Page 18 of Bound by Alphas 1: Bound (The Blood Moon Chronicle #3)

Drew, sensing the tension, quickly changed the subject. “So, movie night? I’ve got snacks, drinks, and a playlist that’ll keep us going till midnight.”

“Some of us have work tomorrow,” Cade reminded him, though his lips quirked in a small smile.

“All the more reason to enjoy tonight,” Drew countered. “Live a little, old man.”

“Old man?” Cade raised an eyebrow. “I’m twenty-nine, not ninety.”

“Ancient in dog years,” I couldn’t help adding.

“Wolf years,” all three brothers corrected in perfect unison, making Drew and me exchange amused glances.

“Still creepy when you do that,” I informed them, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders.

“Speaking of creepy,” Drew said, his eyes twinkling with mischief, “Finn was telling me earlier how he’s been having these weird sensations lately. What was it again, Finn? Something about your lower back?”

I kicked him under the table, my face heating. “I wasn’t telling you anything. You were snooping through my journal.”

“I was not snooping,” Drew protested with mock indignation. “I was… researching. For science.”

“For science?” I repeated incredulously. “What kind of science involves reading my private thoughts about—” I stopped abruptly, realizing I was about to say too much.

Three pairs of alpha eyes fixed on me with sudden intensity.

“About what, Finn?” Cade asked, his voice deceptively casual.

“Nothing,” I muttered, stabbing another potato. “Just… weird fox stuff. Shifting pains. Nothing interesting.”

“Those scars on your lower back?” Drew prompted, ignoring my death glare. “The ones that have been tingling lately?”

I could have murdered him right there. “They’re just old scars from when I was a kid,” I said through gritted teeth. “From the accident. You know that.”

The “accident” was something I barely remembered—a childhood injury that had left me with three strange silvery scars on my lower right hip.

The brothers had always been weirdly protective about them, insisting I keep them covered at the beach or pool, claiming they were still “sensitive” even years later.

“But they’ve been feeling different lately, right?” Drew persisted, a strange gleam in his eye as he glanced between me and the brothers. “You said they’ve been warm? Tingling?”

The rest of dinner passed in a similar vein, with Drew making oddly pointed comments that seemed designed to make both me and the brothers uncomfortable. By the time Elena brought out dessert—her famous tres leches cake—I was mentally drained and eager to escape.

“I’m going to shower before the movie,” I announced, pushing back from the table as soon as I’d finished my cake. “If we’re doing one of Drew’s marathons, I want to be comfortable.”

“Don’t take too long,” Drew called after me. “The movie waits for no fox!”

The hot water was a blessing, washing away some of the day’s tension. I stayed under the spray longer than necessary, letting the steam fill the bathroom as I tried not to think about what had happened in the studio.

But of course, that’s exactly what my brain decided to fixate on.

The way Cade had looked at me when he helped me into his shirt. The feeling of his fingers brushing against my skin as he buttoned it. The heat in his eyes when I’d unconsciously leaned toward him, my body seeking his without my permission.

And then that kiss—not on my lips where I’d wanted it, but on my forehead. Chaste. Brotherly. A clear message that he didn’t see me the way I apparently saw him.

“Stupid fox instincts,” I muttered, turning off the water with more force than necessary. “Stupid mate bond. Stupid universe with its stupid sense of humor.”

As I stepped out of the shower, I caught a glimpse of myself in the steamy mirror.

Turning slightly, I could just make out the three silvery scars on my lower back—straight line, diagonal slash, curved mark—forming a strange triangular pattern.

I traced them with my finger, frowning as they seemed to warm under my touch.

Drew was right about one thing—they had been acting weird lately.

Tingling when the brothers were near, warming when I thought about them, sometimes even seeming to pulse in time with my heartbeat.

I’d assumed it was just another manifestation of my defective shifting, like the ears and tail I couldn’t control.

I stepped out of the shower, dripping onto the heated marble floor of my bathroom.

One of the perks of living in a mansion designed by obscenely wealthy werewolves—every bedroom had its own spa-worthy en suite.

Mine featured a rainfall shower big enough for four people—an irony I refused to contemplate—a soaking tub that could double as a small pool, and heated floors that made towels almost unnecessary.

Almost.

