Mason lies beside me,one arm flung overhead, his scarred chest rising and falling with the rhythm of sleep. There’s a softness to him now, a quiet vulnerability that tugs at something deep inside me.
The scent of wet fur and cedar greets me before I even open my eyes. Morning light seeps through the cracks in the curtains, cold and pale, but there’s warmth pressed to my feet—dense, immovable warmth that snores in low, thunderous gusts.
Bear.
I crack one eye. He’s sprawled across the foot of the bed like a fallen boulder, tongue lolling, one massive paw twitching in some dream of snow or squirrels. His fur smells like pine smoke and mountain water, like he belongs out there instead of in here. He lets out a grunt as I shift, tail thumping once, half-heartedly, before going limp again. Lazy power in a two-hundred-pound shagcarpet.
But it’s not Bear who tenses.
It’s Chaos.
I don’t have to look to know he’s behind the front door. I can feel him—coiled stillness in the shape of a predator, breath slow, ears sharp. He doesn’t sleep so much as wait. Not Bear’s brand of guardianship. No. Chaos is a blade tucked in shadow. Precision wrapped in fur.
I sit up slowly. Chaos doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But he tracks every breath I take.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Bear groans and rolls onto his back, all belly and drool and zero dignity. His tail flops. I rub it absently. He saves lives, Mason said, but right now, he’s just a glorified rug with bad breath.
Chaos, though—he waits until I take a step toward the kitchen before he rises. Silent. Controlled. His gaze locks onto mine, neither aggressive nor soft. Just—assessing.
Guard mode. Always.
Bear protects with brute instinct and slobber.
Chaos?
Chaos calculates.
Together, they’re safety in stereo.
One soft. One sharp.
One warm. One warning.
Both of them have accepted me into their pack.
And our leader is Mason—still no last name.
Scars map his chest, telling stories of battles survived. Need coils low in my belly as I watch him, my body aching in the most delicious ways, remembering his possession.
I reach out, brushing my fingertips across his ribs where faint bruises from our earlier frenzy bloom. He stirs, lashes fluttering, eyes opening slowly. When they land on me, they’re shadowed—not from sleep, but something deeper.
Regret, maybe.
“I was too rough,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged. “Should’ve stopped, should’ve pulled back. I lost control.” Hereaches out, his fingers gently tracing the bruises he left on my skin, each touch a silent apology for his earlier roughness.
“You didn’t take anything I didn’t give freely.” I cup his cheek, feel the rasp of stubble against my palm. “You didn’t hurt me, Mason. You gave me something I didn’t think I could have again.” I press my fingers to his lips, feeling them tremble against my skin.
He kisses my fingertips, but the shadows don’t fully retreat. Tension tightens in his body, and self-recrimination simmers in his gaze. He’s a man used to being in control, and last night, he walked a fine line, testing my boundaries and pushing my limits.
I loved every minute of it, but the concern in his eyes worries me.
Before I can overthink it, I shift, moving down his body, my intent clear. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t stop me. When I take him into my mouth, his eyes snap shut instantly, hands automatically gripping my hair.
For a heartbeat, he holds me there, a low groan rumbling in his chest. Then he moves, lifting and lowering my head, fucking my mouth as desire overcomes him.
“Fuuuck,” he growls, his voice ragged with pleasure. “You don’t have to, but there’s no way I’m stopping you. Your mouth feels so good.”
I hum in response, the vibration drawing a hiss from him. His fingers tighten in my hair, holding me where he wants me, using my mouth for his pleasure. I can feel him holding back, can sense the restraint in his touch.
