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The musty car blanket, upon which they had their first date, provides a barrier between Avery’s ass and the car’s leather seat. He keeps the window open so his hair dries in the wind. Sascha keeps taking his eyes off the road to send Avery imploring looks until Avery flicks him in the temple as a reprimand. Then, in a truly hypocritical move, he takes Sascha’s hand off the steering wheel to kiss his knuckles. He gives it back eventually, just in time for the sign indicating Dennings Farm to become visible over the hill.

Before getting out of the car, Avery kisses Sascha, clutching hard and refusing to be dislodged until Saschareminds him of the time. Avery winces upon hearing how late it is, then hurries off so he can take care of the morning’s tasks before his shift stocking the farm store begins. He’s gotten reasonably good at operating the space since that first day of fumbling around without any help or training. It’s not that herculean a task anymore.

The only thing that makes it awful is the bad attitude of one particular shifter clerk who has it out for him.

Shifter employees get their schedules elsewhere, so Avery won’t know until he walks inside if Atwood is working the check-out today. It’s Monday, and he usually works every Tuesday and Wednesday, with random intervals in between, enough to startle Avery when he arrives. He makes an effort to stay on his guard whenever stocking the store, so he’ll be ready for Atwood if he’s there and able to relax a bit if he’s not.

Monday could have chosen to be kind—this, the day after a full moon shift, and having had to leave a man who wanted to, quote, ‘suck on every part’of him. A shiver runs down Avery’s spine as he contemplates things Sascha could suck on, followed by a much less pleasant shiver when he walks into the store and Atwood’s head swivels toward him like a gatling gun latching onto a target. Rather than the usual marijuana fog, Atwood’s eyes are clear and bright, pupils contracted into pinpricks.

“Hey, Atwood,” Avery says weakly, not willing to be cowed into looking away first. “How’s it?—”

“I figured something out,” Atwood interrupts. “I smelled something on you when we snuggled last week. Remember that?”

The encounter Atwood is referring to surges to the forefront of Avery’s mind. Far fromsnuggling, the shifter had abruptly gotten up in Avery’s face, so close the weed stink on his clothes had itched Avery’s nostrils. Then Atwood spoke, and his breath had been worse. Avery had turned away, eyessqueezing closed as he hoped desperately that Atwood wouldn’t go so far as to touch him.

“See,” Atwood continues, “I thought I was imagining things, but I’m not. You’ve been real personal with a shifter recently.”

This alarms Avery into stepping back. Every time he’s returned from a meeting with Sascha, he’s showered well and assumed the farm’s animal stink would mask any lingering traces. Avery himself can’t figure out what he smells like before or after rubbing against Sascha. In general, the variation in shifter physiology makes it hard for him to identify them with precision, but in Sascha’s case, it’s more that everything about him feels so right it’s hard to imagine what life looks or smells like without him.

So how the fuck can Atwood tell?

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’Avery doesn’t say. ‘That’s none of your business’would be even worse than simply denying it.‘Fuck off’is probably the worst option, which sucks because that’s what Avery goes with.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” Avery tries to scowl, he really does, but what happens instead is his inner ursine snarls in rage, baring Avery’s teeth with his fangs already dropped. “I’m just here to do my fucking job, so you can?—”

Atwood cuts Avery off, not by interrupting him again, but by simply taking a step out from behind the counter. Avery backs up until he nearly hits a vegetable display, then realizes he won’t be able to defendanythingin this cramped little store and lunges for the exit. Atwood reaches it first, his much larger body blocking the door. He’s shorter than Sascha, but broader. Comparatively, Avery is a toothpick, and when Atwood wraps a meaty hand around his throat, Avery worries he’s about to be snapped like one.

“I see those marks on your neck, you know. Is your job sucking shifter dick? You’ll put out for this mystery faggot, but not for me?”

Panic surges in Avery’s chest. He’d told himself Atwood’s words last week had just been him tormenting Avery for fun, not that the guy actuallymeantwhen he called Avery a “pretty lil’ fuck” with a mouth that’d look better stuffed, then volunteered to demonstrate.

Avery had repeated to himself that it wouldn’t happen again. He’d focused on his conflict with Beryl and put Atwood’s disgusting words out of his mind, because what other choice did he have?

It’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

Atwood tightens his fingers and presses Avery against the door, which he locks with his other hand. “You think you’re too good for me? Like you were-bitches aren’t here just to clean up animal shit, since that’s all you’re worth anyway? You should feel lucky I’m even touching you. I’m only doing it because I know your little fucking secret.”

No longer concerned about the restricting pressure on his windpipe, Avery begins to thrash. If Atwood already guessed correctly about Sascha, that leaves only one other secret that would be of any interest to a bastard like him.

“You think just because some stupid fuckers in legal offices changed your paperwork, that changes who you are? What you were born as?” Atwood laughs, then spits directly in Avery’s face. “You’ll bend over for me, or Uncle Howard might hear a few things about yourperformancein the store.”

Avery writhes, pained noises catching in his aching throat when Atwood lifts him onto his toes.

“What’s it gonna be, you were-bitch whore?”

Being unable to vocalize works in Avery’s favor because when Atwood yanks at the bottom of Avery’s shirt, he’s unprepared for the drop of warm fluid that lands on his wrist. He looks down at the blood dripping from Avery’s left hand, attention diverting just enough that he’s entirely unprepared when the bony knuckles of Avery’s right collide with his jaw.

Atwood wails in fury, dropping Avery. Before he can gethis bearings, Avery knees Atwood in the crotch as hard as he can, then ducks under his arm and makes a break for the customer entrance at the front of the store. He doesn’t even wipe the spit off his cheek.

Bursting outside, Avery starts to run, but something makes him skid to a stop. His feet…

They’reburning.

“Oh, fuck, oh no,” Avery hisses. He jumps behind the large wooden sign identifying the store, crying out when his ankle cracks loudly. Shaking hard, Avery tears through his bootlaces, trying to get them untied. Despite only meaning to shift his hands, Avery is horrified to confirm his feet have begun to transform as well. They swell in his boots, and he only barely rips them off before his foot grows too large for the thick leather.

Blood gushes from his toes as the claws force their way through, soaking into the gravel surrounding the store display. The crusted-over scrape from the fence earlier tears apart, leaving an open gash that shortly after fills in with the claylike mutant tissue.

The moment Avery’s bones still, he lurches forward, intending to keep running. Instead, the first few halting steps across the gravel cause pain to radiate up Avery’s legs. Blood has made the small rocks slippery, keeping him off-balance.