Page 2

Humans, of course, can’t tell shifters or werecreatures from any other person. Not unless they have magic. However, shifters can smell a werecreature. The magic fueling shifters is different from the twisted virus lurking in the werecreature’s cells, and its scent is sharp and bitter.

That’s what he’s been told, anyway. Sascha has been sheltered all his life, homeschooled and kept on pack lands for as long as his father could justify.

He doesn’t care to listen when Sascha explains, so patiently, that being chronically ill doesn’t mean he can’t work a job or go to college, but it has never landed.

As a result, Sascha has not, to the best of his knowledge, ever met a werecreature.

Will Avery smell bitter? Sascha doesn’t smell anything odd from where he stands, but maybe it’ll be more obvious closer-up.

The plastic key card feels weighted, like he might fumble and drop it at any second.

Sascha squeezes it in his fist until the rounded corners are pressing into his skin, then makes eye contact with Avery again and tilts his head toward the hallway leading to their room.

He walks several paces alone, but when the air shifts and faded Converse squeak on the linoleum floor, a shiver runs down his spine.

Sascha is being followed by a werecreature. A man capable of turning into a mutant bear monster who could rip Sascha limb-from-limb if he made the wrong move. And Sascha is leading him to a private room, carrying a box of condoms.

At least if he dies, his dad won’t be able to kill him for his stupidity.

The walk is silent except for Sascha’s breathing.

He reaches the correct number, swipes the key card without acknowledging the red divots in his skin, and opens the door, before freezing.

He looks down the hall with wide eyes, watching Avery amble along like he’s not in any hurry at all.

Every nerve in Sascha’s body is alert, and when Avery is finally standing in front of him, the hair on his arms and the back of his neck have raised into irritating little prickles.

“Um. Hi,” Sascha says, forcing sound from his dry throat.

A funny curve tilts the corner of Avery’s mouth. He’s looking at Sascha through those damn curls, which in the dim vestibule completely shadow his eyes. Should Sascha want to kiss him so soon? Because he does.

“I’m Sascha,” he says when Avery doesn’t move or reply.

“Okay,” Avery says. “ I’m getting out of the hallway.”

As Avery squeezes past him, Sascha can’t help but notice the care Avery takes to keep their bodies from brushing.

His thigh disturbs the bag in Sascha’s hand, crinkling the filmy plastic, and though it’s brief, Avery’s shoulders tighten, and he cringes against the wall, dragging his arm against the off-white paint until he pops into the main space.

Sascha feels Avery’s sigh, not quite covered by the sound of the door squeaking shut.

In the middle of the small room there is a single king-sized bed.

There is also a chair, a small round table, and a nightstand on either side of the bed, which is across from a chipped wardrobe with an ancient flat-screen TV atop it.

Standard hotel fare. But that bed—the way it both beckons and threatens—leaves Sascha standing where the mouth of the vestibule hangs open.

He stares until Avery shifts with visible discomfort. “You didn’t have to come, y’know.”

The defensiveness in his voice breaks the spell.

Sascha cracks through the invisible barrier, moving to set his bag on the wardrobe with more enthusiasm than necessary.

“It’s fine,” he says, not looking at Avery at first. Then, just to make sure his decision is clear, he issues his next words directly to the slender man in front of him: “I wanted to come.” Experiencing nervousness over an app hookup is normal, even if that’s not the decision they're dancing around.

Avery raises one dark eyebrow in a perfect arch. Sascha can’t raise just one eyebrow, though he’s tried in the mirror before. The CGI characters posing on DreamWorks ads make it look so easy.

“You want to come ?” Avery repeats, putting the emphasis on a different word.

Instantly, heat rushes to Sascha’s cheeks. He’s pale, and his blond, upswept hair offers nothing to hide his blush, not like Avery’s curtain of dark curls. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

Avery laughs. Scratchy, quiet, and brief. “I know.” He scopes out the room from behind those nose-length curls, giving Sascha only peeks of his light green eyes as he moves. “How do you want this to start?”

Sascha inhales sharply. “I don’t— I, uh.” He turns toward the bag. “I brought wine coolers? ”

“Is that a question?”

“No,” he says, tugging the flimsy cardboard four-pack out of the bag. Unfortunately, Sascha pulls with such enthusiasm, he sends the box of condoms tumbling onto the floor. He doesn’t have to turn around to sense how rigid Avery goes.

Fuck.

