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“Sounds good, Petra,” Sascha says without moving from Avery’s side. “Thank you.”

Avery chokes out his own soft ‘thanks,’ but rather thanwalking away afterward, Petra hesitates the way she did when Sascha first introduced them and she was deciding whether to help or run.

“You two might want to have a conversation about consent at some point within the next eight hours,” Petra says finally, eyes skating away from them and landing on the floor.

Avery follows her gaze to a stained spot on the carpet, which he also stares at, hoping the horrid blush heating his face isn’t too obvious. Except he’s in a room with two shifters who can taste heartbeats and smell fear, so even if they don’t notice his reddening cheeks—which they definitely will—the rest of his anatomy is broadcasting how Petra’s implication is affecting him.

Because if he’s going to be afflicted by a surge of inescapable horniness and Sascha plans on staying with him…

“Thanks for the suggestion,” Sascha says, not looking at either of them.

Avery squeezes his eyes shut and is appalled to note that he canalsosense the warmth rising in Sascha’s face, how his pulse is suddenly pounding. He’s vaguely aware of Sascha bidding Petra goodnight, and Petra bidding Avery goodnight, but beyond a little wave, Avery finds himself unable to focus on anything but the images currently assaulting his brain.

Terror, even though shifters are immune to the werevirus. Anxiety, because he doesn’t know what compulsions the heat would enable. Does he have anything dark enough, a want so filthy he’s repressed it? None he can think of, but maybe that’s the point.

But more than the fear and nerves, the overwhelming sensation curling in Avery’s gut isanticipation.

It’s been over a week since their practice session at the lake, where they swam and sprawled before Avery rubbed himself off against Sascha while the sun drenched them with warm rays. Then they basked on the large, smooth boulderlike drunken lizards until Avery’s skin turned pink and stung. He jacked off to the memory every night before the full moon, hungry for more and frustrated by the barriers separating them.

They’re currently in a hotel room with no disapproving pack members or ruthless farmers to keep them from ravishing each other—and the virus that took over Avery’s body has rewired his biological imperatives to make damn sure neither of them leave this room untouched.

The only thing they have left to do is talk about it. Fuck.

Silence descends upon the room as Sascha gets himself ready for bed, then ushers Avery to do the same, peeling him from the sweaty sheets and herding him toward the bathroom. Avery grumbles, pretending not to love how Sascha dotes upon him, and obediently turns on the shower. As the water heats, Avery brushes his teeth, listening to Sascha stripping the bed around the corner.

Avery slips into the shower only as long as it takes to scrub away the sweat and wash his greasy hair. True to Petra’s word, when he ghosts his fingers over the depressions in his skin where Atwood’s claws slashed, he feels nothing more than fragile new skin holding him together with the aid of Petra’s magic.

He doesn’t linger. Once clean, Avery pops out and dries himself with the dinky towel, small even for him, then smears some of the complimentary lotion on his face, rubbing it into his skin while frowning at himself in the mirror. He looks… okay. Not half-dead anymore, but still displaying the evidence of stress and fever written in the lines of his face. Under his eyes, framed with damp lashes, the skin is swollen and purple. Hot water has left his skin rosy, the thin layer of lotion catching light from the bright fixtures above the sink, creating a sheen over his dark freckles.

Unable to take any more, Avery scrubs his hair with a drytowel, leaving the curls a shaggy mess, which he finger-combs as he returns to the main area.

Sascha has finished fitting the bed with new sheets, which he’s insisted on doing himself every night, rather than allowing housekeeping inside the room. When Avery steps around the corner, he’s met with the intensity of Sascha’s gaze. Even though Sascha has already seen and touched Avery’s body, a sudden wave of insecurity has him holding the towel in front of his crotch.

Sascha thankfully doesn’t call attention to it; he merely smiles. “Ready for bed?”

The covers are pulled back, thermostat set to keep the room cool, and aside from asking for a cup of water like a child, there’s no excuse to stall. So Avery nods, keeping the towel clenched in his fist until he can slither under the blankets, at which point he drops it to the floor. Sascha clicks his tongue, picks up the towel, and kisses Avery on the forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to take care of his own night routine.

Nerves fistfight under Avery’s skin. He trembles and fidgets, once again unable to get comfortable. Further worry subsumes him—how much of himself will he lose when the fever takes over? What will the heat feel like once it’s in full swing? How is he meant to initiate a conversation about an incoming storm of arousal so painful Sascha will feel obligated to… tofuck himthrough it? Where’s the consent in that?

“You’re nervous,” Sascha says when he comes back, wiping lingering moisture from his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I’m… I mean, why wouldn’t I be nervous?”

Sascha climbs under the covers next to Avery and flicks off the table light, enrobing the room in darkness except for a faint glow from the bathroom area. A soft tug is all Avery needs to squirm to Sascha’s side, head falling to his shoulder.Sascha doesn’t complain about the damp curls—rather, he buries his face in them, inhaling deeply before pressing his lips against Avery’s scalp.

In the dark, it feels easier. Sascha is wearing only a pair of boxers, the material soft against Avery’s thighs, one of which he’s slung across Sascha’s hips.

Rubbing his back, careful to avoid the not-quite-healed area, Sascha says, “It makes sense to be nervous, but you’ll be okay. I’ll look after you.”

“By ‘look after,’ do you mean you’re gonna fuck me for god knows how long?”

“Well. Yeah, if that’s what you want.”

Avery snorts bitterly. “I don’t think I’ll get a say in what I want.”

Instead of reacting to Avery’s negative energy, Sascha tightens his arm around him. “That’s why we’re talking about it now. So I canlook afteryou.”

“So you said.” Avery is quiet for several minutes, thinking hard. “I don’t like being slapped,” he tells the darkness, eyelashes brushing Sascha’s shoulder when he squeezes them shut. “Or spit on,” he adds, shuddering at the reminder of Atwood’s assault.