking again;
“By the way, come by the pub tomorrow afternoon. Virgil will be there.”
She gives a barely there nod before pulling off. And as Zoya drives home, well above the speed limit, it hits her that Riley’s swollen and cut mouth has already completely healed in the span of a few short hours.
The shrill ringing of her phone sounds miles away in the small, humble room. Zoya stares blankly at the device as the alarm she set goes off continuously. Over and over— high pitched and insistent. Yet, she makes no move to turn it off. She doesn’t even know why she set the damn thing anyway; Zoya knew the minute she got home last night that sleep wouldn’t come easy. But when it hit 2 am she knew it wouldn’t come at all. It’s not just paranoia, something was outside; she’s sure of it. She heard the scratches along the wood outside; she heard the deep, heavy, huffing breaths— similar to what she heard behind while she changed her tire. The short, fitful naps she managed to fall into were plagued by a pair of deep amber-red eyes. It was always the same: her being chased in the middle of the woods while the moon was highest in the sky— full and beautiful. But the luminous light did very little to cut through the dark, dense trees. Zoya can still feel her heart galloping now like it was in her dream— hard, fast and fluttering. She remembers trying to scream but it’s like something had stolen her voice from her. She’d always stumble over a fallen Linden tree, gasping and terrified. Then she’d feel its presence behind, just like it felt last night; heavy, dominating. Hot, panting breaths would whisper against the skin of her neck. Zoya can still remember how terrified she felt; yet, there was something else bubbling under the surface of her skin. Something suspiciously like anticipation. Then the creature would speak; voice gravely and more a growl than anything. He’d always mutter the same word before sinking his giant fangs in the side of her neck, forcing Zoya out of her nap with a blood curdling scream;
“Officer Reid. You look… rough this morning.” Alhuwalia mutters, eyeing her with something akin to suspicion.
Zoya takes her time to remove her jacket, folding it neatly to drape it across the back of her chair. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Zoya swallows thickly. “I thought I—” but she pauses. How can she possibly tell him about what happened last night and sound sane?
“Just restless, I guess. There are two other officers working here, yes? When will I meet them?”
The deputy stares at her for a few seconds longer than what’s acceptable, his features hard like stone before he finally speaks;
“Mckinley is visiting family in England and Russo called in sick.”
“Your department is only made up of four people and one is out on vacation leave when there’s a serial killer terrorizing your town?” She can’t school her expression fast enough. Her frown of dissatisfaction is on full display.
Alhuwalia shrugs nonchalantly. “Our town is small and was peaceful before. When I say there wasn’t even a reported robbery I mean it. The mayor didn’t think it wise to use the little money we have building a large police department. And Mckinley’s case is delicate. He’s away to bury a loved one.”
Zoya doesn’t comment any further even though she has more to say about the matter. The mayor should be moving to get more citizens trained and hired to help tackle this case. Besides, she has other pressing matters she wants to attend to before Townsend gets to the station.
Zoya clears her throat to get the deputy’s attention again. The man looks up, cocking a brow at her in annoyance.
“I’m going to see Virgil. We didn’t get the chance to speak yesterday. Do you have the names of all the people who were present at his pub on the night of O'Connor's murder?”
“Shouldn’t you wait for Townsend?” The man asks instead of acknowledging her question.
“Forgive me, deputy. But I was not sent here to work under Townsend; I would like to speak to Virgil alone. Now, do you have the names or not?” Her harsh stare doesn’t waver in the slightest. Alhuwalia concedes after an almost fifteen second staring match. The man simply reaches for a file and stretches it in her direction.
“You think you're a big fish in a small pond. But know they’re sharks here too, Reid. Careful, especially with him.”
Something cold slithers down her spine. Not just because of his words but because they sound like a genuine warning.
“And what does that mean?”
“It means don’t try to intimidate him. This isn’t Chicago, detective.”
