You’re house-sitting your parents cabin when a wolf scratches at the door in need of help.
Valko finds his mate (you) and goes a little crazy
Tags: explicit sex, smut, knotting, breeding, face-sitting, just the tip, crybaby-top, begging, mating bites, animalistic behavior
“Did you know he’s a CEO?” Maria drilled on, her voice a breathless whisper tinged with wonder. She scribbled another order on a cup, the black marker squeaking against the cardboard, but her eyes never left the man waiting by the counter.
You didn’t need to ask who she meant. You already knew. You could feel him.
He was staring at you. Again.
He hadn’t stopped staring at you since the moment he walked through the door three weeks ago. His golden eyes—god, gold, not hazel or amber but actual molten gold—tracked your every movement from behind a pair of square-framed glasses. Those eyes followed your hands as you worked the espresso machine, traced the line of your shoulders when you turned away, lingered on your face with an intensity that made your skin prickle with heat and your stomach do something complicated and uncomfortable. His expression never changed. Blank. Unreadable. Like a marble statue someone had dressed in a bespoke suit and propped up in the middle of a downtown coffee shop.
“I think he’s also a serial killer,” you muttered under your breath, suppressing an involuntary shiver. The air in the café felt colder whenever he was around—or maybe that was just your nerves freezing over. You glanced back up, bracing yourself for that unrelenting stare, only to find that his eyes had snapped away. Now he was suddenly, intently focused on the pastry display, his jaw tight, as if he’d heard you from clear across the room.
Which was impossible. The espresso machine was hissing, someone’s indie folk playlist was whining through the overhead speakers, and you’d barely breathed the words.
“I think he’s just into you,” Maria said, and you didn’t have to look at her to hear the jealousy curdling in her tone. It was the same voice she used when she talked about influencers with perfect lives. A little awed, a little bitter
“Into making me uncomfortable, maybe.”
But the truth was more complicated, and you hated that you cared enough to notice. He was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. That was just an objective fact, like gravity or the price of rent. He towered over everyone, broad-shouldered and long-limbed, always impeccably dressed in dark suits that probably cost more than your monthly paycheck. His hair was a deep, wine-dark red, swept back from his forehead in a way that made your fingers itch to touch it. And those eyes. God, those eyes. When they landed on you, it felt like standing in a sunbeam—if sunbeams could also make you feel like prey.
After that first encounter, the CEO started coming in every single morning. Same time. Same order. Iced vanilla latte with extra syrup.
Extra syrup. The man had a sweet tooth. A relentless, unapologetic sweet tooth. You’d seen him order it enough times now that the words were etched into your brain. He liked sweet things, and that tiny detail felt like a secret you were never supposed to know about someone so cold.
You tried, in the beginning, to be friendly. It was your job. It was also, if you were being honest, a desperate attempt to see if there was a human being underneath that gorgeous, glacial exterior.
“The weather is pretty cold today, huh?” you offered one morning, sliding his receipt across the counter with your best customer-service smile. The air outside was biting, late autumn wind rattling the door and making the windows fog up with condensation.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. For one breathless second, you thought he might actually say something—something real, something with syllables. His throat worked, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
The word fell out of him like a stone dropping into still water. Then he turned, abruptly, and walked away to wait for his drink, his shoulders rigid, his hands shoved into his pockets.
You stood there, receipt still half-extended, feeling like you’d just been slapped. One word. One miserable, monosyllabic acknowledgment of your existence. The espresso machine whined in the silence, and your face burned with humiliation.
There was no other explanation. You’d seen him with other people. You’d seen him actually smile at Maria a few times—a small, polite curve of his lips that transformed his face from intimidating to unfairly handsome. You’d heard him crack a dry joke once, something about the weather, and Maria had laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. With her, he could manage whole sentences. With her, he was almost charming.
With you, he acted like you were radioactive.
Desperation made you stupid. One morning, after a sleepless night spent pointlessly dissecting every interaction you’d ever had with him, you decided to try a different approach. A compliment. Who didn’t like compliments?
“Hey,” you said when he stepped up to the register, your heart already hammering against your ribs like it wanted to escape your chest entirely. “I like your suit today.”
He froze. Literally froze, one hand still reaching for his wallet, his entire body going still as stone. Up close, he was so tall you had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and the height difference made you feel small in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
“The silver is a nice touch,” you added, pointing at the subtle silver threading in his tie, the matching cufflinks glinting at his wrists. You smiled up at him, willing your expression to be warm, open, not obviously terrified.
His golden eyes widened. Just a fraction. But you saw it. You saw the way his pupils dilated, the way his lips parted like he was going to say something. A strange, choked noise escaped his throat—half grunt, half something more pained—and then he was gone. Again. Walking away from you like you’d just confessed to a felony.
The register beeped in the silence he left behind. You stared at the empty space where he’d been standing, your smile crumbling, heat rushing to your cheeks.
Right. Okay. Message received.
It was official, then. He thought you were ugly. Disgraceful. Some unfortunate creature he had to tolerate to get his caffeine fix. You should just keep your mouth shut. Stop trying. Stop hoping for something you couldn’t even name.
But the next day, he walked in wearing a suit so similar to yesterday’s that it had to be intentional. Silver threading. Silver cufflinks. The same cut, the same style, just a slightly darker shade of charcoal. You noticed because you were pathetic and you noticed everything about him now. The way his hair caught the fluorescent lights. The way his cologne—something woodsy and warm, like cedar and amber—lingered at the counter long after he’d walked away. The way his hands looked, large and strong, when he reached for his coffee.
You couldn’t deny it anymore. You were attracted to him. Hopelessly, stupidly attracted. The whole serious CEO vibe, the glasses, the suits, the way he towered over you like a skyscraper made of muscle and expensive fabric—it was hot. It was so hot it made you angry. His eyes were gold. Gold. Like the sun breaking through clouds. You’d never seen anything like them, and you couldn’t stop thinking about them, even when you were trying to sleep, even when you were supposed to be paying attention to literally anything else.
The next time he approached the counter, you didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Vanilla latte, extra syrup,” you said, already punching it into the register. “We also have new cake pops in today. Birthday cake flavor. I know you like them.”
Because he did. He got them sometimes. Not often, but enough that you’d noticed. Enough that you’d filed the information away in the stupid, hopeful part of your brain that refused to give up on him.
Valko—you’d learned his name from his credit card, from the way Maria said it with a little sigh—just stared at you. His face flushed. Actually flushed, a deep pink creeping up from his collar, spreading across his cheekbones, darkening the tips of his ears. He shook his head, a short, jerky motion, paid without a word, and retreated from your counter like he was fleeing a burning building.
You sighed, the sound escaping before you could stop it. The cake pops sat untouched in their little glass display, bright and cheerful and completely ignored.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that he spoke when he ordered, you’d think he was mute. Maybe you should just accept it. Accept that you repulsed him on some fundamental level you couldn’t understand. Accept that the way his eyes followed you around the room meant nothing. Accept that the flutter in your chest every time he walked through the door was a waste of perfectly good adrenaline.
But you didn’t want to accept it. That was the worst part. You wanted him to like you. You wanted it so badly it ached, a hollow, hungry feeling that settled behind your sternum and refused to leave.
Another day of him treating you like you had the bubonic plague. Another day of you going home and replaying every awkward interaction in your head until you wanted to scream.
All Valko could think was:
She was standing right there, close enough to touch, close enough to smell. Close enough that if he just reached out, he could brush his fingers against the soft skin of her wrist, feel her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips, and god, he wanted to. He wanted to so badly his teeth ached with it.
She’s so pretty. The thought circled his brain like a mantra, drowning out everything else. The coffee shop noises, the other customers, the endless demands of his work calendar. None of it mattered. All that mattered was her. So pretty. So beautiful. She smiled at me and I swear I can see the sun in her eyes.
And she knew his order. She knew it. Had it memorized, right there on the tip of her tongue, before he even opened his mouth. Iced vanilla latte with extra syrup. She knew what he liked. She remembered. She thought about him.
We are basically married.
He knew he was insane. He knew it with the same bone-deep certainty that he knew his own name. This was not normal behavior. This was not a sane way to think about another person. But he couldn’t stay away from her. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. He’d told himself he’d find another coffee shop, one on the other side of the city, one where he wouldn’t be haunted by the scent of her every single morning. But his feet carried him here anyway, every damn time, like she was magnetic north and he was a compass with no choice but to follow.
And every time, he regretted it. Every time, he made a fool of himself in front of her.
He was terrified of speaking to her. Not because he didn’t have anything to say—he had too much. A flood of words, declarations, confessions. If he opened his mouth, he was going to tell her he loved her. He was going to drop to his knees right there on the scuffed linoleum floor and beg her to be his. And she would think he was crazy. She would be right. And then she’d never speak to him again, and the thought of that was worse than death. Worse than anything.
