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I steer us through the corpse-streets, but Devon strides ahead like he owns the damn place. Irritation prickles my neck.

Of course the cocky little shit knows where I’ve been staying. My molars grind. Still can’t fathom that I hadn't noticed him.

Need to train the basics more. Keep them sharp since apparently some of my skills are getting rusty.

As we approach the cabin, Devon slows, faking hesitation. We both know it’s bullshit. His eyes meet mine, hard and resigned. We’ve got a deal to uphold, and we’ll both get something we need: him something to eat and me human contact.

Before the accountant, it’d been over a year since I’d gotten any form of touch other than my own hand.

At the door, I pin him with a glare. “Just how long you been tracking me?”

Devon’s upper lip twitches, jaw clenched tight, and shoulders squared. “Who says I’m tracking you, old man?”

My eyes narrow. “Cut the crap, kid.”

I step closer, looming over him. “Now tell me why the hell you’ve been spying on me.”

He juts his chin up. “I gotta eat, don’t I?”

I snort. “And stalking me seemed like the way to do it?”

He lifts his chin even higher. “Maybe I wanted to see if you were really worth robbing.”

I bite back a laugh at his defiant bullshit. Doesn’t take four days to figure out if I’ve got anything worth stealing. Maybe he’s lonely or crazy or both.

Or he was trying to gauge my threat level.

Still can’t believe he actually pulled a knife on me.

But damn if his insolence doesn’t just make me want to bend him over my knee. My palms itch at the thought of turning his ass a deep shade of red.

When I shove him against the door, that fiery gaze shows no fear, only simmers with a challenge that awakens an answering heat deep inside me. A need to tame and claim this feral young man, to earn his submission.

Once inside, I pin Devon with a glare. “I told you before. Strip. Leave your gear against the wall.”

His eyes track me warily as he disarms. I keep my distance, letting him shed his ratty clothes reluctantly. My pack already lies discarded in the corner, a broken picture frame hanging above it of a family.

He stands there, arms crossed, as if daring me to comment. Lean muscle cords his underfed frame, ribs jutting out sharply. A light, happy trail leads from his flat chest down . . .

My eyes narrow. “Boxers too.”

He hesitates, color draining from his face. He looks down, fingers fidgeting with the elastic waistband. “Can’t I keep them on?”

“No. You agreed to all clothes off. Unless you wanna back out and go hungry tonight?”

My lips press into a tight line. Not one for empty threats, but I won’t let him go hungry.

Lucky for me he doesn’t push and just shoves the boxers down with a snarl. His soft cock nestles in coarse hair, and though he covers himself quickly, a glimpse of the pink and slim shaft stokes heat low in my groin.

And he’s circumcised.

Fuck if that’s not making me hard already.

Reminds me of Mac, which makes my cock twitch. Mac and I served together, and while I haven’t seen my best friend in four years, I still vividly recall his cock, and I haven’t played with one as pretty since.

My gaze continues to wander over Devon as I adjust myself, noticing how goosebumps prickle his bare skin.

He shivers but meets my gaze defiantly when I finally look at his face. “There. Happy now, perv?”

I bite back a growl at his insolence. “Keep running your mouth and see what happens. Now, get moving toward the kitchen. Time to eat.”

His eyes narrow but his traitorous stomach rumbles loudly. Hunger wins out, and he turns to stomp off down the hall.

I watch his taut ass disappear, that primal urge flaring to follow and claim what’s mine. To take and mark and make him surrender. To make him forget anyone else who’s been there before me.

My jaw clenches tight at the last thought.

In the kitchen, I toss him a rag to cover up as I cook the quail I trapped earlier this morning.

Devon watches me as I work, his blue eyes floating from the meat to me, seemingly particularly taken by the tattoo sleeve running up my left arm.

I turn to the side to hide my smile, pleased he’s looking, that he’s really seeing me. Not sure why. Didn’t care so much when the accountant looked me over. Just wanted to shove my cock into that guy’s hole.

But the pleasure turns to a dull ache as I finish dressing the quail and truly take him in. Yes, I’d seen he was thin and haggard earlier but not how thin, how emaciated he truly is.

If he ever came across a pack of Carrionites, he’d never stand a chance.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Dunno.”

I angle my head toward him, his eyes still glued to the food. “A few days? A few weeks?”

He shrugs. “Lost count.”

As the quail cooks with some potatoes, I take a seat at the table. “You lost count?”

Devon’s eyes narrow. “Ate bits of food. Just not an actual meal. Not a fucking chef like you.”

I reach behind me and pull the Sig from my waistband and put it on the table. His eyes widen. “Not gonna shoot you. Though, pull your knife on me again and maybe I will.”

He just rolls his eyes. “Old man, if I take my knife out again you won’t see it coming. And you’ll hit the floor before you even have a chance to reach behind your back.”

Cocky little shit.

When the quail’s done, I holster the gun and get up then plate it and place it before Devon. He grabs it, going on to inhale every morsel. “Slow the fuck down before you choke.”

He snarls and keeps eating.

“Devon, eat slowly, dammit. Make sure you don’t swallow any bones.”

I place a glass of water next to him, which he gulps desperately between mouthfuls.

Giving up, I drop into my seat and eat, keeping an eye on him. When he’s done I catch him eyeing my plate. With a sigh, I slide it over to join his empty one. He demolishes whatever’s left.

“How long you been by yourself?”

Devon shrugs. “Long time.”

I cross my arms over my chest, leaning back in the chair. Hate these short ass answers he gives. I sigh and rub my temples.

Connection isn’t just physical, it’s social. It’s having a conversation. And most of the time I have no one to talk to let alone touch.

Something flickers across Devon’s face and his features soften the tiniest bit. He swallows whatever he was chewing and huffs. “Since I was about twelve.”

“Fuckin’ hell.”

If he’s lasted this long, I’m the one who underestimated him. No way he would’ve survived all these years without being somewhat dangerous and resourceful.

“What’s it to ya?”

He shoves the last pieces of meat into his mouth.

And there’s the attitude again.

I get up from my chair and make my way over to his side of the table, gripping his nape. “Just wanted to get to know you a bit.”

He flinches but doesn’t pull away, pulse fluttering under my palm like the wings of an ensnared bird. “Don’t see you with anyone, old man.”

“Alone just like you. But not for as long,”

I say, steering us toward the bedroom.

At the bedroom door, he pauses, a hint of nerves showing through the attitude. “Let’s just get this over with.”

I press against his back, desire mounting, and nip his ear. “Eager to have me tame that feisty mouth?”

He shivers but lifts his chin. “You wish.”

I chuckle, then open the door and give him a light shove inside. His false bravado doesn’t fool me. “Oh, the things I want to do to you. The ways I’ll take you apart piece by delicious piece.”

And have him begging for more before the night is through.