The pub door swings open almost eagerly under the gentle push of her palm. As if even the very building was anticipating her presence. Zoya takes an unsteady breath when she finds the space empty, but the clinking of glasses sounds close by. She’s about to rap her knuckles against the counter when the sound of approaching footsteps sound from what she’s assuming is a storage room of some kind. His frame comes into view first, causing her breath to hitch. He’s tall— well above her 5”7 frame. She’d guess he’s at least 6”6. His shoulders are broad. When he finally steps behind the bar, Zoya’s breath hitches subtly. He is so attractive it turns her brain to putty for a few seconds. His skin is a smooth caramel shade, his hair is curly and swept to the base of his neck in a low bun with a sharp lineup. The long sleeved shirt he wears is rolled to the crook of his elbows to reveal an arm full of tattoos with prominent veins. His mouth is on the smaller side but his lips are plump. And those eyes; big, brown but piercing. For the first time in decades, Zoya feels like cowering under a person’s gaze.
“Are you Virgil?” Her voice surprisingly comes out steadily.
“I heard you’ve been looking for me.” The low baritone of his gruff voice makes her skin tighten with goosebumps. The man busies himself with lining shelves with bottles of whiskey that she didn’t even notice he had.
“Yes. I’m Detective Reid. I would like to have a word with you.”
“Okay.” He says calmly. He slowly rounds the counter, lifting the divider at the end and then they’re both on the same side of the room. Virgil doesn’t wait for her instructions to saunter over one of the many empty tables and take a seat. He then gestures to the empty chair directly across from where he’s seated. Hesitating for only a few seconds, Zoya feigns confidence as she strolls over to plop down on the wooden piece of furniture. This close, his scent tickles her nose— something spicy and very familiar but her brain is too much of a mess to remember where she encountered it. Virgil rubs at the neatly trimmed goatee on his chin once before speaking;
“How can I help you, detective?”
Zoya hurries to flip through the file in hand, simply because the eye contact is too searing.
“O’Connor. He was last seen here alive. Tell me what happened.”
The man shrugs; “It’s just like I told the sheriff. He was here getting plastered like everyone else. That night seemed heavy for him. He came in complaining about his brother- owner of that diner-”
“So you’ve already met.” There’s a tick to his jaw but leaves as quickly as it came.
“Uh… yea Townsend took me there for dinner and breakfast when I just… why does it matter?” She cocks her brow at him.
Zoya takes a deep inhale. “Whatever, continue.”
Zoya is momentarily stunned. “I… what?”
“You heard me, detective.”
She glares at him but her heart gallops against her ribcage awkwardly. He holds eye contact— challenging. Zoya shifts subtly in her seat, trying not to bow her head like she suddenly so desperately wants to. What the fuck is happening?
“I… please.” It’s forced through gritted teeth. And she tells herself that she only concedes because she needs to hear the story to solve the case.
He hums in satisfaction but his expression doesn’t shift from the blank canvas that it has been since she arrived. “Apparently, he had an argument with his brother earlier. Something about not benefitting from the diner like their parents intended.”
“Wait, so the diner isn’t Cian’s?” Her voice is a breathy whisper between them. There’s something about the man in front of her. Just being in his presence feels heavier. Zoya can feel her pulse fluttering wildly in her neck, and she honestly thinks his eyes have been fixed on it for a second now. Sweat beads along her temples despite the cool temperature.
“It was their parents’. O’Connor was all brawn and Cian is all brain. So Cian took over and changed the name to his own. Been running it for more than a decade now. I guess O’Connor started wanting more, as was his right. I don’t know what happened after he got drunk and stumbled out of here but the next morning I heard he was dead.”
Zoya takes a minute to process all the information. Her eyes scan every inch of details in the folder she has in her hand. None of it makes mention of O’Connor and Cian’s situation.
“There’s nothing on any of that here? Why wouldn’t Cian be a possible suspect if you told them this?” She looks up at him skeptically, heart pounding to find him staring at her in a way that makes her lower belly clench.
“Because I didn’t tell them.”
Zoya gapes at him incredulously; “Why not?!”
“I didn’t want to.” He says calmly.
“Do you think this is fucking funny? You withheld information that’s relevant in an investigation. That’s obstruction of justice.”