So he said nothing. He gave her one-word answers and walked away before the dam inside him could break.
But every time he looked at her, he wanted to lunge over the counter. He wanted to cup her face in his hands and kiss her until she was breathless, until she forgot her own name, until the only word she remembered was his. He wanted to rub himself against her—his cheek, his chest, his whole body—until she smelled like him, until his scent was soaked into her skin and her hair and her clothes and everyone who looked at her would know. Know she was his. Know she was taken. Know she belonged to someone who would burn the world down to keep her safe.
My mate. The thought rose up in his chest like a wave, possessive and blissful and overwhelming. My mate, my mate, my mate.
He had found her. He never thought he would. He had resigned himself, years ago, to a life alone, focused on the company, the pack, the endless weight of responsibility. And then he’d been walking past this unremarkable coffee shop on an unremarkable Tuesday, and suddenly he’d smelled something. Something sweet. Something heavenly. Something that bypassed his brain entirely and went straight to his hindbrain, to the wolf that lived under his skin, waking it up with a howl of pure, primal recognition.
He’d gone inside without thinking. Followed the scent like a man in a dream. And then he’d seen her.
The most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. She’d turned to him, her eyes meeting his for the first time, and he’d caught her scent—clean laundry, vanilla, something uniquely her underneath—and his wolf had screamed.
Now his teeth itched every time she was within ten feet of him. A physical, maddening itch deep in his gums, the urge to bite, to claim, to mark. He needed to. The wolf inside him paced and snarled and clawed at his ribs, demanding action. If he never got to bite her, if he never got to sink his teeth into the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder and bind her to him forever, he was going to go crazy. He already felt crazy. He was hanging on by a thread.
Now he was in his penthouse, the city lights glittering cold and distant through the floor-to-ceiling windows, digging a fork into a takeout container with no appetite whatsoever.
“Dude, just ask her out.” Xade was sprawled on the leather sofa across from him, looking infuriatingly relaxed. “I can’t stand your moping. It gets to a point.”
“I can’t,” Valko said, and the words came out like a groan, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I don’t understand? Me?” Xade pointed at himself, eyebrows shooting up. He was big, almost as big as Valko, with a slouch that made him look lazy and eyes that missed nothing. “You remember how I was when I first met Gina? Remember the week I couldn’t eat? The week I kept accidentally shifting in my sleep because I was so worked up?”
Valko winced. “Oh god, don’t remind me.”
“The mate stuff doesn’t have to be complicated. Just ask her out. Use your words. You’re a CEO, man. You give presentations to hundreds of people. You can ask one human girl if she wants to get dinner.”
Valko set his food down, the container thunking against the glass coffee table. He dropped his head into his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. “If she says no, I will want to die. I’m being serious, Xade. If she says no, I will have to jump off a bridge.”
Xade chuckled, low and warm, and it was annoying how unsympathetic he sounded. “Ah, yeah. I remember feeling like that too. Everything is a bit overwhelming at first. The bond, the instincts—it’s like being hit by a truck. But once you mark her, all those feelings…” He paused, searching for the words. “They don’t really go away. But they settle. They turn into something more peaceful. Something you can live with.”
Valko’s chest tightened. “She’s human.” He’d checked. Twice. He’d gotten close enough to scent her properly, had searched for any trace of wolf, any hint of something other than purely, beautifully human, and found nothing. “What if I hurt her? The marking, the bonding—what if it’s too much for her?”
“What if I do?” Valko’s voice cracked, pitching upward into something that was almost a shriek. He didn’t care. He was past dignity. “If I hurt her, I will hurt myself. I will have to. I can’t live with ever hurting her. The thought of it makes me want to tear my own skin off.”
Xade was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler. “You need to let out some steam, brother. Want to go for a run this weekend? A real run. We can head up to the forest, hunt something. Remind the wolf that he’s still a wolf.”
Something in Valko’s chest unclenched. Just slightly. Just enough that he could breathe. The wolf had been pacing for weeks, cooped up in boardrooms and offices and this sterile penthouse, going slowly insane with proximity to his mate and the inability to do anything about it. A run. A hunt. The smell of pine and earth and the cold bite of the wind.
“God, yes.” The words came out fervent, almost desperate. “Please.”
“Nice!” Xade grinned, all teeth. “We haven’t been in so long. You’re too busy with your fancy company and your fancy suits.”
“It’s not fancy,” Valko growled, but there was no heat in it.
“Uh huh. Sure.” Xade leaned back, still grinning, and Valko let himself imagine it. The forest. The moonlight. The chance to stop thinking, just for a little while, and let the wolf take over.
But even as he pictured it, his mind drifted back to her. The coffee shop. The way she’d smiled at him today, tentative and hopeful. The way she’d complimented his suit and his entire brain had short-circuited, his wolf howling she likes us she likes us she LIKES us while his human mouth produced a sound like a dying animal.
The way he’d walked away from her. Again.
He was a coward. A pathetic, lovesick coward. But he was her pathetic, lovesick coward, and tomorrow morning he would walk into that coffee shop again, and he would stare at her like a man dying of thirst staring at water, and he would probably fail to say anything coherent, and he would hate himself for it.
And he would go back. Every single day. Until something changed.
Or until he finally went completely insane. Whichever came first.
"Yes, Mom, I promise," you say for the hundredth time, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you fumble with the key. The lock on the cabin door was ancient and stubborn, the kind that required a very specific jiggle and a muttered curse before it finally clicked. "I won't forget the ficus. Or the orchids. Or the—" you glance at the Post-it note stuck to your palm, "—the monstera that apparently needs a humidifier at exactly 4 PM."
Your mother's voice crackled through the speaker, still rattling off instructions like she was briefing a special ops mission rather than leaving her houseplants in your care. The cabin smelled like cedar and cinnamon and the faint, dusty sweetness of dried lavender bundles hanging from the rafters. It was cozy, in a rustic, Pinterest-board kind of way, but it was also undeniably isolated. The nearest neighbor was a mile away, and the forest pressed in on all sides, thick and dark and full of things that rustled in the undergrowth.
Your parents lived in a pretty secluded cabin in the middle of the woods, the kind of place where the silence was so complete it made your ears ring. They were on vacation for the next two weeks—some cruise where the Wi-Fi was spotty and the drinks were overpriced—which meant, of course, they'd called upon their favorite free house sitter. You.
Your mom was neurotic about her plants. It wasn't just a hobby; it was a full-blown relationship. The ficus needed indirect light from the east window between 8 AM and noon. The orchids required misting with distilled water only, and you had to count to three for each spritz—no more, no less. The monstera, a sprawling, dramatic thing with leaves the size of dinner plates, needed its humidifier turned on at 4 pm sharp or it would allegedly wilt out of spite. There were so many rules. So many tiny, specific, life-or-death instructions. You were going to blow your head off.
"And sweetheart," your mom added, her voice dipping into that earnest, slightly concerned tone she reserved for things that made no sense, "don't forget to talk to them. They get lonely."
You paused, the Post-it note crinkling in your grip. Talk to them. Talk to the plants. Like they were pets. Like they would respond.
"Uh huh," you said, because arguing with her was pointless. "Sure, Mom. I'll tell the ficus all about my day."
She didn't catch the sarcasm. She never did.
Hard pass. No way. You were not going to talk to plants like a crazy lady. You'd water them, you'd mist them, you'd perform the elaborate humidifier ritual, but you drew the line at conversation.
The cabin settled around you as you hung up, the floorboards creaking in the way old houses did, as if they were constantly readjusting to your presence. You had to admit, you were a little freaked out being out here alone. The forest had a way of making you feel small. Every snapped twig outside sounded like a footstep. Every gust of wind through the pines sounded like someone breathing. But your dad had a couple of guns hidden around the house—a shotgun in the hall closet, a handgun in the nightstand drawer—and knowing they were there, solid and heavy and real, made you feel a little more secure. You'd grown up around them. You knew how to use them if you had to.
Still, you triple-checked the locks before you finally allowed yourself to relax.
You fully planned on binge-watching the new season of Love Island you’d missed over the summer and drowning in pink pajamas while eating frozen meals the entire time. Bad reality TV and a comfy blanket was your idea of a good time. No bra, no responsibilities, no judgment. Just you, a microwaved mac and cheese, and the glorious trainwreck of people making terrible romantic decisions on a tropical island.
The first few hours were bliss. You sprawled across the lumpy-but-charming couch, a fleece blanket tucked up to your chin, the flickering glow of the television painting the walls in shades of blue and gold. A bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream balanced precariously on your stomach, slowly melting into a sweet green soup. You were close to falling asleep, the voices on the show fading into a pleasant, meaningless murmur, when you heard it.