I grabbed one anyway, giving my hair a cursory drying before tossing it aside. The advantage of having a bathroom attached to my bedroom was the freedom to air dry if I wanted. No need for modesty in my own space.

I padded naked into my bedroom, fox tail swishing water droplets behind me, and nearly had a heart attack.

Logan was sitting on the edge of my bed, holding what looked like a book. His head snapped up at my entrance, his eyes widening as they took in my very naked state.

For one mortifying moment, we both froze—me in shock, him in what appeared to be stunned silence. His gaze drifted slowly over my exposed body, from my dripping hair to my fox tail and everything in between, while I stood there like a deer in headlights, too surprised to move.

When my brain finally caught up with the situation, I let out a yelp.

“Jesus Christ on a unicycle!” I dove behind the chaise lounge in my bedroom’s sitting area. “Ever heard of knocking? Or texting? Or any form of communication that doesn’t involve cardiac arrest?”

From my hiding place, I could feel my face burning with mortification, my fox ears flattened against my wet hair. The knowledge that Logan had just seen every inch of me was almost too much to bear.

And it wasn’t just the nakedness that mortified me—it was the kind of nakedness. I had virtually no body hair, even… down there. Where most men had a forest, I had a barren clearing— practically nothing despite being nineteen. Just bare skin where there should have been something more adult.

Drew had assured me for years that I’d “grow into it,” that some men just developed later. But I was beginning to think that was just another lie to make me feel better about being a freak—a defective shifter with a defective body.

“I brought you this,” Logan finally said, his voice rougher than usual as he held up what I now recognized as one of my leather-bound sketchbooks. “Thought you might be looking for it.”

“And it couldn’t wait until I was wearing pants?” I demanded, peering around the chaise lounge. “Or did you think, ‘Hey, perfect time to invade Finn’s privacy—when he’s naked and vulnerable and likely to die of embarrassment’?”

“I didn’t know you’d be…” Logan gestured vaguely in my direction, his eyes determinedly fixed on a point above my head now.

“Naked? In my own bedroom? After a shower? What a shocking concept,” I snapped, my tail lashing with agitation. “Can you at least throw me something to wear since you’ve decided to make yourself at home?”

Logan reached for the nearest piece of clothing—a t-shirt draped over my desk chair—and tossed it in my direction. It landed a foot short, because apparently alpha werewolves with supernatural strength and precision suddenly lost all coordination when confronted with nudity.

“Stellar aim,” I muttered, stretching to grab it without exposing myself further. “Really living up to that predator reputation.”

I managed to snag the shirt and pulled it over my head. It was long enough to cover the essentials but still left me feeling uncomfortably exposed as I stepped out from behind the chaise lounge.

“You could have left it on the desk,” I said, gesturing to the sketchbook still clutched in his hand. “Or, wild concept, waited until I came downstairs.”

“I could have,” he agreed, his eyes now tracking the movement of my tail, which was still swishing nervously. “But then I wouldn’t have gotten such an educational anatomy lesson.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpanned, crossing my arms over my chest. “Hilarious. I’m dying of laughter. Can’t you tell by my not-laughing face?”

I took a step toward him, intending to snatch the sketchbook and then shoo him out, but my wet feet—and the water dripping from my still-soaked tail—created a small puddle on the hardwood floor.

My feet slipped, arms pinwheeling in the least dignified manner possible, and I felt myself falling—until suddenly I wasn’t.

Logan moved with supernatural speed, catching me against his chest before I could hit the ground. One moment I was practicing for the world’s most embarrassing pratfall, the next I was pressed against six foot five of solid muscle, my face smashed into his pectoral.

“Careful,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “Floor’s wet.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I gasped, acutely aware that the t-shirt had ridden up during my near-fall and was now doing absolutely nothing to preserve my modesty. “Brilliant deduction. What tipped you off? The puddles or my impromptu ice-skating routine?”

But despite my sarcasm, I couldn’t bring myself to pull away. Logan was so warm, his arms like steel bands around my waist, his scent—ocean air and alpha male—making my head swim. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain he could hear it, feel it against his chest where we were pressed together.

The cool air against my exposed backside contrasted sharply with the heat where my front was squeezed against Logan. His large hand splayed across my lower back, dangerously close to the curve of my ass, fingers just brushing the silvery marks that seemed to tingle at his proximity.