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Grant had smoked a ham the size of a spare tire.
The dining table groaned under the weight of it all.
They dug in, plates disappearing under heaps of food, laughter rolling around the cabin’s timber beams. Grant seemed especially at ease tonight—maybe it was the warmth, maybe the beer, maybe just finally having people around his table. He ate with gusto, deep satisfied grunts rumbling out between mouthfuls. His friends were already loosening their belts by the time he refilled his own plate twice… then a third time.
Owen chuckled, watching Grant reach for a ladle dripping with gravy. “Man, where does all of that even go? You’re a machine.”
Miguel grinned. “I’m convinced he’s hollow inside.”
Grant shrugged, his beard brushing his collar as he dug into more stuffing. “Big man needs big fuel.”
But inside him—buried beneath the warmth, the fellowship, the feast—something else stirred.
A deep, old, feral hunger curled awake.
It started as a warm pressure in his gut… then spread, coiling into his chest, tightening behind his ribs. Grant sat back for a moment, feeling his stomach push subtly against his gray sweater. He took a breath, steady and slow, but the hunger unfurled wider, licking at him from the inside.
He reached for the turkey leg next—and tore it off with his teeth like it was nothing. The guys laughed, but Grant barely heard them. His body wanted more. His pulse kicked up. His throat felt too empty, too needy.
Darren, always the instigator, leaned forward with a grin.
“Hey, Grant,” he said, smirking. “Think you could out-eat all of us put together? Bet you could. Hell, bet you could swallow half this table.”
That was all the permission he needed.
He stood so suddenly his chair scraped back across the wood floor. His huge hand came down on the roasted turkey—Miguel barely had time to yelp before Grant lifted the whole bird to his mouth.
With a single deep, rolling gulp, Grant’s throat expanded.
With another, the entire turkey vanished past his bearded jaw.
Darren blinked, stunned—but only for half a second.
Because Grant’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.
“Whoa—whoa, hey, h–hey—GRANT—wait—” Darren sputtered, stumbling as Grant pulled him in like a meal already claimed. His massive hands lifted the man with shocking ease, and Grant’s jaw stretched, beard brushing Darren’s chest as he shoved the struggling man inside.
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