I almost miss the noise.
Initially, Hudson had suggested I stick to cleaning the common areas downstairs while Oli handled the guys’ bedrooms. “Privacy concerns,” he’d said, but his eyes had flickered toward Damien. I’d bet my last pair of clean socks that Damien was the one who didn’t want me touching his precious things. Probably thought I’d contaminate them with my rejected-female cooties or something.
But today, with Oli taking care of the bathroom situation downstairs after a particularly disastrous attempt at homemade slime, I’m stepping into uncharted territory: the guys’ private sanctuaries.
I pause outside Ethan’s door first, the least intimidating choice. His room is tidy with minimal dusting required, everything in its place. Medical and healing textbooks line his shelves alongside novels with cracked spines.
Hudson’s room is military-neat, with a shelf of worn paperbacks, a framed photo of the guys when they were young, and a girl who looks like it might be Damien and Oli’s sister, all grinning at the camera.
They look so carefree.
My duster trails over the items, each whispering stories about its owner. It feels strangely intimate to be in their private spaces. Little clues to who they are beyond the testosterone and fur.
Axel’s room is next, and I brace myself before pushing open the door. It’s… chaos. Clothes strewn everywhere, sheets tangled, and are those knives embedded in the wall?
Yep. Definitely knives. And what looks suspiciously like a whip sticking out from under the bed.
“Jesus,” I mutter, tiptoeing around what appears to be a collection of deadly weapons casually scattered like toys. I shake my head at Axel’s mess, cleaning while trying not to cut myself on sharp objects accidentally.
I hesitate outside Damien’s door. His room is the last one, at the far end of the hall. I’ve managed to avoid him mostly, but entering his personal space feels like crossing a boundary he’s made very clear I shouldn’t.
“Just get it over with,” I mutter, pushing the door open.
The sound of a shower running hits me.
I pause. I didn’t realize he was home.
For a second, I consider coming back later, but then I’d have to face him. If I slip in now, I could dust quickly and be gone before he’s finished. He’d never even know I was here.
The room is a contradiction. It’s not Axel-level chaos, but there’s a trail of clothes on the floor, as if he’d peeled them off on the way to the shower. The bed is made, but has multiple large lumps. Then on the dresser sits a perfectly folded stack of T-shirts.
I roll my eyes. “Of course,” I mutter under my breath. “Mr. I-Hate-Your-Existence can fold clothes like Martha Stewart but can’t manage a simple “good morning.”
I dust the dresser at lightning speed. My wolf stirs beneath my skin, oddly content in a space that belongs to a male who can barely look at me without scowling.
The shower’s still running as I finish up, and I’m about to leave when I hear a moan from the bathroom. I glance up and freeze. Through the crack of the bathroom door, I see him.
His eyes are closed, his head tilted back, as water cascades down his muscular chest. Steam billows around him, but it doesn’t obscure the view of his hand wrapped around his large cock, stroking rhythmically.
My fingers tighten around the duster’s handle. My cheeks flush as they travel over Damien’s chiseled physique—broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, defined abs flexing with each stroke.
My wolf stirs, a low, hungry heat spreading through my veins as she presses against my skin, urging me closer.
I should leave.
Now.
But I can’t force myself to pull my eyes away. He may be a dick, but seeing him like this, so raw, erases all rational thought from my mind. Heat pools between my legs, and I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the sudden ache there.
My hand slips on the handle, and the duster clatters against the dresser.
Damien’s eyes snap open, locking with mine through the crack in the door.
“Shit,” I mutter, spinning toward the door.
I’m almost there when a wet hand grabs my arm, yanking me around. Water soaks through my shirt where his skin touches.
“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” Damien growls, his voice deeper than usual.