A scratching sound at the back door.
Everything in you paused. The ice cream bowl wobbled. Your heart, which had been doing a lazy, contented rhythm, suddenly decided to switch gears and slam against your ribs.
The sound continued. Not entirely frantic but... persistent. A steady, rhythmic scrape of something against the wood.
You sat up slowly, the blanket pooling around your waist. The TV kept playing, some contestant crying about a recoupling, but the sound felt distant now, irrelevant. You set the ice cream bowl aside with trembling hands, vanilla-sweet stickiness coating your fingers. Standing up, you brushed crumbs from your tank top—when had you eaten crackers?—and became suddenly, painfully aware of how ridiculous you looked. Hair pulled into a messy bun. Pink pajama pants covered in tiny cartoon strawberries. Bare feet cold against the hardwood floor.
You crept closer to the back door, your pulse hammering in your ears.
It's an animal, you told yourself. It had to be. A raccoon. A stray cat. Something small and harmless and completely uninterested in murdering you. You just hoped it wasn't a bear. Bears scratched at doors, right? Or was that a movie thing? Your dad's shotgun suddenly felt very far away, locked in a closet on the other side of the house.
Curiosity got the better of you. It always did. You reached for the doorknob, the metal cold against your clammy palm, and turned it slowly. The door swung open with a low creak, and you immediately scrambled backward, your heart leaping into your throat, bracing yourself for something to lunge.
Gold eyes stared back at you.
It was a wolf. A giant wolf, dark gray fur thick and wild, its body massive enough to fill the entire doorframe. Or—wait. Maybe it was a dog? A really, really big dog? You stood frozen, your brain cycling through possibilities. Wolf. Dog. Wolf-dog. Something that was definitely going to eat you. You took another step back, your heel catching on the edge of a rug, and the creature moved too, a fluid, graceful shift of muscle that made you freeze up entirely.
And then it rubbed against your legs.
A warm, heavy weight pressed against your shins, fur so soft it felt like silk against your bare skin. Its tail—a huge, bushy thing—began wagging back and forth with such enthusiasm that its entire hind end wiggled. It looked up at you with those impossible gold eyes, ears pressed back in pure, unadulterated excitement, and made a sound that was somewhere between a whine and a happy grumble.
"Aw." Your heart melted. Instantly. Completely. All the fear drained out of you and was replaced by something warm and gooey, like the melted ice cream still sitting on the couch. You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly, and glided them over the top of its head, sinking into soft gray fur. "You're a good boy, aren't you?"
The creature—dog, definitely a dog, no wolf would react like this—got even more excited at those words, bumping its head insistently into your palm, demanding more pets. It made a chuffing sound, almost like a sneeze, and nosed at your wrist.
"What are you doing all the way out here?" you asked, scratching behind its ears, which it clearly loved. Its eyes half-closed in bliss, and a low, rumbling sound started in its chest. It was almost like a purr, if purrs were made of thunder and felt through your entire hand. "Do you have an owner looking for you? Are you lost, baby?"
You were fully crouched now, both hands buried in its fur, cooing like an idiot. You couldn't help it. He was so soft. So warm. The fur around his neck was thicker, almost like a mane, and you scratched there with both hands until his leg started thumping against the floor.
Then, suddenly, he let out a sharp whine. He lifted his front paw, holding it up in the air like he was offering it to you, his ears airplaning out to the sides.
"Oh baby, are you hurt?" The pet name slipped out before you could stop it, all syrupy and concerned. You knelt down fully, ignoring the cold of the floor seeping through your pajama pants. Gently, so gently, you lifted his paw. It was huge, bigger than your whole hand, the pads rough and warm. You squeezed lightly, feeling the bones and tendons shift, and he whined again, a pitiful, high-pitched sound that tugged at something deep in your chest.
"I'm sorry. It's okay. You're a good boy," you murmured, stroking his leg to soothe him. "Such a good boy."
He took immediate advantage of your new position. Before you could react, he surged forward and rubbed his entire head against your neck, his fur soft and ticklish against your jaw. The weight of him nearly knocked you over, and you giggled—actually giggled, the sound surprising you—as you braced your hands on the floor to keep from toppling backward.
"Eager boy, aren't you?" you laughed, your voice breathless and fond.
He didn't stop. He pressed closer, nuzzling into the curve of your throat, inhaling deeply. You could feel the warm huff of his breath against your skin, the cold wetness of his nose, the frantic wag of his tail thumping against the doorframe.
You managed to reach back and close the door, shutting out the night. "Come on, let's look at your paw properly. Inside, boy. Come."
He followed you instantly, sticking so close that his shoulder brushed your hip with every step. You led him into the living room, the TV still chattering away, and knelt on the rug. He sat in front of you, patient and watchful, his gold eyes tracking your every movement. You lifted his paw again and turned it over carefully, your fingers gentle.
There. A thorn. Long and wicked-sharp, embedded in the squishy part of the pad. The skin around it was red and slightly swollen.
"Oh, poor baby," you breathed, your heart clenching. You set his paw back down as gently as you could. "Stay here. I'm going to get some things to help you."
You stood up and strode to the bathroom, your bare feet silent on the floor. You gathered supplies in your arms—rubbing alcohol, tweezers, gauze, medical tape—balancing them precariously against your chest. When you turned to go back, you nearly tripped. He was right there. Right behind you. He'd followed you without making a single sound.
You giggled, a little startled, a little charmed. "You're a little clingy, aren't you?"
He just wagged his tail, utterly unrepentant.
You knelt back down on the living room rug and spread your supplies out on the floor. He lowered himself beside you, resting his heavy head on your thigh like he'd been doing it his whole life. The warmth of him seeped through your pajamas, solid and comforting.
"I'm gonna pull it out, okay?" you said, picking up the tweezers. Your voice was steady, but your hands were not. You took a breath. "It might hurt, love. But I'll be quick."
You grasped the end of the thorn and pulled it out in one fast, clean motion. He let out a sharp yelp, his body tensing, but he didn't pull away. His paw stayed in your hand, trembling slightly.
"I'm sorry," you said quickly, stroking his leg with your thumb. "I'm sorry, baby. It's okay. You're okay."
He blinked up at you, those gold eyes watery and trusting, and made a soft, questioning whine.
"Such a brave boy," you cooed, and the sound that came out of his chest was almost a groan. He dropped his head back onto your thigh and let out a huge, shuddering sigh.
You worked quickly, cleaning the small wound with alcohol and wrapping his paw in gauze, taping it securely. He let you do it without complaint, watching your hands with an intensity that was almost human.
"That's a good boy," you said when you finished, patting his fluffy head. The fur there was impossibly soft, like velvet. He keened at the praise, a high, happy sound, and his tail thumped against the floor so hard it rattled a nearby lamp. "What am I gonna do with you, huh?"
He rubbed into your hands again, pushing his head under your palm, looking up at you with those big puppy dog eyes. And it was weird—maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the adrenaline crash—but his eyes almost reminded you of someone. That shade of gold. That unnerving intensity.
Valko. The CEO who hated you.
You shook the thought away. Ridiculous.
"I guess you can stay," you said, scratching behind his ears. "But don't tell my parents, okay? This is strictly off the books."
He woofed softly, as if in agreement.
The rest of the night went smoothly. The wolf-dog—and you were still not entirely sure which he was—wouldn't leave your side. Not for a second. When you moved back to the couch, he hopped up beside you and laid his massive head in your lap, his body curling around you like a furry, breathing heating pad. You stroked his ears absentmindedly while you watched TV, your fingers tracing the edges of the bandage on his paw, and he let out a contented rumble that vibrated through your entire body.
"You know," you said, during a commercial break, "you remind me of this guy I know."
Gold eyes flicked up to look at you, suddenly alert.
"His name is Valko," you continued, your voice softer than you intended. "And he hates me."
The dog's ears flattened instantly. A little whine slipped from him, low and distressed, and he turned his head to press his nose against your stomach.
"He does!" you argued, as if he'd disagreed. And then you realized you were arguing with a dog. You, in your strawberry pajamas, in the middle of the woods, debating about your crush with a canine. What had your life become?
He whined again and nudged your hand with his nose, as if demanding more pets. You obliged, because you were weak, and because his fur was so soft it should have been illegal.
When you started falling asleep—your eyelids heavy, the Tv a blur of colors and noise—the dog nudged you insistently. He lifted his head and turned toward the bedroom, giving a soft, pointed huff.
"Ugh," you groaned, your body protesting as you forced yourself upright. "Fine. You're right. I'm going."