“Careful, detective. I’m feeling nice today, let’s not change that.”
And Zoya’s mind must be playing tricks on her because she swears his eyes tinges with a deep shade of amber for a millisecond.
“Or what? You may be a good head taller than me, Virgil. And you’re no doubt stronger, but I doubt that’ll matter if you make me put a bullet between your eyes.” Zoya places her glock 22 on the table between them suddenly.
“Intimidation. Cute. Does that usually work on the men in the city?” His stare turns frosty.
“You should ask Riley what happened when he tried talking down to me. All you men are the same— mouthy and cocky then I have to put you in your place.” Zoya feels like quivering but she remains composed.
Virgil stares blankly for a few seconds, before his expression shifts into something that Zoya can only describe as maniacal. His eyes barely shift but his grin is wide and toothy.
“All the same? Detective, there are no men like me. But don’t worry, you’ll learn.”
“Is that a threat, Virgil?”
“Not at all, beautiful.” His eyes rove over every inch of visible skin on her body. Zoya shivers under his scrutiny helplessly.
“I’m going to ask you to leave now. I pushed back the opening hour to accommodate you.”
The chair scrapes along the wooden floor with a grating sound that makes her grit her teeth as she stands to her feet angrily. “You’re hiding something and I’ll find out what. I’ll be seeing you again real soon, Virgil.”
“I look forward to it, detective.”
Zoya storms her way over to the door.
“And you should check your tires before driving home late at night, detective.”
The hairs on her neck stand on end at his words. With a shaky exhale, Zoya storms out of the dimly lit pub with an antsy feeling beneath her skin.
“Ah detective, here for some lunch hour grub?” Cian offers a cheeky smile while his bright eyes twinkle.
Zoya ignores the rumbling of her belly, the smell of bacon and grilled burgers heavy in the air. “Actually, I’d like to have a chat with you. Do you have a quiet space around back somewhere ?”
Cian’s smile tightens at the corners, but he offers a nod. “Yes, we can talk in my office.”
Zoya ignores the curious glances of the diners present while following closely behind the man. She hasn’t even been back at the station yet; and maybe it’s a little risky not letting Townsend or Alhuwalia know where she is, especially if Cian is a suspect, but she’s feeling a bit impatient. Cian’s office is a tiny, cramped space directly across from the kitchen in the narrow hallway. Unlike the rest of the diner that’s splashed in bright colours of red and green, the inside of his office is a plain cream colour.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestures toward the chair on the other side of his desk.
“It’s fine.” Simply because Zoya feels she has been bossed around by men enough for the day. And unlike the man she saw before, this one is easy to resist. She’s not sure what happened with Virgil, but it’s almost as if a voice was screaming in her head to obey him.
Cian clears his throat awkwardly. “Fair enough. How may I help you, detective?”
“I just have a few questions for you about your brother. When was the last time you saw him before his murder?”
His posture immediately goes ramrod straight in his chair. “Oh… a few hours before? I’d say 3 or 4.”
“And what was your interaction like during that time?” She’s careful to keep her voice level and free of accusation. He hesitates a bit, and she’s guessing he’s debating telling the truth. It’s obvious he wasn’t even interrogated by the sheriff as there are no records of an interview with him in the files. Sloppy.
“Well… we um… he was upset about the business. It was our parents’ before. He wanted 50% of the profits but he never helped with anything. Plus he had a huge problem with drinking and gambling. I didn’t need him getting his hands on more money to exacerbate—”
“Was there a quarrel between you two?” She smoothly interrupts. Zoya isn’t interested in O’Connor’s bad habits, after all.
“I… yes. In this very office. We argued a bit then he started throwing stuff around before he left to go to the pub. Last I ever saw him.” Cian mutters solemnly, a small frown twisting his mouth.
“Is that so, Cian? Where were you between the hours of 9-11 pm on the 23rd of July?” She interrogates harshly.
Cian’s eyes widen like saucers. “Are you implying… Do you think I killed my brother?”
