Page 8 of Off Limits
"Fuck," Gabriel groaned, pace becoming erratic as the pressure built.
Gabriel's hand faltered for only a moment before resuming its rhythm, stronger and more deliberate than before. He was safe here, locked behind stone walls and iron bolts. Fantasies couldn't hurt anyone. They weren't real, weren't actions.
Just release, for a will pushed beyond endurance.
In his mind, he saw himself in the city, that concrete maze where Asher had fled. His wolf would have no trouble tracking that familiar scent through the streets, following it to whatever cramped apartment or seedy club Asher frequented. The trail would be polluted with other scents—other men who'd touched what belonged to Gabriel, who'd dared to put their hands on his mate.
The rage that thought inspired made Gabriel's hand tighten on his cock, strokes becoming rougher.
In his fantasy, he'd find Asher in some dark corner of a nightclub, letting some faceless stranger grind against him on the dance floor. The air would reek of sweat and alcohol andarousal, but underneath it all, Asher's true scent would call to him like a beacon.
Gabriel would cross the floor in seconds, would pull the stranger away with enough force to send a clear message. Asher would turn, eyes widening in shock and something else—relief, maybe. Recognition. The moment when prey recognized predator, when mate recognized mate.
The fantasy shifted, blurred—now they were somewhere private, somewhere Gabriel could do what his wolf had been howling for for three years. He imagined pressing Asher down onto rumpled sheets that smelled of too many strangers, covering those foreign scents with his own.
His hands would map every inch of skin, erasing every trace of every other man who'd dared touch his mate. Cleaning him. Reclaiming him. Making him smell right again.
In his fantasy, Asher would submit beautifully, all his bravado melting away as his body recognized what his mind couldn't understand. He'd arch into Gabriel's touch, make those soft sounds Gabriel had imagined a thousand times. No words needed, just bodies speaking a language older than civilization.
Gabriel's hand moved faster, chasing the building pressure. The fantasy was so vivid now he could almost smell it—Asher's scent, warm and willing, no longer tainted by strangers. Pine from the forests he'd grown up in, something earthy and real that the city could never quite erase, and underneath it all, that perfect note that marked him as Gabriel's mate.
God, he could practically taste it. So real it was like Asher was right there, just outside, just out of reach.
"Mine," Gabriel snarled in his fantasy, claiming Asher with a bite that would mark him permanently, that would bind them beyond any human understanding. "Always mine. Should never have let you leave."
And then he'd bring Asher home. Not to Ray's cabin, but to Gabriel's own territory, deep in the mountain. Somewhere safe, somewhere private, where Gabriel could keep him, protect him, claim him properly without the ghost of his father's disapproval hanging over them.
The fantasy was so intense, so perfectly detailed, that Gabriel's senses swam with it. Asher's phantom scent filled his nostrils—whiskey and pine and arousal, so strong it was like he was actually there. Gabriel's wolf surged toward the surface, convinced its mate was close, was finally within reach after all these years of denial.
"Fuck, Asher," Gabriel groaned, his hand moving desperately now, chasing release that might give him enough control to survive the rest of the night.
The scent grew stronger, more real, and Gabriel's eyes fluttered open in confusion. His fantasies had never been this vivid before.
It was almost like Asher was?—
5
Asher couldn't settle.He'd tried—made himself a sad excuse for a sandwich from stale bread and questionable cheese, poured another generous measure of Ray's Jameson, even attempted to distract himself with an ancient western he'd found on the bookshelf. Cowboys. Very butch. Very much not making him think about silver-haired men with control issues.
Yeah, right.
His mind kept circling back to the confrontation with Gabriel, replaying it on loop with increasing agitation.
For once in your life, just do as you're told.
The words still stung. Like Asher was still some fuck-up teenager who needed managing. Like the last three years hadn't happened, like he hadn't survived on his own in ways Gabriel couldn't even imagine.
Although, to be fair, "survived" was a generous term for what he'd done in the city. "Barely kept his head above water while making increasingly questionable life choices" was probably more accurate.
But, still. He'd done it without anyone's help, without following anyone's orders.
"Medical condition, my ass," Asher muttered, abandoning the western mid-shootout. He paced the cabin's main room, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers, amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim with each agitated step.
What kind of condition made a grown man shake like that? Made him look at Asher like that? The way Gabriel had gripped that doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright...
Asher knocked back the remaining whiskey, welcoming the burn. The alcohol was doing its job, making everything feel softer around the edges, making his current situation seem almost funny.
Here he was, twenty one years old, orphaned and alone, getting worked up about his dead dad's best friend having some kind of breakdown in a shed.