You dragged yourself to the bedroom, the cold floor biting at your feet. The dog followed, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood. He hopped up on the bed before you even had the chance to pull back the covers, circling once, twice, and then flopping down like he owned the place. The mattress dipped under his weight.
You climbed in beside him, too tired to argue, and let your fingers glide through his fur. He was so warm. So impossibly soft. He nuzzled closer, tucking his head under your chin, and let out a deep, satisfied sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his soul.
You fell asleep soundly, cuddling a giant beast, the scent of pine and something else—something warm and woodsy, almost familiar—wrapping around you like a second blanket.
When you woke up, you were pressed against something warm and hard.
There was something nuzzling your neck, breathing in deeply, slow and reverent. A hand was sliding up your stomach, fingers splayed wide and warm, and a heavy weight was draped across your waist. Your sleep-fogged brain tried to make sense of it—the dog, the bed, the warmth—but the pieces weren't fitting.
Burgundy hair. A head full of deep, wine-red hair, mussed and soft, brushing against your cheek. Broad, bare shoulders. The curve of a spine. And that hand, that large, warm hand, still moving slowly up your stomach, tracing the edge of your tank top.
"Ah!" You screamed, the sound ripping from your throat, raw and panicked. You scrambled backward, your legs tangling in the sheets, and tumbled off the bed in a graceless heap.
He screamed too—actually screamed, a deep, startled shout—and scrambled awake, his arms flailing.
Valko. In your bed. Shirtless.
The morning light streamed through the curtains, catching the planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen, the smooth, golden skin that stretched over muscle and sinew. He was perfect. Absurdly, unfairly perfect. His glasses were gone, and without them his gold eyes looked even more striking, wide and panicked and fixed on your face.
You grabbed the first thing you could find—a candlestick, heavy and brass, cold against your palm—and hurled it at him. "What are you doing?!"
He caught it. Caught it, one-handed, without even flinching.
"I'm sorry!" he shouted back, his voice cracking on the second word. "I can explain!"
God, he had a great body. It truly wasn't fair. You took a moment—a very brief, very mortifying moment—to gape at his abs, the way the muscle shifted as he breathed, the dusting of hair that trailed down below the waistband of his—oh god, he was still wearing pants, thank god, but they were riding low on his hips, and you could see the cut of his hip bones, and your brain was short-circuiting.
"Get out of my house!" you shrieked, pointing toward the door with a trembling finger.
"I didn't mean to shift back," he said, more to himself than to you. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further, and the gesture was so achingly human that it made your chest hurt. "I was so comfortable, and you smelled so—" He cut himself off, his throat bobbing. Then his eyes dropped to his hand. The bandaged hand. "Thank you. For helping me."
"Yes, you did." He held up his paw—his hand—showing you the gauze, slightly rumpled but still intact. "You pulled out the thorn. You wrapped it. You called me a good boy."
Your brain, which had been doing a valiant job of denial, came to a screeching halt.
And then you noticed the ears.
On his head. Perked up, swiveling slightly, the same deep burgundy as his hair, soft and fluffy and undeniably wolfish. And behind him, draped across the rumpled sheets, a tail. Thick and bushy, twitching with what looked like anxiety.
"What's happening?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath. "You—" The words felt insane in your mouth. "You're my dog?"
His whole body shivered at those words, a full-body tremor that made his ears flatten and his eyes half-close. He made a choked sound, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "Oh god, don't say that."
The word hung in the air, simple and impossible. You put your head in your hands, pressing your palms against your eyes until you saw stars. What. What the actual fuck. What was happening right now?! The CEO who couldn't stand you. The wolf who'd cuddled you all night. The same creature. The same person. In your parents' cabin. In your bed.
Suddenly, he was right in front of you. You hadn't heard him move. He'd crossed the space between you at the speed of light, silent and sudden, and now he was close—so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest, could see the flecks of amber in his irises.
A choked noise left him. His nostrils flared. "You smell so good."
And then he was touching you. Hands on your waist, tugging you forward, his fingers gripping the fabric of your tank top. He lowered his head and nuzzled into your neck, just like he'd done in his wolf form, and the familiarity of it made your head spin. He groaned—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated against your throat—and kept smelling you, inhaling like you were oxygen and he'd been drowning.
You shivered. Because his hands felt so good. So warm. So solid. And you hadn't been touched in so long—hadn't been held, hadn't been wanted—and your body was betraying you, leaning into him even as your brain screamed warnings.
"But Valko—" you breathed out, the words trembling. "You hate me."
He shook his head, the motion frantic, his nose bumping your jaw. "I should be shot for making you feel that way."
Oh. Okay. That was intense.
"I don't... I don't understand."
"I don't hate you." His voice was rough, almost desperate. "I could never hate my mate."
Mate. You'd read enough paranormal romance to have an idea of what it meant, but hearing it spoken aloud, in his voice, directed at you, made your brain short-circuit all over again.
He didn't slow down. He nuzzled deeper, walking you backward until your shoulders hit the wall, the cool plaster a shock against your heated skin. "God, the way you say my name," he rasped, and the sound went straight to your stomach.
You felt teeth scrape your skin—just barely, just a whisper of pressure against the curve of your neck—and a violent tremble wracked his body, like he was holding himself back from something. Biting. He wanted to bite you. The realization should have terrified you. Instead, your knees went weak.
He licked you instead, a long, rough swipe of his tongue along your pulse point, and you gaped, a startled gasp escaping your lips.
"Bad boy," you scolded, the words coming out more breathless than stern.
His ears flattened instantly. His tail, which had been wagging tentatively, drooped. He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his face was the picture of devastation—gold eyes wide and pleading, brow furrowed, lower lip caught between his teeth. He whined. Actually whined, a high, pitiful sound that should not have been as adorable as it was.
Oh god. He was adorable. It was infuriating.
"Don't lick me without my permission," you managed, your voice finding some semblance of steadiness.
"But I can't help it." He pouted. Genuinely pouted, his full lips pushing out in a way that made him look less like a terrifying werewolf and more like a kicked puppy. "You taste so good. Like vanilla. Like—like you."
Before you could respond, he lifted one of your wrists with surprising gentleness and rubbed his cheek against it, the stubble on his jaw scratching lightly against your skin. The gesture was so strange, so animal, that you just stared.
"Scenting you," he hummed, his eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his cheek to your palm, then your forearm, then the inside of your wrist. Each touch was deliberate, reverent.
You had no idea what that meant. But the feel of him—warm, deliberate, and claiming—sent a shiver down your spine.
"If you're gonna be mine, you need to smell like me," he explained, his voice muffled against your skin. "So everyone knows. So they don't—" He growled, a low rumble. "So they stay away."
"I—I never said I was going to be yours.”
"You will be." It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a demand. It was a statement of fact, delivered with such absolute certainty that you felt the air leave your lungs. His eyes met yours, burning gold, and there was something ancient in them. Something that knew, without a shred of doubt.
"Valko—you—you're overwhelming me."
He let go of you instantly. His hands dropped to his sides like you'd burned him, and he stumbled back a step, his ears flat against his head, his tail tucked low. The confidence drained from his face, replaced by something raw and panicked
"I'm sorry," he rushed to say, the words choked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" He fell to his knees in front of you. Actually fell, his knees hitting the hardwood with a thud that made you wince. He looked up at you, gold eyes desperate and wet, and said, "Please forgive me."
Your heart lurched. "I..."
His hands found your hips, tentative this time, resting there like you were made of glass. He pressed his chin against your stomach and gazed up at you, his expression so open, so vulnerable, that it made your chest ache.
"You don't even know me," you argued, your voice softer now.
He scowled, offended. "I know everything about you."
"Like your favorite color is pink." He said it like it was obvious, like it was a fact he'd filed away in some sacred mental folder. "You prefer black coffee, even though you work at a coffee shop. You like bad TV—the worse, the better. You're gentle. And smart. And you hate your job, but you won't quit because you hate change. And every night, before bed, you eat something sweet. Ice cream, or a cookie, or one of those cake pops you tried to sell me."
Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I—have you been stalking me?"
His cheeks flushed a deep, guilty pink. "Just keeping tabs," he admitted, his voice small. "Just making sure you're safe. That you get home okay. That nobody bothers you."
"That's stalking, Valko." Your voice was stern, but the effect was undermined by the fact that your hand had somehow found its way back into his hair.
"Please don't reject me." The words came out broken, desperate. "I will die. If you tell me to go, I will go, but I will not survive it."
He was a very intense person. Maybe this was how wolves were? All in, no brakes, no chill. Passionate to the point of self-destruction.
