Page 2 of Kept (Mating Run #4)

The first thing Eli saw were the antlers.

Dozens of them, all reaching and twisted, mounted at crooked angles above every threshold.

Their shadows stretched in spidery patterns across the ceiling, jittering as clouds crossed the moonlight.

His legs went faint for a second, the sensation like someone had poured cold water straight down his spine.

He sucked in the stale, animal-scented air, hackles up. Below the antlers, a bearskin rug sprawled across the floor. It was the kind Eli had only seen in old movies—but this one was enormous, its muzzle pulled back over big white teeth, glass eyes fixed and cruel.

He sidestepped it carefully. He forced himself not to look at the fanged mouth, not to wonder how the thing had died or how many hands it had taken to drag it here.

Everywhere he looked, there was more: heavy oak furniture with legs that were shaped like claws, arms carved into snarling animal faces. Old teeth embedded in resin, horns held by whorled metal.

It was unsettling—like walking through a hunter’s fever dream. A chill crawled down Eli’s back.

He kept his feet moving, slow and soft, trying to avoid squeaky boards. He needed to settle down before panic made him bolt.

If he ran now, he might never find another shelter before the moon sank back down—or wolves came through the town, uninvited.

The wolves…

The realization hit him with icy certainty: this wasn’t just any house. It was a werewolf’s house.

He stopped breathing for a full ten seconds, every muscle wound tight, listening hard for any sign that he wasn’t alone after all. Sure, the wolves were supposed to be out in the woods tonight. But what if this was some holdout—a wolf who hated crowds, who stayed behind?

His brain screamed at him to get the hell out while he could. But somewhere beneath the panic, a rational voice called out:

Think . If a werewolf lives here, they won’t be home tonight. The full moon is up. The whole forest is calling. Out there is where the danger is.

This house—if Eli kept silent, stayed out of sight—might actually be the safest spot in town.

He let himself relax. Just a little.

He moved to the fireplace, trailing his fingers across the rough-hewn mantle.

By all rights, the place should’ve felt like a threat.

But underneath the heavy trophies and sharp edges, there was a different story.

The worn leather chairs looked like invitations, seats softened by use, perfect for sinking into after you kicked your boots off.

The bookshelves, crammed so full the shelves sagged, overflowed with novels that looked like they’d been re-read half to death—dog-eared, covers taped, spines cracked open. There were cookbooks and hunting guides, training manuals, some old adventure novels stacked neatly on top.

Eli let his fingers skim a book—some frayed mystery novel—then pulled away again. It felt weird to touch anything, like every object was imprinted with someone else’s life. Still, he couldn’t help admiring just how lived-in it all was.

This—he realized—was a home. A real one.

Nothing about it was like his mother’s house, where mess was forbidden and every piece of furniture had to line up in perfect right angles or ex-military Scott would lose his ex-military mind.

Eli’s stomach twisted again, but now it was a strange, warm ache.

He let himself venture deeper, right up to the mess of photographs tucked up under the antlers.

He couldn’t make out much detail in the dim light: just bodies pressed together at holidays, people with rough hands and wide grins, a few faces caught in motion, blurry with laughter.

Relief snuck up his spine, loosening the knot between his shoulder blades. For a fleeting moment, Eli stood absolutely still, just letting the quiet settle around him. Hunger, exhaustion, fear—they still pressed in at the edges, but the house embraced him, wrapped him deep in the borrowed hush.

It was peace. Stolen, but if that was all he'd get, he'd take it.

He drifted down the hallway and up the stairs, curiosity nudging him forward. The next door, right across the hall—it had to be the bedroom.

He pushed it open inch by inch. As moonlight slanted across the floor, Eli’s nose filled with the new scent: a warm, spiced cologne, layered with pine and a deeper, musky undertone that felt alive.

The smell curled in his chest and made his pulse skip. He hesitated, just inside the doorway, scanning for anything out of place.

Clothes were slung over a battered leather chair, a jacket that looked soft from years of wear. The bed dominated the space, a solid thing, built for permanence. Its wooden headboard coiled in carved vines and snarled leaves, the posts sturdy enough to last through generations.

Eli drifted closer. The bed didn’t so much as squeak as he sank onto the edge.

Something about the steadiness of it—the way it gave but didn’t yield—made his own breath truly slow down for the first time since Scott had started eyeballing him that night.

He folded his arms over his knees, tucking in, trying to take up as little space as possible.

He couldn’t help it. He let his head tip forward, letting himself breathe in the scent pressed deep into the pillow—a wild, masculine warmth.

There was nothing subtle about it: sweat and pine, leather, a smoky undertone, and beneath it all, the dense, living smell of a man’s skin, something earthy and raw and undeniably male.