“That’s not an answer to the question I asked, Cian. Where. Were. You?” She enunciates each word through gritted teeth, her glare scathing.
Cian’s throat visibly bobs, eyes skittish and body fidgeting. Intimidated. Just the reaction she’s used to and craves after that weird encounter she had with the other man a few minutes ago. This is how it’s supposed to be— her clearly being in charge; not feeling small and almost submissive.
“Here! I don’t close up until 11pm on weeknights and 1 am on the weekends. You can ask any of my employees or diners who were present.” The man says in a rush, hands clasped in his lap to hide the tremors in his fingers. Zoya keeps her eyes on him for a few more seconds just to see him squirm.
“Okay. You understand I have to cover every possible base right? Whether I truly believe you’re a suspect or not. I’m just doing my job and I’m very thorough.”
The man nods; “I understand, detective.”
“Very well, Cian. Thank you for your time.”
Cian escorts her from his office and out front. Zoya observes his employees all the while; the young cashier whose eyes dart nervously in her direction for the tenth time already. The older brunette who mops the floor leisurely, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and two burly men working in the kitchen. It’s easy to know who her target will be; the lanky boy behind the register will crack under the slightest amount of pressure. But not yet. She doesn’t want Cian knowing she’ll interrogate the young man.
“So, is that all, detective?” Cian murmurs nervously.
“No. I’d like a burger with turkey bacon please. No onions, no cheese.”
His expression slowly shifts into something more pleasant. “Coming right up, detective.”
Zoya takes a seat in an empty booth, pulling her phone from the pocket of her jeans. She notices the missed call notifications from Townsend but swipes them away. She’ll give him a rundown when she’s back at the station in a few minutes. The bell above the door tinkles, catching the attention of a few diners including herself. Zoya nearly rolls her eyes seeing Riley stroll in but she catches herself when she notices the woman trailing behind him. Her blonde hair is light yet glossy, her features delicate and plump. Zoya’s eyes drift to her rounded belly. She has always heard of the apparent ‘pregnancy glow’ but it may be her first time actually witnessing it. Riley notices her presence and a smirk suddenly stretches his mouth wide.
“Detective.” He greets haughtily.
“Riley.” She responds passively.
“This is my ma- wife.” Riley seems to catch himself midway through his sentence, eyes wide with something she can’t quite place. The woman’s already ruddy cheeks grow even redder.
“This is my wife, Laoise.”
Ah. This is Laoise. The woman is gorgeous; she reminds Zoya a bit of Sabrina Carpenter. She looks the complete opposite of Riley’s scruffy appearance.
“You’re Townsend’s ex-wife.”
Zoya didn’t even plan on being spiteful; the words just slipped out before she could think to swallow them. Laoise ducks her head with a hunch to her shoulders.
“I… yes. It’s a long, complicated story.” The blonde whispers timidly.
Riley presses a kiss to the crown of her head while glaring down at Zoya angrily.
“Um, could you order that chicken sandwich for me, sweetheart? Lots of pickles please.” Laoise bats her lashes up at him and Zoya swears if the man could physically melt in a puddle of goo, he would. Riley nods eagerly, helping the woman sit in the booth across from Zoya before striding toward the cashier.
“You must be Detective Reid. Riley has mentioned you. Not very happy you punched him in the mouth.” There’s amusement swimming her gaze and it makes Zoya let her guard down a little.
“He does sometimes. Look, I know you might think I’m a horrible person, but I promise it’s… it’s a lot more complicated than me just leaving Townsend because I had a senseless affair with Riley or something.” Laoise ducks her head again and this time she’s close enough for Zoya to see a milky white scar on the base of her neck. She is content to let it go until she notices it looks suspiciously like… teeth marks. Her fingers move before her brain has enough time to remind her about boundaries. Shifting the woman’s collar to the side, Zoya gapes at the scar that are in fact, teeth marks.
“What the fuck happened to you? Did you get attacked by the killer but managed to escape?”
The woman bats her hand away from her neck, scrambling to conceal the scar with the collar of her dress.
