Page 129 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Ben’s thoughtfulness strikes me all over again. Even knowing what tonight is meant to be, even understanding the raw, wild edge of what’s coming, he still made sure this moment was steeped in care. He thought of both of us—our needs, our stories. I won’t cry. Goddess knows what my tears might trigger in thebeast standing so close, but it’s a near thing. Ben’s love—for his packmates, for me, for Shadow—is my happily ever after.

I leave the raven blanket folded and reach for the old horse blanket beneath it. I’m not about to dirty up a piece of art like that. It belongs on a wall or at the foot of our bed—not soaked in werewolf cum.Because let’s be honest, folks, that’s exactly where this is going.

Do werewolves even believe in foreplay? And while we’re at it, what kind of equipment are they working with? My eyes trail down the Lycan’s body, curiosity getting the better of me.

Holy shit. It’s too late to run now, right? Or maybe running is just a terrible idea. Because that is… intimidating.

I’ve read about angry-looking penises before, but I’ve never actually seen one until now. This one is red, veiny, and absolutely livid. And the piercings are still there—why, oh why did I think those would disappear? They seem smaller now, like someone decided to bedazzle a weapon of mass destruction. The effect is almost comical, like slapping a pink bow on a pit bull. He’s still partially sheathed, too, so it can only get bigger from here.

My eyes stray back up, and that’s when I see it—the Lycan arches a single brow, delivering two undeniable truths: I’ve been caught admiring the merchandise, and Tomas is still in there.

Before I can react, his hand moves. It’s massive, the tendons shifting beneath taut skin stretched over muscle and bone. The palm is rough—closer to a wolf’s paw pad than human skin—thick, warm, and faintly abrasive as it closes around my wrist. His fingers are tipped with long, curved claws, razor-edged and glinting faintly in the torchlight. There’s nothing I can imagine those claws being good for except violence—pure, raw destruction honed into lethal art.

And here I am, willingly putting myself in the jaws of the great white of land animals. Smart. Really smart, Sunday.

The lightest drag of those claws sends a chill racing through me. My breath hitches as he lifts my wrist to his mouth, the movement deliberate, unhurried. And—God forgive me—when those teeth graze my skin, it’s sexy as hell.

He licks my wound—a quick, animal swipe, hot and rasping, that shocks me. I freeze, the sensation teetering between pain and something far more intimate. It’s not just the wound—I feel that tongue everywhere.

I don’t pull away. I can’t. Fear should be there. Maybe it is, but it’s tangled with something darker—something that makes my pulse quicken and my breath catch. You’d think I learned my lesson with Ben’s animal, but I never claimed to be smart.

The tarp crinkles faintly beneath my shoes, the moon’s silver light spilling down, illuminating the beast before me. The Lycan tilts his head, molten-orange eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, I see it—hunger, recognition… I hope both.

My hand twitches at my side, and I wonder if he notices. If he’s waiting for me to move. Or if he’s already decided what to take next. I don’t have to wait long. He makes a low, unhappy grumble, his claws brushing against my shirt, one sharp tip slotting at the collar.

“Hold on a sec,” I blurt, stepping back. “It might be nice to have clothes for the walk of shame home. Let me take them off first.”

His brow furrows, ears flattening, and I realize too late that it’s the word shame that’s bothering him. “I didn’t mean shame,” I clarify quickly. “Not like that. I’m just not used to running around naked like the rest of you. And, as you can see, no fur.”

His ears twitch, slowly rising, his strange eyes are steady and unblinking. The air between us shifts, heavier now, more intimate—like he’s daring me to follow through.

I grab the hem of my shirt, tugging it over my head, then slide my shorts down with deliberate ease. The fabric lands ina messy pile beside the cooler. Folding them feels unnecessary—too much like stalling, and I’m not looking for a way out. I’m really not.

With a flick of each foot, I nudge my slides off, sending them skittering in opposite directions, and I swear the werewolf snickers. My fists settle on my hips as I step forward, pressing my body against his.

“I’m still in a bra and panties,” I murmur, tilting my head up to meet those molten eyes. “Figured you might want to shred some fabric. See? I’m always thinking of my partner’s needs.”

The Lycan doesn’t respond, but his claws slice through my bra straps with unnerving precision.

I take a step back, my bare feet brushing against the cool tarp beneath me. Then another, and another, slow and measured, until rough bark presses into my shoulder blades, stopping me short. He follows, each step deliberate, the scrape of his claws against the ground raising the hair on my arms.

I let my gaze linger on his, my lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. “What’s the matter, Big Bad? Can’t keep up?”

His growl reverberates through the air, a low, rolling sound that sends a thrill racing down my spine. My breath falters as the tree bites harder into my back, the monster closing the distance like he’s deciding whether to nibble at the bait—or devour me whole.

His claws land on either side of me, sinking into the bark with a hollow crack that carries through the still night. Splinters prick at my bare shoulders, but the sting barely registers. His head dips, his muzzle pressing into my neck, crowding me back a few inches like it’s nothing. He’s just that strong.

His nose, cold and wet, trails along the sensitive skin of my neck before he exhales, a stream of hot breath that makes my nipples peak deliciously. His chest rumbles, a sound that feels more promise than threat.

My heart races, too fast and too erratic—like it understands the raw urgency simmering between us. This isn’t Tomas, the patient and deliberate Alpha. This is something wilder, something that doesn’t wait or ask—it takes.

The panties are the next casualty of his claws. Brutal yet efficient, he slices through the thin fabric with surgeon’s precision, yet somehow leaves my skin pristine.

We’re both standing in the woods, under a full moon, naked as the day we were born—except for the jewelry, the only remnants of the world we’ve left behind. That reminds me—I find the ghostly image of the ring in my mind and think, hide. It blinks out of existence, and I instantly want it back, but this is better. Now it won’t get caught on anything—or anyone.

I sigh, staring at my bare finger. Two claws gently tip my chin up.

“I’m good,” I murmur, my voice soft. “I just… I really love that ring.”

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