Eli’s cheeks flushed. Being here, being wrapped in that scent… It hit him harder than he wanted it to. His whole chest felt shaky, heat gathering low and tight.

He jerked away, shame prickling up his arms, down his neck.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he—why did this ache, like part of him wanted to vanish, and part of him wanted to call out, Look at me .

Why couldn’t he just be invisible? Why did wanting, even in his own head, make him feel like he was on fire?

He hugged his knees, tucking himself smaller. Revulsion climbed up through the warmth in his gut.

Fucking disgusting. You wanna be one of them? Is that what you are? The words spat, sharp and cruel, in Scott’s voice; that sound had lived rent-free in his skull for years, barking every time Eli’d caught himself wanting anything.

No matter how many times he told himself Scott was full of shit, the words had stuck, chewing holes through comfort, turning simple curiosity into something ugly.

No wonder no one wants you around.

He shut his eyes, burying his face in his arms. The comfort of the bed soured instantly, the air twisting with guilt and memory and an old, sticky dread. His insides knotted up, mean and tight, so familiar he almost didn’t notice it; shame and longing, bound together inseparably.

It had been easier, years ago. Before Scott, before all the rules about how boys should act crashed down around him.

Eli had instinctively been drawn to men in the same way he was drawn to certain songs, or sketches—some deep curiosity, something that made him hum inside. Nothing dangerous. Nothing bad.

Things changed when Scott barged into his life.

The lines about what was allowed narrowed to a needlepoint: manning up, toughening up, making his voice deep and his arms strong and his interests loud and obvious and nothing close to gentle. Scott made sure Eli knew just how short he fell—just how far from man enough he apparently was.

Eli’s tender new attraction folded in on itself, buried deep where neither his mom nor Scott could notice.

It was hard to want men—any men—when the only example was someone who made every day feel like a test you couldn’t pass. There wasn't comfort there, only warning signs that said: Don’t want. Don’t even look. Don’t breathe wrong, or you’ll pay.

Despite it all, Eli’s gaze drifted back across the room, at the abandoned jacket, the boots half-kicked under the bedframe—signs of a man who was strong, comfortable in his own skin, nothing like Scott and his brittle, defensive, by-the-books masculinity.

Eli’s thoughts hovered there, unable to settle.

He didn’t want to be someone like Scott, didn’t want to be a “real man” just because people told him that was how to be worth something. That he had to be aggressive, to protect what was his.

He just wanted to be himself—soft, real, alive—even if he didn’t know what that really looked like yet.

To be the one being protected.

His fingers tightened on his sleeves. “Enough,” he muttered under his breath. There was no sense in letting his brain chase these thoughts. He was here to survive the night, that was all—not to have a crisis over a stranger's bed, for fuck’s sake.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the moonlight, trying to let himself forget, for just a little longer, how much he still wanted things he wasn’t sure he should.

Just make it until sunrise. Keep my head down, stay silent, and slip out when the first birds start yelling at the window. I'll figure out everything else later.

That was all his life had become: holding on for one more night at a time.

Then—creak.

Eli froze.

The noise had come from downstairs. It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t the house settling. It was too heavy, too deliberate.

Then—again. Slow, measured.

Footsteps.

Eli nearly bit through his tongue, heart scrambling. He hadn’t heard the front door, not even a jingle of keys. How had he missed that?

Or had someone already been inside when he came creeping through the window?

The thought made his skin crawl.

He darted silently across the room to the window, jaw clenched, hands trembling. Outside, the ground seemed impossibly far away. He was on the second floor. The porch roof sloped beneath, slick with dew and moonlight, but the distance to the yard was still a broken ankle waiting to happen.

Leaving him back outside, with no way to run.

No way down—not without a monumental risk.

He risked a frantic glance over his shoulder, listening to the slow, methodical steps below. Maybe the person would head to another part of the house, give him time to creep downstairs out of sight and run...

The footsteps stilled. Silence filled the house. Eli strained to hear anything—his own shallow breaths felt much too loud.

Then the footsteps started again, this time with purpose.

Headed to the stairs.

Eli’s stomach dropped, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine.

He thought back to every half-whispered rumor in school, every warning from bored librarians and anxious parents. Werewolves could track you by scent. If they had you in their sights, there was no way to hide.

The stairs began to groan. No way to slip by. No way to fool them, not now.

Eli stared around the room, frantic. The closet was overflowing, useless for hiding. The space under the bed felt absurdly exposed.

Nowhere to hide. Time to face the music.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to steady his breaths, muscles cramping tight.

The floorboards outside the bedroom creaked and then went silent. Eli stared at the door as the knob turned with unbearable slowness.

The door began to swing open, a shaft of moonlight creeping across the floor toward him.