“No! I… Riley and I… we like to…” the woman trails off with an awkward cough.
Realization dawns on Zoya and her expression morphs into a comedic cross between horror and disgust.
“Laoise… even if that’s some fucked up kink, for him to leave a scar? He attempted to maul you and you enjoyed it? If he’s hurting you but you’re afraid-”
“No!” Laoise yells in panic. Riley turns to face them like he heard her distress from his place by the counter despite all the chatter and music.
“He doesn’t. Not at all. It’s… complicated.” She finishes lamely.
“I’m starting to think that’s the only word in your vocabulary.” Zoya says with a frown.
“I know you think I’m crazy or helpless. But I promise; I’m okay. Riley would rather pull his own heart from his chest than hurt me intentionally.” Laoise says it with such certainty that even Zoya is convinced. And she’s terrified.
“Cúplálaim.”The word tickles at the edges of her mind again suddenly.
Her feet stumble in her haste to stand, it makes Laoise blink up at her in surprise.
Zoya tries to take a deep, steadying breath to stall the oncoming anxiety attack she feels creeping in. Her chest tightens, the muscle in her chest erratic.
She had pushed all the folklore she spent twenty minutes in her parked jeep reading about werewolves and mates to the deepest depths of her brain, desperately trying not to spiral. Because werewolves aren’t real. Her brain just reacted to that stressful day she had and caused her to have nightmares. That’s it. There’s a serial killer on the loose who might take another victim soon. She doesn’t have the time for myths and legends.
Riley is suddenly in her line of sight; she’s aware he’s speaking as he brandishes a brown paper bag but Zoya only hears ringing in her ears.
“Detective?” Riley’s brows pinch with concern.
“Cian says this is yours.”
Zoya stares for a few seconds too long before she snatches the bag from his hand. Her fingers tremble while she digs through the pocket of her jacket. Slapping the $20 bill in Riley’s palm, Zoya hurries out the diner without a backward glance.
“Going out on interrogations without me, Reid?”
Townsend narrows his eyes at her in clear annoyance.
Zoya shrugs, feigning nonchalance; “I wanted to meet him alone.”
“And how effective was that? What tricks do you have up your sleeve that suddenly made him tell you more than he told us?” Alhuwalia questions coarsely.
The deputy flinches as Zoya drops the file on his desk unceremoniously. “Well, I now know that Cian is a possible suspect since Virgil told me that the brothers had an argument on the night of O’Connor’s murder. Didn’t see that anywhere in your poorly written up report.”
The men sit in stunned silence for a few seconds. It’s Townsend who breaks it.
“What? And why the fuck didn’t he tell us that?”
“He said he didn’t feel like it. And don’t worry, I told him about all the ways he was obstructing justice already; spoiler alert, he didn’t care. But, now we know Cian is a possible suspect. I went to see him at the diner a few minutes ago; apparently, he has a solid alibi but I still have a few questions to ask a few people.”
“You mean we have a few questions to ask some people.” Townsend cocks a brow at her.
“Uh… yea tomatoe tomato.” She waves a hand flippantly.
“Where was O’Connor’s body found again?”
“The woods. A few miles away from where you’re staying, actually.” The deputy mentions offhandedly.
“I’ll take you there tomorrow. For now, who did you have in mind to interrogate?”
Zoya eyes the sheriff. Contemplating. She didn’t want him with her, she has a feeling the small community allows space for affection between most of the people living here. He might not like her harsh methods, but she knows withholding information will only cause more tension amongst them.
“The cashier should be easy to break if Cian isn’t being truthful.”
“O’Brien? He’s a good kid. We shouldn’t-”
“And this is exactly why I don’t want you tagging along. You’ll have a soft spot for most of the citizens because the town is so small. I’m here to solve a case, Townsend. Not play nice and make friends.” Her tone is belligerent but she doesn’t care.
Townsend straightens, face pinched like he took a bite out of a lemon.
“Fair enough, Detective. Anyone else you’d like to ask some questions?”