You lifted your hand and touched his hair, threading your fingers through the burgundy strands. He closed his eyes instantly and leaned into your palm, pressing his head against your hand like a dog seeking affection. His tail, which had been drooping, gave a tentative, hopeful wag. It was so cute. So unfairly, devastatingly cute.
You bit your lip. He was adorable. And you were in so much trouble.
His eyes flew open. Gold, burning, hopeful. "You're not?"
"But I need to get to know you," you continued, and the words felt like stepping off a cliff. "The real you. Not the coffee-shop you. Not the wolf you. You. And I need you to explain this whole mate thing. Slowly. Without any more licking."
He nodded earnestly, his ears perking up, his tail beginning to wag in earnest. The sight was so ridiculous—this massive, terrifying werewolf, kneeling at your feet, wagging his tail like a puppy—that a laugh bubbled up in your throat.
"And we should eat breakfast," you added. "I'm starving.."
"I will make it," he said, his voice suddenly determined. He stood up, still shirtless, still unfairly gorgeous, and turned toward the kitchen with the focus of a man on a sacred mission. "I will make you the best breakfast you have ever eaten. You will be so impressed. You will forget you ever considered rejecting me."
His tail was still wagging.
You stared after him, your heart doing something complicated and terrifying in your chest, and realized with dawning horror that you might already be in over your head.
Valko hums when he cooks.
It’s a soft, absentminded sound, barely audible over the sizzle of bacon in the pan and the gentle clink of a spatula against cast iron. He moves around your parents’ kitchen like he’s been here a hundred times before—cracking eggs one-handed, flipping bacon with practiced ease, reaching for the salt without having to search for it. The morning light slants through the window above the sink, catching the rich burgundy of his hair, turning the tips of his wolf ears a warm, golden brown. His tail sways gently behind him, a slow, contented rhythm, like a metronome set to happy.
You sit at the kitchen island, a chipped ceramic mug warming your palms, and watch him.
About every ten seconds, his eyes fly up to look at you. A quick, darting glance, gold and bright and almost involuntary. Checking. Like he needs to see that you’re still there. That you haven’t disappeared, or changed your mind, or decided this was all too strange and slipped out the back door while his head was turned. He does the same thing at the coffee shop, you realize. That intense, tracking stare. It wasn’t hatred. It was this. This desperate, barely-contained need to confirm you were real.
“You’re not at all what I thought you were,” you say, lifting the mug to your lips. The coffee he made is perfect—strong, a little bitter, exactly the way you like it. He remembered.
He flashes a smile at you over his shoulder. It’s a charming smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and transforms his whole face from intimidating to boyish. It makes your stomach flip in a way you’re not ready to examine. “What’d you think I was?”
“I thought you were a grumpy CEO who hated me.” The words come out lighter than they should, given the weeks of misery you’d spent convinced of exactly that.
He shakes his head with a laugh, the sound low and warm, like honey poured over gravel. “I didn’t know how to act around you. Every time I opened my mouth, I was terrified I’d say something—something too much. Something that would scare you away.”
“You still don’t know how to act around me,” you tease, and his cheeks flush a deep, rosy pink. The color spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt—wait, when did he find a shirt? It must have been in his wolf form, stashed somewhere, because now he’s wearing a soft-looking gray henley pushed up to his elbows, and it’s almost as unfair as the abs. Almost.
He plates your breakfast with a flourish—eggs over easy, bacon crisp but not burnt, toast golden and buttered—and comes around the island to sit next to you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. The contact is deliberate. Grounding. His tail curls around the leg of your stool, a warm, furry weight against your calf.
“Thank you, Valko,” you say sweetly, dragging his name out just a little, just enough to watch the blush on his cheeks deepen to crimson. You liked teasing him. It was fun. It was powerful, having this massive, otherworldly creature so utterly undone by a few words. “You’re a good boy.”
The effect is instantaneous. His eyes squeeze shut. The fork he’d just picked up clatters to the counter, forgotten. His ears flatten against his head in pure, shivering pleasure, and a full-body tremor rolls through him, from his shoulders down to the tip of his tail. The sound he makes—low, guttural, almost pained—goes straight to the base of your spine.
“Please don’t.” His voice is wrecked. Hoarse. “It’s taking so much control for me not to devour you. You don’t understand.” His eyes open, and they’re burning, molten, pupils blown wide. “If you had any idea what my instincts, my wolf, are telling me to do right now, you’d already be running away from me.”
Your heart hammers against your ribs. The air in the kitchen feels thicker, charged with something electric and dangerous and thrilling. You should probably be afraid. Instead, you’re curious. Desperately, recklessly curious.
“What’s it saying?” you ask, setting your mug down with a deliberate clink. Your voice is steady. Inviting.
Valko shakes his head, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Can’t tell you. It’ll scare you.”
“I do.” His ankle tangles with yours beneath the counter, a subtle, unconscious movement, like he can’t stop touching you even for a second. The weight of him against your leg is warm and solid and grounding. “You’re human. You don’t know what it’s like. The wolf doesn’t understand patience. It doesn’t understand slow. It just wants.”
“So… mate?” you say, raising an eyebrow, your voice deliberately light even though the word sends a thrill down your spine. “Explain it to me. I’m not running.”
He breathes out a shaky exhale, his whole body tensing. “God, even hearing you say that…” He trails off, his fists clenching at his sides, the tendons in his forearms standing out. “You have no idea what that word does to me.”
Okay. You’re going to be honest with yourself. You wanted to poke the wolf. You wanted to see the cracks in his control, to find out what was lurking underneath all that desperate restraint. You were curious. And maybe—maybe you liked the way his voice dropped when he was barely holding himself back. Maybe you liked being wanted this much, this intensely, this all-consumingly.
“You’re my … mate?” you asked, tilting your head, letting your voice come out soft and innocent. Deliberately provocative.
His face turned a shade of red you’d never seen on a human being before. “Yes,” he choked out, the word strangled. “It means we are fated. My wolf recognized you the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s not just attraction. It’s deeper than that. It’s soul-deep. You’re the other half of me. The only one I’ll ever want. Ever.”
The weight of his words settled over you, heavy and terrifying and strangely, inexplicably right. You swallowed. “What if I don’t want to be fated to you?”
Something shattered in his expression. Just for a moment—a flash of raw, devastating pain that made your chest ache. Then it was gone, replaced by a terrible, hollow calm. “I will die.”
“Valko, you can’t just say you will die!” The words burst out of you, sharp with frustration and fear. You didn’t want that. You didn’t want to be responsible for that.
“But I will.” His voice was steady now, utterly serious. “I cannot face your rejection. The bond—when it’s unfulfilled, when it’s denied—it doesn’t just fade. It destroys. I’ve seen it happen. I would never be whole again.”
You stared at him, your heart pounding.
“Are all wolves this stubborn, or is it just you?”
A flicker of something—almost amusement—crossed his face. “It’s a me thing. I will try to change for you, if you wish.”
“You don’t have to change for me.” The words came out softer than you intended. You reached over, your fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, trying to be reassuring, trying to bridge the impossible gap between you. His skin was warm, impossibly warm, and you could feel his pulse thundering beneath your fingertips.
His entire body froze. His breath caught. He bit his lip, hard, his canines pressing into the soft flesh.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, your thumb tracing a slow circle over the delicate skin of his inner wrist. The touch was barely there, feather-light, but his reaction was seismic.
He whined. Actually whined, a high, desperate sound that was so utterly canine it made something in your chest clench. And then, before you could blink, he was on you.
His big body captured yours, solid and warm and overwhelming, his hands finding your hips with a grip that was just shy of bruising. He pressed you back against the kitchen island, the edge of the counter digging into your lower back, and buried his face in the curve of your throat. The sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated against your skin, sending shivers cascading down your spine.
“I can’t take it anymore,” he rasped, his mouth hot and wet against your neck. He sucked at the skin there, hungry and desperate, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. “Please. Please. Please let me taste you. Let me do anything. I want to feel you. I want to make you feel good. I want—” His voice cracked, broke, dissolved into a whimper that was almost prayer-like. “I’ll do anything. Anything you ask. Just please don’t tell me to stop.”
The desperation in his voice made your entire body tremble. You’d never been wanted like this. Never been the center of someone’s universe, the sole focus of such overwhelming, devastating need. It was terrifying. It was intoxicating. It made you feel powerful and fragile all at once.
“Okay…” you whispered, the word barely a breath.
Before you could say anything else, Valko was moving. He dropped to his knees in front of the stool you occupied, the motion so fluid and eager it looked like worship. His gold eyes gazed up at you, pupils blown wide with desire, his ears pressed flat in submission, his tail sweeping the floor behind him in short, frantic wags.
His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pajama shorts and tugged them down with painstaking, trembling care, as if you were made of something precious and breakable. The fabric slid over your thighs, pooled at your ankles, and he let out a sound that was almost pained when he saw the damp spot on your cotton panties.
