Old barn. Middle of nowhere. Roof sagging, walls leaning, whole thing smells like damp wood, old hay, and regret. I'm flat on my back in the straw, knees up, thighs parted, and he's already inside me—big, heavy, sweaty. The kind of man who probably eats stew with his hands and calls every woman "darlin'." Fine. Long as he pays.
A crack in the beams above lets the moon peek through. Silvery and sharp, like the night itself decided to watch.
The first shift is always subtle. A shiver in his spine. A crackle under his skin like something old waking up. He's still moving inside me when it starts—deep, grinding thrusts, rhythm starting to stagger as the moon slips from behind the clouds and kisses his back in silver.
His breathing changes. Not just heavy now. Ragged. Thicker. And that hair on his chest? Thicker too. No. No, no, no.
"Shit," I mutter, grabbing his shoulder. "We talked about this."
He doesn't stop moving. Faster now. Rougher. A growl curls up from somewhere too deep to be human.
I feel it before I see it. The way his hands tighten on my hips. The weight of him gets heavier. Breath hotter. A growl ripples through his chest, low and hungry, vibrating through my ribs like thunder in a cave.
"I swear, if you sprout claws while still inside me, I'm charging triple."
He huffs against my neck, breath hot and wrong. Something wet flicks my skin. A tongue? Or a snout? Gods.
"You said you had it under control," I snap. "Ten silver. That was the deal. No howling, no biting, and no partial transformations mid-thrust."
I clench around him just to distract the bastard. "You finish now or I'm walking home with your coin and your balls in my pouch."
His hips jerk. That did it. He shudders, moans, half-human, half-beast, entirely undone.
"Don't stop," I murmur, even though his nails are thickening and his eyes have gone full predator.
His mouth brushes my throat. Hot, open, panting. No finesse. No technique. Just need. His teeth scrape. Almost break skin. Close. Too close. I dig my nails into his fur-slick shoulders, drag him down harder.
The barn groans around us. Straw sticks to my back. His rhythm's ragged now. Less man, more beast. Thrusts hit deeper. Rougher. Not quite human, not fully wolf. Somewhere in between and pounding like he means to split me in half and claim the pieces.
I gasp, arch up, wrap my legs around his waist. Let him rut. Let him go wild.
Hair brushes my breasts. Coarse. His growl gets sharper. More throat than lungs. I moan into it.
"You better not tear me," I breathe, voice shaking, "unless you're planning to lick it clean."
He answers with a snarl and another thrust that punches air from my lungs. My heels dig into the small of his back—flesh or fur, I'm too far gone to care.
It's brutal. Animal. Filthy in all the best ways.
He finishes with a grunt—low, ragged, not quite human. Shudders one last time against me, then slumps back, panting like a winded beast. I lie there a moment, catching my breath, heart still thumping like it thinks we were making love instead of just... whatever that was. Fine. It wasn't bad. Little rough around the edges. But I've had worse. I've been worse.
Animalistic, sure. But not sloppy. Credit where it's due.
I stretch, joints cracking, hips protesting. Gods. Gonna feel that tomorrow. The hay scratches my back as I sit up and flick a bit of it out from between my thighs. I pull my sash back on, lazily knotting it under my breasts, then glance toward the barn doors.
He's outside now. I can see him through the crooked gap in the planks—bare-assed, half-shifted, pissing up a tree with all the solemnity of a priest blessing an altar.
"Really?" I call out, loud enough to echo.
He jumps. Nearly falls over mid-stream.
"What in sweet hell did you just do?" I go on, dragging fingers through my hair. "Mark territory the second you are done? Is this some weird piss-ritual you lot never grew out of?"
He squeals. Not even a growl. A squeal. Like a scolded puppy caught gnawing shoes.
"Relax," I mutter. "You paid. You finished. You didn't bite. That puts you way ahead of the curve."
Still. I'm not kissing him. Not with that mouth. Probably licked the tree.
***
Okay, look.
Don't give me that face.
Yes, he had a snout by the end. Yes, it was hot. And no, I don't need your judgment, thank you very much.
I've been with twinks. Plenty of them. Pretty boys with soft hands and sad eyes and not a single hair south of the neck. Gods know I've ridden enough whimpering virgins to start a sanctuary.
But sometimes? Sometimes a girl wants bulk. Wants weight. Wants someone who growls instead of begs. Who grabs you like you're something to devour. Who ruts like his life depends on it and then howls.
And if that someone happens to be mid-transformation with a bit of fur and a jaw that could crush bone—so what?
Have you tried it?
No?
Then shut the fuck up.
Everyone's entitled to their kinks. Some people like toes. Some people like roleplay. I like big, hairy, slightly cursed men who might accidentally bite me if I don't keep the reins tight.
It's fine.
It's all fine.
Also — and this is the important part — we are deep in Lycan country now.
No road signs.
No proper maps.
Just one sketched by Ogden with a burnt stick on soggy parchment that smells like he wiped it on a battlefield corpse for texture.
Smudged lines.
Guesswork mountains.
A skull that could be a cliff or a badly drawn potato.
And a charcoal smear that might be pine forest… or a donkey… or a fish having an existential crisis.
So yes.
I needed intel.
I needed direction.
And who better to ask than locals who actually live in these teeth-infested woods?
Besides.
Why can't I enjoy the local hospitality while I'm at it?
Earn a coin on the road.
Gather information.
Contribute to cultural exchange.
Look — even these mountain lumberjacks deserve a bit of exotic fruit now and then.
Gods know they don't get much variety up here between logging, howling, and chaining themselves to cellar walls.
Though I'll say this—
They don't act nearly as polished as the Lycans I met at Madam Zoobaya's.
Those ones were all scented oils, velvet voices, philosophical pillow talk.
These ones?
Mud on boots.
Sap on hands.
One-word answers.
And a habit of sniffing you like they're trying to place what season you belong to.
Different breed entirely.
Same teeth.
Same heat when the moon hits wrong.
And — as it turns out — much more useful when you need to know which mountain pass won't get you killed before dawn.