Zoya hesitates before speaking; “Yes. Laoise.”
Townsend’s mug of coffee crashes against the floor.
Zoya is dismissed early for the day. She isn’t surprised in the slightest; after Townsend toppled his desk over in a fit of rage, Alhuwalia suggested it was best she took the rest of the day off. Her thoughts are occupied the entire ride back to the humble log cabin. The van rattles on the short pavement and almost sputters before she kills the engine. Zoya’s eyes drift to the thick density of trees just behind her home; Townsend’s words weigh heavy in her mind: “We found the body in the woods, a few miles from where you’re staying, actually.” She exits the vehicle as if in a trance. A little voice screams in her head that wandering off into the woods alone is not only unwise, but sloppy for someone in her profession. Even then, she keeps moving forward, though her hand fingers the gun tucked into the holster at her waist. The trees blot out the harshest rays of the sun, but it’s just a little past 3 pm, so it’s still illuminated enough for her to see clearly. Fallen leaves and twigs crunch beneath her boots that leave a trail of prints in the damp soil. Zoya has no idea where to even start looking, but she has to try. She sticks to one straight route, the last thing she needs is to get lost because of taking too many twists and turns. Ten minutes into her curious trekking, she hears something. Her heart slams against her ribcage and her feet suddenly feel like they’re made of lead. Repetitive, dull thudding and labored breathing. It takes her a few more seconds of holding her breath to listen keenly to finally make sense of what she’s hearing. Cautiously, Zoya moves in the direction of the sound. A gasp tumbles out of her mouth without permission; she doesn’t think twice about ducking behind a large tree to keep herself hidden, ignoring the dull throb of pain from scraping her hand harshly against the rough bark. She figured it was someone close by chopping wood. What she didn’t expect was that someone to be a very familiar caramel skinned man— without a shirt on. Her finger throbs, but she bites her bottom lip hard enough to taste metal. There’s suddenly a pause, the chopping comes to a halt. Zoya hears her heartbeat in her ears over the sound of the gentle rustling of the leaves.
“How long are you going to stay behind that tree?”
She curses bitterly under her breath before stepping out from her hiding place. Virgil’s expression remains blank, eyes hard.
“Stop looking at me like that, I wasn’t following you.” She mutters with a frown.
“I know, that makes it more concerning. Why are you wandering around alone in the woods?” There’s a stern edge to his voice, and Zoya doesn’t know what it is, but something about this man makes her pliable.
“I… The sheriff said they found O’Connor’s body somewhere around here. I wanted to see if I could… find anything.” She shrugs lamely.
The axe is embedded in a thick chunk of wood with a muted thud. Zoya’s eyes remain fixed on it. The man barely put effort in the throw yet the axe is buried so deeply it almost splits the wood in two. Too busy trying to analyze his sheer strength, she doesn’t notice him approaching until his spicy musk invades her nostrils. Craning her head to stare up at him, Zoya tries not to cower under the weight of his stare.
“I don’t even have to begin explaining how stupid that is to you, right?”
“Last time I checked, I didn’t ask you shit.” She raises her chin defiantly despite the slight tremor that rattles her fingers.
Instead of responding, Virgil smirks while reaching for her right hand. Zoya is too stunned to resist as he lifts her index finger between his lips. She realizes it’s the finger she cut against the rough bark of the tree in her haste to hide. A choked off whimper gets caught in her throat while she watches on in wide stupor. Heat rushes through her body in a way that feels unnatural but it’s gone before she can even think about it further. He releases her finger with a pop.
“Are you fucking insane?” She manages to get the words albeit breathlessly.
Virgil brings his index to his own mouth, wiping something from his tongue; “You had a piece of bark stuck in your finger. You need to be careful, detective.” Something sinister twinkles in his eye.
Keeping her eyes on him, Zoya starts backing away from him slowly; “You’re… all you people are insane. Don’t touch me like that again.”
He cocks his head subtly; “Are you sure?”
“Yes! Don’t- stay away from me, and that’s a warning.”
He smiles with all his teeth. It makes a shiver crawl up the length of her spine.