“Don’t you dare bite,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You slid your fingers into his hair—soft, so impossibly soft—and tightened your grip just enough to guide. His whole body shuddered at the contact, a full-body tremor that made his tail wag even faster.
He nodded eagerly, his cheek pressing against your inner thigh for just a moment before he spoke. “I’ll be a good boy. I promise. I’ll be so good for you. The best. You’ll see.”
And then his mouth was on you.
He pressed his face into the heat of you, still covered by the thin, damp cotton, and inhaled deeply. A moan rumbled from his chest, low and reverent, vibrating against your most intimate spot. His tongue traced a slow, deliberate line along your clit through the fabric, and you gasped, your hips jerking involuntarily.
“Taste so good, baby,” he breathed, the words muffled against you. “Even through these. Can’t imagine what you’ll taste like bare. Please—can I—”
His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, and before you could answer, he ripped them off in a single, effortless motion. The fabric tore with a sharp sound, and your whole body jolted at the suddenness, at the raw strength in his hands. He’d literally torn your panties in half. The ruined scraps fluttered to the floor, and you were bare, completely bare, spread out before him like a feast.
He stared. Just stared, his mouth slightly open, his gold eyes glazed. A bead of drool gathered at the corner of his lips. His tongue darted out to wet them, and his whole face flushed a deep, desperate crimson.
“So wet,” he breathed, the words reverent. “Smells so good. So perfect.” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, burning with a possessiveness that made your breath catch. “You’re just for me, aren’t you? This pretty cunt—it’s mine. Only mine.”
The words were filthy, raw, stripped of all pretense. They should have shocked you. Instead, they sent a bolt of pure, liquid heat straight to your core.
His tongue circled your clit with devastating precision, and an electric current shot from that single point of contact, arching through your whole body. Your back bowed, a broken moan tearing from your throat. The ache that had been building in your core sharpened into something urgent, something desperate. It felt so good. So impossibly, overwhelmingly good.
“Valko—” you moaned, throwing your head back, your fingers tightening in his hair.
And suddenly you were in motion. His big hands slid under your ass—warm, strong, sure—and he hauled you up like you weighed nothing. The world tilted, spun, and then you were on the floor, the cool hardwood against your knees a sharp contrast to the heat of him. He was on his back beneath you, his shoulders braced against the rug, and you were straddling his face, your thighs caging his head, your most intimate flesh pressed directly against his eager mouth.
“Ride me,” he begged, his voice hoarse and wrecked. His hands slid along your thighs, squeezing the meaty flesh, his fingers dimpling your skin. “Use me. Please. Want to feel you fall apart on my tongue.”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
Your hands found his hair, gripping the burgundy strands for leverage, and you rolled your hips against his face. The sensation was blinding—his tongue, his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the desperate, eager way he chased your movements. “Ah—!” you cried out, the sound high and broken.
You had a perfect view. His wolfy ears were airplaned out to the sides, twitching with every sound you made. His eyes were rolled back, half-closed, lost in pure bliss. He looked like a man in heaven. Like worship was the only thing he was ever meant to do.
His tongue did wicked, wicked things to you. It traced patterns you didn’t have names for, dipping inside you and then flicking back up to circle your clit with relentless, devoted precision. Then his fingers found your entrance—two of them, thick and long—and shoved into your wet heat with a single, smooth stroke.
“Oh my god!” you shouted, your hips bucking frantically. The stretch was perfect, just this side of too much. “Oh my—oh—Valko!”
He groaned into you, and the vibration rattled through your entire body, feeding the coil of tension winding tighter and tighter in your belly. His fingers thrust faster, curling just right, while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. The dual sensation was overwhelming, devastating. You were climbing, spiraling, hurtling toward the edge with no way to stop.
“I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum—! Valko!” you shrieked, your voice cracking, your hips stuttering as the pleasure crested and broke.
You came hard, your orgasm crashing over you in wave after wave. Your thighs clamped around his head, your fingers yanking at his hair, your whole body shuddering as you drenched his face with your climax. He didn’t stop. He kept going, eagerly lapping up every drop, his fingers still moving inside you, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until your aftershocks finally, finally subsided.
You sat there on top of him, chest heaving, thighs trembling, the world slowly swimming back into focus. He was reluctant to pull away from your cunt—you could feel the way his tongue lingered, the way he pressed soft, worshipful kisses to your sensitive flesh—but eventually he forced himself to stop. His lips trailed gentle kisses along your inner thigh, reverent and tender.
“My mate,” he all but purred, his voice thick with satisfaction. His eyes were glazed, drunk on you. “You’re so perfect for me. So perfect. You taste so good. Better than anything. Better than I ever imagined.”
You pulled off him on shaky legs, your knees threatening to buckle. Standing over him, you took in the sight of him wrecked and undone on the kitchen floor. His lips were swollen, glistening with your arousal. His hair was a mess, tangled from your grip. His chest was heaving, his henley rucked up to reveal the taut planes of his stomach.
And there, at the front of his pants, was a dark, spreading wet spot.
Valko had come in his pants. Just from eating you out. Just from tasting you.
The realization hit you like a freight train. He’d gotten so much pleasure from giving you pleasure that his body had simply… given in. Hadn’t even touched himself. Hadn’t asked for anything in return. He’d just fallen apart because you fell apart.
You slid your pajama shorts back on with trembling hands, leaving the shredded remains of your panties on the floor. The ruined fabric was a stark reminder of what had just happened—what you’d just done—in your parents’ kitchen. On the rug where you used to sit and do homework as a kid. Oh god. You were going to have to burn that rug.
Valko sat up slowly, looking dazed, his ears still drooping with post-orgasmic bliss. His tail gave a lazy, contented wag. He blinked at you like you were the sun and he’d been living in darkness.
You had to come to terms with the fact that you just rode a man’s face in your parents’ kitchen. A werewolf man. A CEO werewolf man who was apparently your soulmate.
Your life had officially gotten very, very strange.
He reached for you, his hand finding your ankle, his thumb stroking the bone there gently. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse but earnest. “Was that… was that okay? Did I do good?”
The vulnerability in his voice—the desperate need for reassurance, even after everything—made your heart squeeze.
“You did very good,” you said, patting his head and his tail started wagging so hard it thumped against the cabinets. “But we are never telling anyone this happened on my parents’ floor.”
He grinned, that charming, boyish grin. “Deal.”
After that, the two of you spent all day talking.
Not the stilted, one-word exchanges you were used to—the awkward silences and the way he'd flee from your counter like you'd set him on fire. This was different. This was real. This was Valko sprawled across your parents' slightly-too-small couch, his long legs draped over the armrest, his head in your lap, talking like a dam had broken inside him.
You learned he had a big family. Huge, actually. Brothers and sisters and cousins and aunts and uncles, all werewolves, all part of a sprawling, chaotic pack that he clearly adored more than anything in the world. He talked about them with a kind of fierce, protective tenderness that made your chest ache—the way his younger sister had just started at university and he'd personally vetted every single person in her dormitory, the way his mother still sent him care packages even though he was a grown man with his own penthouse, the way pack dinners were loud and messy and lasted for hours. You could picture it so clearly: Valko at the head of a long table, surrounded by people who loved him, finally relaxed enough to smile.
He was smart. Like, really smart. He'd built his tech company from the ground up, started coding when he was barely a teenager, and now ran one of the most successful firms in the city. He explained some of his work to you—something about codes and predictive algorithms—and while you only understood about half of it, the passion in his voice was infectious. His eyes lit up when he talked about it, his hands gesturing animatedly, and you found yourself smiling just watching him.
Honestly, you were thanking the fates for binding you to him. You could do a lot worse. A lot worse. You could have been mated to some random creep who didn't understand boundaries, or someone boring, or someone who didn't look at you like you'd personally hung the moon. Instead, you got Valko. Grumpy-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside, secretly-obsessed-with-Finding-Nemo Valko.
Yes. Finding Nemo. That was his favorite movie. He'd requested it with such earnest, hopeful enthusiasm that you couldn't possibly say no, and now you were watching it together on the lumpy cabin couch, a fleece blanket draped over both of you, the afternoon light filtering golden through the windows.
You couldn't believe you'd ever thought he was a grumpy asshole. He was the opposite. The complete, ridiculous opposite. He was currently frowning in concentration at the screen, his brow furrowed like the fate of the animated fish was a matter of life and death, and every time something sad happened, his ears—which he'd stopped bothering to hide—would droop. Every time something happy happened, his tail would thump against the couch cushions.
Would it be too on the nose to call him a golden retriever? Probably. But it was also true.
