Page 26

For a moment, lying on the pavement covered in his own blood, body huge and unfamiliar, Avery thought they were going to answer him.

But he didn’t die. He’d still been there in the morning, naked and sprinkled with dark hair—the only thing left to confirm his shift wasn’t just a drug-induced hallucination.

Sascha murmurs Avery’s name, drawing him out of the memory. He attempts to stroke his shoulder, but Avery flinches away.

“I can’t do this,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “There has to be another reason.”

Petra’s voice remains neutral, professional, but her expression is pained when she says, “I’m sorry, Avery. Maybe future research on the werevirus will reveal ways to manage or suppress the symptoms, but for now, nothing can be done. ”

Avery rakes his hands down his face. “So I’ll just lose the ability to use reason for anything but sex?

I won’t care about who might be affected?

” He’s not going to break down. He’s not .

“Seriously, I can’t. I refuse to hurt anyone that way.

I’d never do what… what she did to…” Me , he can’t finish saying.

Just like that, his eyes are brimming with tears.

It takes a beat longer for Sascha to figure it out, realization hitting him just after Petra.

“Avery,” he whispers, painfully gentle. “Is that what happened to you?”

Pawing at his eyes, Avery shakes his head to deny it, but the confirmation comes out anyway, as if he’s being puppeted by a second, stronger will.

“Melissa. She… didn’t tell me. We were at a party; I just thought she was rolling.

Then we… And she bit me, right at the end. ” Fat tears spill down Avery’s cheeks.

“Did you know she was a werecreature?” asks Petra.

Avery nods. “She was adamant about proper prophylactic use, so I trusted her.”

“Why did you risk it, though?”

Even though Sascha probably doesn’t mean harm by the question, angry fire takes up residence in Avery’s throat, burning away the pressure that had been choking him.

“I risked it because werecreatures are fucking people , not walking plague-spreaders. I’m not angry at Melissa for being a werecreature.

I’m angry because I treated her like a person, and she treated me like an acceptable casualty.

And then… My parents kicked me out. Melissa promised her were-pack would take me in, but when that fucking piece of shit were-fox saw I was also an alpha, he ran me out of the goddamn state. ”

“Way to give foxes a bad name,” Petra mutters.

Seeing Avery’s briefly confused look, Sascha explains, “Petra’s a fox shifter. ”

“I don’t give a single rotten fuck what kind of shifter Petra is.

No offense,” he adds, glancing in her direction.

“ This fox was threatened by me, even though I never wanted to take over anyone’s pack.

I didn’t even know how to want that back then.

I only ever—” A sob breaks through, grief splintering in all directions, and even folding his hands over his face fails to conceal the jagged edges. “I only ever wanted to not be alone.”

This time, when Sascha reaches out, Avery leans into his warmth, still trying to smother the mortifying noises he can’t hold back.

Sascha nuzzles his cheek and rubs his back, murmuring, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.

I’m so sorry.” Lips moving to Avery’s temple, he presses his next words against Avery’s fevered skin.

“Being with you isn’t a risk. What happened wasn’t your fault.

I know you’d never do something like that to anyone else, and I’ll be here to help you through it. Okay? You won’t be alone.”

Unable to reply, Avery rubs his cheek against Sascha’s more aggressively, smiling through his tears at the sound of Sascha’s laughter.

For the second time tonight, Petra interrupts them by clearing her throat.

When Avery blinks his wet lashes and looks at her, halfway worried she’s going to come up with something even worse to tell him, he sees that she’s already packed her duffel and has it slung over her shoulder.

“I’ve done all I can for Avery’s injuries,” she announces, then tips her head toward the dresser.

“I’ve left more bandages over there, but the wounds were closed when I took the stitches out, and I applied more magic.

Since you’re healing at a more appropriate rate, I expect you to feel nothing but tenderness by tomorrow morning.

I’ve also left a salve you can rub onto the healing area to reduce the appearance of scarring. ”

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

Avery chokes out his own soft ‘ thanks ,’ but rather than walking 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 can also sense 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 is anticipation .

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 boulder like 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 dry towel, 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…

to fuck him through 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 can look after you.”

“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.

“I don’t think I’ve ever spit on someone in my life, for any reason,” Sascha says, thoughtful. “And the first time I slapped someone in bed, I was the one who almost cried. That was also the last time, so I think we’ll be okay.”

Thinking about Sascha weakly slapping a sex partner in the face, trying to give them what they want only to break down afterward, brings a reluctant smile to Avery’s lips. That must have been a major boner-kill for both of them. “Anything you don’t like?” he wonders.

“Don’t worry about me. I will say ‘no’ to anything I’m not comfortable with.” Sascha’s tone brooks no argument, so Avery moves on.

“I got a hysterectomy during bottom surgery,” he says next, letting the implication hang.

Sascha’s breath catches, chest twitching beneath Avery’s arm.

He pets gently over Sascha’s heart, feeling it pound.

“Werecreatures supposedly can’t contract human diseases, but everyone is tested for drugs and STIs before getting hired at the farm, just in case.

And I’ve never not-used protection.” With all his casual encounters Avery hasn’t ever been fucked raw, but mentioning that feels crass.

Imagining going that far with Sascha—the hot, slick glide of skin-on-skin—sends a pulse of arousal straight to his core. Nothing between them. Just this beautiful man easing every velvet-soft inch inside him.

Avery gets lost in his head imagining it, and the way Sascha squirms suggests he’s going through the same.

In other circumstances, Avery would have climbed on top of him immediately, but he exercises restraint.

He doesn’t know how long the heat will last, or how intense it’ll be.

Even with Sascha seeming fine right now, he’s been running around for days, and his illness could flare up at any time. Speaking of which.

“What if you pass out?”

“Like, on top of you? Again?” Sascha sounds amused. “If I have an episode, I assume we’ll just stop fucking until I’m better. I’ll give you Petra’s number if it seems like an emergency.”

“I am somehow not reassured,” Avery says dryly, but he lets it go. Sascha seems adamant it’s going to be okay, and has thus far refused to bite the hook Avery’s been casting, in which he manages to convince Sascha to fear this as much as he does.

Sascha presses his lips to the top of Avery’s head again, leaving them there to kiss and nuzzle him over and over. “Go to sleep, Avery. I’ll be here when you wake up, and I’m not leaving your side until you’ve gotten through this. Don’t be afraid. ”

Avery wants to be afraid, but as Sascha begins to rock him gently, he loses the will to keep fighting. He settles into an uneasy rest, dragged further down when Sascha begins to hum sweetly. The soft, soothing rumble under Avery’s ear lulls him into unconsciousness. Peacefully drifting?—

—until the moment he bolts upright in bed, panting and soaked in sweat.