“You’re staying at the cabin a few meters away, right? Might want to check on that window to the east. There’s a thunderstorm coming in tonight, detective.”
Zoya eyes him warily before spinning on her heels to stride away from him with her heart shaking in her chest.
“Oh, and try to get some sleep tonight. You look exhausted.”
Zoya’s breath stutters but she doesn’t dare look back.
Something is wrong. And Zoya isn’t referring to the winds howling like a wailing spirit outside. True to Virgil’s words, a thunderstorm hit within hours of her leaving him behind in the woods. The window he warned her about keeps rattling; she had planned to fix it, truly. But so the temperature outside began to drop, hers began to rise. The blanket is pulled tighter under her chin as shivers wrack her entire frame, teeth chattering. She’s burning up and she has no idea why. She felt fine all day; no sign of a sore throat, no feelings of fatigue or discomfort. One minute she was making a quick pasta after her shower, the next she was shivering before she could even finish half her food. But what’s worse? As the minutes tick by, Zoya can feel herself growing aroused. Her skin is littered with goosebumps, nipples tight and the place between her legs damp— throbbing. It’s distressing enough for her to whine. A loud crack of thunder forces her to bury her face in her pillows, it’s frightening. Apparently, not frightening enough to stop her hips from rutting desperately against her mattress though.
“What’s happening to me?” She whines to herself in the dark of her bedroom.
The window rattles even harder, and Zoya prays it doesn’t come loose. The heat between her legs becomes impossible to ignore. With a grunt, Zoya untangles her hand from the blankets to shove it between her legs without preamble. There’s no need for buildup. Her pussy is so warm against her fingertips that it makes her hiss. They glide through with ease with how soaked she is. Zoya’s muddled brain knows something isn’t right; the heat she can explain by the fever, but she has never been this wet in her life. Ever. She shimmies out of her underwear that has been soaked completely through and utterly useless. Her fingers circle her throbbing clit in tight little circles and in under a minute she’s muffling her cries in her mattress. Instead of relief, the orgasm seems to set off whatever is wreaking havoc in her body ten times worse.
“What the fuck?” Zoya squeezes her eyes shut, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.
At first, she thinks the pounding is coming from the storm knocking against something fragile. It takes her a moment too long to notice it’s actually coming from her front door. Her heart leaps in relief. It must be Townsend coming to check on her— she’d definitely ask him to take her to the hospital if the weather allows it. Stumbling to her feet, Zoya keeps the blanket firmly wrapped around her body— mostly for warmth but to also keep her naked lower half hidden. Her legs feel like a separate entity as she drags along the walls to the front door.
“Townsend?” She calls out, hand hovering over the locks.
That reply. One word. But it makes her double over with a keen. Virgil’s voice, for whatever reason, set off an inferno in her already burning body. It turns her brain to mush. Her fingers scramble to unlock the door, and when she finally does, Zoya has the strongest urge to throw herself at the man soaked from head to toe from the pouring rain on her porch. There’s a rusty, metal tool box in his left hand.
“Wh- what are you…?” Zoya sucks in a tremulous breath.
Virgil stares with a dark glint in his eyes; “Came to check on you. I noticed you haven’t fixed the window. It’s about to come loose.” His voice sounds even more gruff than usual. It makes fresh tears spring to her eyes.
“I… I planned to but I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She whimpers when her lower belly clenches. Her pussy throbs harder, and Zoya has to clench her teeth so she doesn’t moan.
His nostrils flare, but he says nothing. Virgil steps through her front door without waiting for an invitation. The door is slammed shut behind him. Zoya can only blink up at him with tear filled eyes while she supports her weight on the wall. His scent warms her space as he makes his way further inside her house leaving her alone in the living room. A few minutes later, the telltale sounds of hammering echoes throughout the space. Zoya drags herself to the couch, kneeling to avoid stimulating her pussy. It doesn’t help.
“I… I can’t!” It’s a cry to no one in particular as she ruts against air.
“Look at you.” Virgil’s deep voice tutts in mockery.