Your legs were in his lap, and his thumbs were rubbing slow, absent-minded circles against your ankles. He couldn't stop touching you. It was like a compulsion. No matter what you were doing—talking, watching TV, eating the sandwiches he'd insisted on making you—his hands were on you. Your wrist. Your shoulder. The small of your back. He'd find some excuse to touch, some reason to maintain contact, and you were starting to realize it wasn't just desire. It was need. A bone-deep, wolf-instinct need to feel you there, solid and real and his.
"Clingy boy," you remarked, your voice soft and fond.
He melted. His ears flattened in that way they did when he was overwhelmed with pleasure, and a low, happy rumble started in his chest. His tail gave a few enthusiastic thumps against the cushion. "Can't help it," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knee. "You're right here. You smell so good. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you?"
You might be in love with him.
The realization hit you like a freight train, sudden and undeniable. You'd already had a crush on him before, back when he was an angry, unreachable CEO who stared at you like he wanted to devour you and then fled at the first sign of conversation. That had been confusing and painful and a little bit humiliating. But this—this was different. This was a clingy puppy who couldn't bear to be separated from you, who made you breakfast and watched Disney movies and looked at you like you were the center of the universe.
"I never do this," you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
His gold eyes flew to your face, immediately leaving the movie. The fish could wait. You had his full, undivided attention, and the weight of it made your stomach flip. "Hmm?"
"Like..." You gestured vaguely, suddenly embarrassed. "It takes me a while to open up with a guy. Usually. I'm not—I don't just jump into things. And we've only really been talking a day, and I let you..." You trailed off, heat creeping up your neck.
His hand lifted from your ankle and cupped your cheek, his palm warm and slightly rough against your skin. His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, feather-light. "It's okay. Don't feel embarrassed." His voice was low, gentle, utterly without judgment. "It's different with mates. Everything is stronger. Everything is heightened." He paused, searching for the right words. "Wolves... we're clingy. And possessive. It's in our nature. When we find our mate, we're all in. Immediately. It's not something we can control. So if you're feeling things faster than you expected... it's the bond. It affects humans too, just maybe not as intensely."
You smiled at him, something tender and terrifying blooming in your chest. "I think I really like you, Valko."
He shivered at those words—a full-body tremor that started at his shoulders and rippled all the way down to his tail. A choked groan escaped him, and he bumped his forehead against yours, his breath warm and unsteady against your lips. "Baby—you can't just say that. I want... god, you have no idea the things I want to do to you."
His voice was wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. And the sound of it sent a thrill straight down your spine.
Your eyes locked with his, gold and endless, and you felt brave. Brave enough to say what you'd been thinking all afternoon. "I'm supposed to be here for two weeks. House-sitting. Do you want to stay with me? I mean—if you want to. If you're not too busy with your fancy company."
"Really?" He whispered, his eyes lighting up with a hope so bright it was almost painful to witness. His hands dropped to your thighs, gripping them like you might disappear if he didn't hold on tight enough. "Really—you'll let me stay with you? For two weeks?"
You nodded, biting back a grin. "It's weird, but... I want to be close to you. I don't want you to leave."
He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, and then turned his head to nuzzle into your neck, inhaling deeply. The gesture was becoming familiar now—his nose pressing against your pulse point, his breath warm and steady, his whole body relaxing like he'd found something he'd been searching for his entire life. "Can I sleep in your bed again?"
"I promise I won't touch you." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and his expression was pure, desperate sincerity. His ears were flat, his tail wagging tentatively. "I just need to be near you. Please. I need to hold you. I slept better last night than I have in years. I need—" He cut himself off, his jaw working. "Please."
You nodded, biting your lip. "Promise?"
"I promise. I promise I'll be a good boy." He said it with such earnest intensity that you almost laughed.
"You promised before and look what we did."
He pouted. Actually pouted. "I swear it won't happen again. I'll be good. But you have to let me scent you."
"That's where you... uh... rub against me?" The memory of this morning—his cheek against your wrist, his nose in your neck—made your skin warm.
"Mmhm," he hummed, and the sound was pleased, almost smug. And then, before you could react, he suddenly picked you up. Effortlessly. Like you weighed nothing at all. His arms hooked under your knees and your back, and he stood, cradling you against his bare chest like you were the most precious cargo in the world.
"Valko!" You squeaked, grabbing his shoulders for balance.
He just hummed again, clearly delighted with himself, and carried you to the bedroom—the same bedroom you'd woken up in this morning, the one with the rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him. He laid you down on the mattress with surprising gentleness and then slid in behind you, his body curving around yours like a parenthesis.
"Do you have to like... I don't know... let people know you're going to be gone?" you whispered as he wrapped an arm around your middle and pulled you flush against his chest. He was so big. So warm. You wanted to melt into him, to dissolve into the solid heat of him and never resurface.
He pressed his nose into the curve of your neck, right where it met your shoulder, and began rubbing against you eagerly. The friction was warm and surprisingly soothing, his stubble scratching lightly against your sensitive skin. His hands found your wrists and circled them gently, holding you in place. "No," he answered, his voice muffled against your throat. "My pack knows I found a mate. They'll expect me to be... busy."
"You told them about me?"
"Of course." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I tell everyone about you. Xade is probably tired of hearing about you. My mother has already demanded to meet you. She says if I don't bring you to the next pack dinner, she'll disown me."
Your heart squeezed. "She sounds... intense."
"She's a wolf," Valko said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
You shivered as his hands slid from your wrists to palm your stomach, big and warm and encircling. The heat of him seeped through your tank top, and you were suddenly, acutely reminded of this morning—how good his tongue had felt, how desperate he'd been, the way he'd fallen to his knees and begged.
"Fuck—I can smell you, baby," he groaned into your ear, his voice dropping into something low and rough. "You want to cum again? Let me make you feel good."
Your breath caught. You'd told yourself you wouldn't let this happen again so soon. It had been one day. One single day. But your body was already responding to him, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs pressing together.
You whimpered and nodded.
One hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your tank top. His thumb found your nipple, already pebbled and sensitive, and brushed over it with deliberate, teasing pressure. "These are perfect," he choked out, his voice strangled. "Can't wait for you to have my pups—these will be all red and swollen—fuck, I'll suck on them all day—"
You whined, your hips twitching against him. "Valko—too much."
"Sorry. I'm sorry. Mm, so sorry." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, apologetic and reverent. "I'll be a good boy now. I'll be good."
His other hand slid down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pajama pants. He groaned when he realized you were bare underneath, his fingers finding your wetness immediately. The sound he made was almost wounded. "Oh god—your pussy is perfect for me—" He shoved two fingers inside, and you gasped, your back arching, your hands gripping his forearms tightly. "It's mine. You're mine. Tell me. Please tell me. You're just for me."
"Yes—" you moaned as his fingers pumped in and out of you, curling against that spot inside that made your vision blur. "I'm yours! I'm so—I'm yours—your mate!"
He moaned behind you at those words, a desperate, broken sound. "Fuck—fuck—I'm gonna cum in my pants again, baby—you can't say that when I'm not allowed to take you properly."
He thrust his hips against your ass like he couldn't help himself, and you felt him—hard and huge, straining against his pants. He was big. Like... probably the biggest you'd ever encountered. Maybe it was a wolf thing. Maybe you were in over your head.
He pulled your pajama pants down, the fabric sliding over your thighs. There was more rustling—his pants being shoved down, a zipper, a muffled curse—and then you felt it. His bare cock sliding between your thighs, hot and heavy and impossibly thick.
He moaned. You followed suit.
"Baby—baby please—please—" He was begging now, his voice pitched high and desperate, almost pathetic. He sounded utterly undone. "Let me just—let me put the tip in—just the tip—I promise. I promise I'll be so good. Just want to feel your wet cunt around me. Please—"
"Okay—okay—" you gasped, just as desperate as him. You needed to feel him. Needed it like you needed air.
His hand on your breast slid down to grip your thigh, hooking it behind his hip and opening you up wider. He pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his mouth, tasting you with a groan that vibrated against your shoulder. The sight—the sound—made your head spin.
Then you felt his leaking tip nudge at your dripping entrance. You shivered, suddenly feeling so bare, so open and vulnerable. He pushed the tip inside, and you whined, your toes curling against the sheets. Oh fuck.
This was the biggest cock you'd ever taken. And it was just the tip.
You were pretty sure Valko short-circuited. His chest was heaving, pressed against your back, and his hands were so tight—bruising on your hips, your thigh—like he was using every ounce of his strength to control himself. "I'm sorry—I can't—" he moaned, and shoved a little deeper, a whine tearing from his throat. "I'm sorry—I tried to be a good boy—I can't. I need—I need—I need all the way in—I need to knot you—I need—"
"Yes," you cut him off, wiggling your hips and taking him deeper. He growled, a deep, primal sound that made your entire body clench. "Yes, more."