Abandoning the wine coolers, Sascha jerks his hands up, palms out in a gentling motion. “I got them just in case! I’m not demanding anything. Or expecting anything. To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. Still don’t.”

It feels like a victory when Avery pushes back a few dark locks, tucking them behind his ear. They fall almost immediately, but a few catch on his cheeks, leaving more of his face visible. He cocks his head. “What flavor?”

What? Sascha almost asks, before realizing Avery is referring to the drinks, not the condoms. “Exotic wildberry.”

Avery extends his hand so Sascha can hand one over, then immediately cracks it open to take a sip. “Surprisingly good,” he says with a nod.

Even though it’s nothing, or at least not much of anything, a big grin pulls at Sascha’s mouth.

He did nothing but pick an appealing flavor of alcohol, but it seems to help Avery relax in his presence.

Sascha grabs his own wine cooler, pausing to pick up the box of condoms and toss it on the dresser.

In his periphery, Avery tracks that movement.

Their eyes meet. Without breaking the stare, Sascha uncaps his wine cooler and takes two big swallows before realizing his constitution will only allow him to drink one, so he slows.

“Do you wanna sit down?” Sascha tips his head toward the bed, then makes a point to seat himself in the corner chair.

It’s so small, he has to turn away from the short table to avoid hitting his knees.

Sascha is five feet and eleven-point-five inches tall, coming so shy of six feet he resents his taller cousins, who aren’t even alphas.

There are so many ways Sasha fails in being the alpha his father wanted to inherit the pack?—

But no. He can’t go down that spiraling mental storm drain with a stranger and potential hookup in front of him.

He swallows the angst back as Avery gingerly seats himself on the side of the bed. Then he goes back to staring, wondering what Avery sees in him when he stares right back.

Avery breaks the silence. “You want to fuck.”

Sascha chokes on his drink. Avery arches his eyebrow again, while Sascha sputters. “I don’t not want to fuck,” he manages. “But you don’t have to. I’d never pressure anyone like that.”

Avery considers him; he must find what he’s looking for because he nods decisively. “Okay.”

“Do you want to talk first?”

Avery shakes his head, which catches Sascha off-guard and fills him with odd disappointment. Maybe he does want to know all about this man before, during, or after they fuck. Or if they don’t fuck at all. Sascha wants to know more about him than a PROWLR bio can convey.

But if Avery doesn’t want to talk, then they won’t. Sascha sets his drink on the table and uncurls from the chair, careful as he crosses the handful of paces separating him from Avery. He sits on his heels, not touching yet. Just looking. Observing.

Contrary to superstition, Avery doesn’t smell bitter at all.

He smells like a barn, actually, but Sascha is more preoccupied with the fear in his eyes.

Sascha doesn’t know how to process a werecreature looking at him, the most worthless alpha in the Madison cougar pack, with such trepidation. It leaves him out of sorts.

Figuring something gentle and slow could ease them both into the moment, Sascha leans in for a kiss. The cougar in him wants to nip that freckle on Avery’s bottom lip, but before he gets close, those seaglass eyes widen and, to Sascha’s horror, he flinches .

Sascha is on his feet and pressed against the window in the span of a blink, but Avery launches off the bed and moves toward him instead of away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding his palms out until they’re nearly brushing Sascha’s chest. “I’m just, I haven’t—” He sucks in a deep breath. “It’s been a while.”

“Since you’ve hooked up with someone?”

A smile twists Avery’s lips, but it isn’t a happy one. “Since I’ve touched anyone.”

“What?!”

“I told you I only just moved here,” Avery says quietly.

“Where were you before?” Sascha wonders. Finding safe space as a trans werecreature must be brutal, no matter where one looks.

Avery’s lips part, but then he closes them and shakes his head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it. I just want to…

” Avery licks his lips. This close, Sascha can see how dry those lips are, sticky skin pulling as he tries unsuccessfully to speak.

To avoid the overwhelming desire to kiss him again, Sascha grabs Avery’s drink and offers it to him.

His murmur of thanks sounds utterly helpless.

He takes a long swig before setting the bottle on the nightstand.

“Can I hug you?” Sascha asks, smiling faintly when Avery’s shocked gaze snaps up.

“Seriously?”

“Yes, I’m being serious. Why would I lie about a hug?”

Avery grumbles, “It’s not like I know you.”

“It’s you who didn’t want to talk first,” Sascha reminds him, then spreads his arms wide. “But we can start here.”