She didn’t even realize he was back in the living room.
“I… it’s… ‘m wet. I’m so…” Zoya cuts herself off with a whimper as another wave hits. Shamelessly, she brings her hand between her legs. Zoya can’t even feel embarrassed, she just wants— no needs, to take the edge off. The orgasm hits in a rush after a few harsh rubs to her clit. But again…
“Aw. That won’t do, detective. I know what can help.” His gravely voice makes her shiver violently. Another time, she’d question how he knows, but right now?
“It’s… make it stop! Please?”
He crosses his arms across his chest, his smirk subtle but present; “You said I shouldn’t touch you again, Zoya.”
Her name falling from his lips makes her sob.
“Don’t care… didn’t mean it. Please, just… it hurts, Virgil.” It sounds as pitiful as she feels.
His expression shifts— gone is the mockery, quickly replaced by concern and hunger. She never noticed the visible bulge in his jeans until now. Zoya almost begs for it but he moves before she gets the chance to. His hands feel like ice against her skin. She clings to him like a koala as he hoists her up from the couch. Zoya isn’t sure what it is, but his touch alone is already cooling her down. The blanket comes loose, baring her to him.
“Look at you, hm? In heat just for me.”
She doesn’t know what that means but she moans wantonly, nodding in agreement.
“I know what you need, baby. Need to get knotted, hm?”
His fingers touch at her pussy and he hisses.
“Fucking hell, Zoya. All this for me?”
Virgil eases three fingers inside suddenly. Zoya is so wet that there’s little resistance.
“Yes!” She muffles her cries in the cool skin of his neck. Eyes rolling at the feel of his long fingers prodding inside her. Her muscles lock tight, belly fluttering. She clenches around him once, twice—
Zoya comes so hard her vision goes white.
“Fuck, you eager little thing. Who knew you’d be putty like this in my arms, hm? All that big girl act when you’re outside…”
She starts babbling something while she rides his fingers desperately, hands clinging to his neck like a lifeline as the orgasm rattles even her very teeth. Virgil sits with her on his lap, muttering in mockery all the while as she drips down the entire length of his arm.
Her fingers move between their bodies to rub against the hard bulge that presses insistently against her thigh. Her brain has long taken a walk, yet she knows it’s big. She knows it’s big and it would make her feel better, almost as if it’s on an instinctual level. Zoya claws desperately at the zipper of his wet jeans.
His hand flies out to grip her waist.
Zoya chokes; “But… I… want it. Want it, please? Virgi-”
“Don’t make this hard for me, Zoya. Fuck.”
Virgil squeezes his pinky finger to fit inside with the other three. It’s snug, but he knows it’s exactly what she needs. Zoya stiffens in his arms, then throws her head back with a high pitched keen. Virgil groans, feeling the rhythmic clenching around his fingers.
“There you go, baby.” He ignores the way his canines throb as she presents the length of her neck. It would be so easy… so easy to claim. Shaking his head rapidly, he keeps his fingers stuffed inside. It’s not the real thing, but that instinctual part of her won’t know the difference in faux heat. He just needs to keep her nice and full until she passes out. She’ll be back to herself in a few hours. Virgil feels his gums throbbing as his canines elongate. Her scent is intoxicating; Zoya already smelt divine with a unique blend of honey and something floral, the tropical kind. Her arousal heightens it tenfold, he’s so tempted lap at every drop leaking from between her legs; but he refrains, he knows just a taste would send him into a frenzy. He couldn’t control his wolf then. It’s already a hard task with it chanting insistently in the back of his mind: ‘mine, mine, mine.’
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Zoya. And all mine. You don’t even know it, hm? That you were made for me.”
She jerks with a whine, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He can already feel her temperature going down, but he knows she still isn’t lucid. He had no idea just a drop of his saliva would’ve made her so insatiable, not at all what he intended. It’s no wonder he couldn’t rest until he found his way over here. He sent her into faux heat. She needed him. And Zoya doesn’t know it yet, but he needs her even more.