Valko basically cried behind you. A broken, desperate sound. Then he turned you onto your stomach, maneuvering you until he was pressed on top of you, his face buried in your neck. He lifted your hips higher in the air, positioning you exactly how he wanted. "Yes, like this—this is perfect—this is—my mate—my perfect mate—"
Then he shoved all the way inside.
You cried out, your fingers fisting in the sheets. He was so wide, so long, filling you completely. You could feel him pressing against your cervix, a deep, overwhelming pressure that made your eyes flutter half-lidded against the pillow.
He stayed inside you, not moving. Just feeling. His whole body trembled.
"Valko?" you whispered, dazed and consumed by him.
"I can't move yet. If I move, I'm gonna cum."
You clenched around him experimentally.
"Oh fuck—" He cried out, his arms circling around you, holding you tight, completely controlling you—and you weren't sure he even meant to. Then he pulled back and thrust back in, and before you could even think—
Animalistic. Hungry. Thrusting in and out with the fervor of a wild beast. The bed shook, the wood creaking, your bodies sliding up the mattress with each brutal thrust. His hips slapped against your ass, the sound obscene and rhythmic, filling the small bedroom.
"Valko!" You clutched the sheets, your knuckles white. You'd never been fucked with this type of wild abandon. It was overwhelming. Consuming.
"Oh yes—yes—perfect—my girl—yes—I'm sorry—I can't stop—I can't. You feel too good—I'm gonna lose my mind—this pussy was fucking made for me. It's mine. Mine. Mine. Nobody else gets you. I'm so sorry baby but I can't stop—I can't—"
He apologized as he absolutely destroyed you. Shoving himself so deep inside you—places nobody had ever reached before. Your vision flickered. You literally blacked out for a moment, drool gathering at the corner of your mouth, your mind wiped clean of everything except the feeling of him.
"Valko—" you moaned, drunk on him. You were nothing but his. Nothing but his hole. Nothing but a vessel of pleasure. You didn't have a mind. It was just this. Just him. Claiming your body.
"Smell—" thrust. "so—" thrust. "fucking—" thrust. "Good!" You swore to god you were going to pass out. "This is—the best fucking feeling—I've ever felt in my—entire life—" You felt wetness hit your shoulders. Either he was drooling or he was crying. It could be a bit of both. The thought was absurd, but you didn't have the capacity to laugh.
His teeth scraped your neck as his hips pounded against your ass. "Let me—let me bite you—please—I need to mark you—let me mark you—need to baby—my teeth itch—they ache—need to feel your skin. It’s right there—so close—“
"Yes!" you shouted, needy and desperate.
His sharp canines sunk into your skin, the spot between your shoulder and your neck. You screamed—a mix of pleasure and pain, a sharp sting that went perfectly with his ruthless fucking. The sensation was electric, shooting down your spine, making your cunt clench around him even tighter.
He licked the wound, lapping up the blood with a reverent groan. "You're mine now—forever—you can't ever leave me—"
His hand moved around to play with your clit, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts, adding triple stimulation. You swore you could see the gates of heaven. "Cum—cum around my cock—use me. I'm your pleasure. I'm your tool. Your mate. You won't ever have to cum on your own again. Ever. I own this. I own your pleasure. It's mine."
He hit that spot inside you—the one that felt illegal—a couple more times, and you were gone. Your vision whited out. You saw stars. Your cunt clenched and soaked around him as you came apart, your climax shaking you as you screamed. "Oh fuck, Valko!"
"You’re tightening around me—I can—oh my—so tight—I have to knot you—I'm gonna knot you—I'm gonna fill you up—I have to—I will die if I can't—can I, baby? Can I?"
"Mmm—" you moaned your agreement, though you had no idea what knotting meant.
Then he pressed all the way deep inside you, a loud, whiny moan leaving him as he pushed so deep your toes curled and you could feel him in your throat.
Stretching you wide, making you gasp in surprise. He locked. His cock expanded at the base, swelling inside you, trapping you together. The sensation was overwhelming—a deep, intense pressure that bordered on too much but was somehow exactly what you needed.
He pulsed inside you, cum spurting into your womb, hot and thick, filling you up entirely. And he just... kept going. His cum didn't stop. He grinded deeper, trying to make it stick, hips flush against your ass. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his moans were quiet and desperate in your ear. "There—there, that's better," he whispered, sounding drunk. "That's where my cum goes. Nowhere else. Just inside you. Fuck—I hope you're pregnant. I want you round and swollen with my pups."
The thought only made him cum more, spurts and spurts flooding your womb, his knot keeping everything locked deep inside.
And then he collapsed. Both of you did. Just a puddle of limbs in the sheets. Both dazed and breathing hard. And he was still locked. He literally couldn't escape if he wanted to.
He was also licking his bite mark, soothing it with long, gentle strokes of his tongue. The wound tingled, warm and strangely comforting.
"Val?" you whispered, turning your head over your shoulder. You were pleased to see he looked just as wrecked as you did. His hair was a disaster, his eyes glassy, his lips swollen.
He shivered at the nickname. "Hmm?"
"You're gonna have to explain wolf biology to me—'cause I'm real fucking confused."
He groaned and squeezed his arms around you, burying his face in your hair. "I'm sorry. I should have prepared you for my knot. I'm so sorry. I was so selfish. I lost control. Please forgive me."
"It's okay." Your voice was hoarse but sincere. "You did good."
He went very still. "I did?"
"Promise. You were a good boy."
He whined—a high, overwhelmed sound—and held you tighter, his tail thumping weakly against the mattress as he snuggled you. “That was my first time.”
You turned your head over your shoulder, eyes widening. “What? You were—a virgin?”
His cheeks flushed pink, fluffy ears airplaned slightly. He nodded shyly.
“You’re perfect Valko,” you whispered lifting a hand to stroke his ear and he shivered at your praise.
Finally, his knot subsided after what felt like hours. He was reluctant to slide out of you, his face pinched with displeasure at the loss, but he did so gently, carefully, pressing kisses to your shoulder as he pulled away. Then he turned you onto your back, his gold eyes immediately finding the bite mark on your neck.
He marveled at it. His fingers lifted to trace the mark in a kind of trance, his touch feather-light, his expression awed. "Does it hurt?" he whispered.
"A little," you admitted. "What is it for, exactly?"
"To mark you. To let everyone know you're mine." He swallowed, his eyes meeting yours. "It's like... like a wedding band. But deeper. It's forever. As long as we both live, this mark will be here. And every wolf who sees it will know you belong to someone. To me."
You chewed on your lip, processing.
"I'm being too much again, aren't I?" he asked shyly, his ears drooping. "I'm sorry. I know humans don't—I know this is fast—"
You shook your head. "Do I get to mark you too?"
He let out a breath, his entire body shuddering. His eyes darkened with something hungry and reverent. "Oh. I would be absolutely ecstatic if you marked me. For everyone to see I'm yours."
"You're a little crazy, you know that?" You giggled, lifting a hand to trace his neck. He basked in your touch, leaning into your palm like a cat. "Could it be anywhere?"
"Why did you choose my neck?"
"It's where your scent is the strongest." He tilted his head, exposing the long, smooth column of his throat. "It's typically where wolves choose their marks. But not always."
"I think I'll do that." Your voice was soft, possessive. "I want you to smell like me."
His eyes lit up at your possessiveness like it was the highest reward he could possibly receive. "Yes, please."
You leaned up and nosed into his neck, inhaling the warm, woodsy scent of him. He let out a small whimper, undone by your touch. His head tilted further, giving you access, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Then you opened your mouth and bit as hard as you could into the curve of his neck.
He moaned, eyes rolling back, hips thrusting instinctively against yours. He was hard again, rubbing against your thighs, his whole body trembling. "Oh fuck—" he choked, voice wrecked. "Yes—yes—mark me—"
You tasted blood—coppery and warm—so you unlatched from him, pulling back to admire your work. A perfect impression of your teeth, red and raw against his golden skin.
He looked at you like you were a goddess underneath him. "You look wondrous with my blood on your lips."
You licked them self-consciously, the taste of him still there. "Are we like... dating now?" you asked hesitantly. "Or is this just a wolf thing?"
"We are basically married," he answered, completely serious.
"Cool. Just making sure."
He chuckled—a real, warm, and genuine laugh—and then kissed you. The first real kiss, you realized. Lips against lips, soft and searching. You both moaned into it, the taste of blood and salt and something uniquely him mingling together.
And you knew, with absolute certainty, that this was going to be a long ride.
But you were ready for it.
