Page 74 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

The moment stretches—taut—suspended. It’s like I’m standing outside of myself, watching it unfold, knowing there’s no stopping what comes next. The monster inside me, feral and restless for hours, goes perfectly still, his eyes narrowed and watchful. The eerie calm before a storm breaks—the world caught in a breath, just before everything shatters.

His scent blooms, rich and layered, swelling to fill the space between us. Apple, campfire smoke, the faint sweetness of honey, and deeper still—ashes, herbs, and the warm spice of cardamom. The scent of my mate group, braided together in him. It’s a heady bouquet, and the urge to add my own to it roars through me.

I lick first, my tongue tracing over the warm skin. He shivers, the reaction almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The apple sharpens, sweetens, and beneath it pulses a current of lust and need that strikes me like lightning. It’s his.

Mine.

Ours.

I bite.

The hollow ache clawing at me eases as his blood hits my tongue—warm, alive, rich with power and the taste of everything I’ve been craving. My fangs sink deeper, the sacs behind them swelling with venom, waiting to be deployed—to make him more receptive, to bind him tighter, to ensure he’ll always return.

But I don’t.

I drink carefully, just enough to steady myself, to take the edge off the gnawing hunger. My cock throbs, a deep ache that mirrors the pulse of his blood flowing into me. His arousal rises, an undeniable echo of my own. It curls through the air between us, a silent admission neither of us acknowledges.

Like the man, his blood is complex—layered, steady, warm, and soaked in power. I savor two more mouthfuls before pulling back, feeling the depth of what passes between us. It’s unspokenbut palpable, a quiet acknowledgment of what almost happened and perhaps why it can’t.

My lips pull away, fangs retracting. His gaze meets mine, gold flickering at the edges—raw and open in a way Tomas rarely allows. For a moment, there’s no wolf and no vampire—just two men bound by something they can’t fully name.

The shift in his scent tells me I could push this further. I could lick the puncture wounds, pull him to me, taste the skin of his neck. My monster flashes an image—us sinking to our knees, me pulling out the Alpha’s cock, running my tongue over each stud and ring. I dismiss the vision. It’s ludicrous. I’ll not be submitting to him, nor giving him that kind of control over me.

Here we are, again, like countless nights before—wanting but holding back, supporting each other even as everything else threatens to collapse around us. We don’t need words. We never have. The familiar ache of desire coupled with restraint presses against my chest. It’s almost comforting in its predictability.

We want and we resist.

I heal the punctures and roll down his shirt sleeve, buttoning it again before raising my gaze to meet his eyes—pupils blown wide, liquid gold pools staring back at me.

For a fleeting, wistful moment, I imagine asking him to stay—to let me slip into death with his wolf’s warmth beneath my fingertips and his blood still coursing through my veins. It’s a vision soaked in intimacy and longing.But that’s not who we are anymore.

I shake off the fantasy, knowing it’s probably fueled by my chyld’s defection, my monster’s gluttony, and this smoldering, unnamed thing that’s always stretched between us. I need to make sure he knows I appreciate him, but it’s time to let go of these old ghosts.

The sun’s pull grows heavier, an anchor dragging me down as I stagger toward the couch. Tomas moves in the periphery, turning to grab a blanket.

“When you rise, we have a few things to go over,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar undercurrent of responsibility.

My eyelids are already slipping shut, but I manage to arch a brow in question.

He chuckles softly, tucking the blanket around me. “Just politics. We’ll sort it out tomorrow. Rest well, Grayson.”

I think I manage a nod, maybe even a smile. There’s a weight that settles next to me—something solid, warm—but before I can make sense of it, darkness swallows me whole.

Chapter Thirty

Bulletproof

— Sunday —

I find Tomas in the kitchen, his laptop open in front of him, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses. His eyes look tired, and his face is a bit drawn. He’s still in the same clothes as last night, and a pang of worry hits me as I take in the tension lingering in his shoulders.

“Hey,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual as I pour myself a mug of lukewarm coffee and begin hunting for cream and sugar. “I didn’t see you this morning. Did I just miss you?” I give him a soft smile, hoping it doesn’t come across as too pushy.

He glances up, his eyes meeting mine before darting back to the screen. There’s a flicker of something there—guilt, maybe—and he rubs the back of his neck, looking almost embarrassed.

“No,” he says finally, his voice low. “You didn’t miss me. I… spent the night in fur. Slept next to Gray.”

I pause with the refrigerator door still open, letting the words sink in. Tomas looks uncomfortable, like he’s waiting for me to react, to judge him.

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