Page 40 of Chasing Secrets
His chest thudded, then stuttered, then matched the rhythm under his palm where he still held Jalen’s throat. Two heartbeats stumbled into sync, beating the same pattern, and it felt like a door clicking open in a house he hadn’t realized was his. Not pain. Impact. Realignment. Every instinct in him sighed, finally.
From their chests, mist rose, thin and luminous. From Jalen’s sternum a pale pink ribbon unfurled, shimmering like morning light over water. From Chase’s chest, a smoky silver strand uncoiled to meet it. They twined midair, spiraling together with an inevitability that felt older than his years. No pain, just a slide of cool across superheated skin, a snap of rightness that rolled through him like a lock clicking open—and then each shot into the opposite chest, sinking without resistance.
Jalen sucked in a breath like he’d just broken the surface. It was his suffocating trauma, how he’d always been drowning under it. This moment was Jalen’s air. His freedom. His first real breath. Chase felt it inside his own lungs, the same pull, the same release. Their heart kicked once, hard, then settled into a steady pace that made every nerve in his body exhale.
He eased his canines free and licked the bite, sealing the skin with lazy care while aftershocks rolled through them both. Jalen’s pulse fluttered under his tongue, synced with his, steady and present in a way that felt like someone had moved furniture around in his chest and somehow made the room bigger.
Silence stretched while they came back to themselves. Sheets stuck to damp backs. A breeze nosed through the cracked window and cooled sweat where it beaded at Chase’s hairline. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed, faint and distant, a reminder the world still existed and was profoundly inconvenient.
Still buried in heat, Chase braced on his forearms and studied the man beneath him. Flush lingering. Eyes glassy. Mouth swollen. A drop of sweat tracked from Jalen’s temple into his hairline and disappeared. Chase caught it with a kiss anyway.
“Mine,” he said, because accuracy mattered.
And Jalen didn’t panic. Didn’t freeze. Didn’t run. His hand slid into Chase’s hair and tugged. Not hard—just enough to answer. That was Jalen saying, I’m still here. I choose this. I choose you. It wasn’t submissive. It was acknowledgment. It was partnership.
Chase started moving again, slower this time, chasing the leftover drag of pleasure. Jalen’s legs tightened at his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, body welcoming every push like they’d been doing this for years. Greedy little thing. Perfect.
They rode the afterglow until his cock softened enough to slide free. Warmth spilled out over his fingers when he cupped Jalen between the legs, a possessive smear that made something feral in him preen. He grabbed a towel off the chair and did a quick, careful cleanup, mouth finding Jalen’s between passes for kisses that were more gratitude than lust.
Sheets were a lost cause. He dragged the blanket up anyway and rolled, hauling Jalen on top of him because distance sounded like a terrible idea.
“Congratulations,” he muttered against damp hair. “You’re stuck with a 240-year-old fossil who makes decent French toast and questionable life choices.”
Jalen huffed a laugh into his skin. That tiny puff warmed Chase’s chest in a way no fireplace ever had. He tucked his nose to Jalen’s hair and breathed him in.
Outside, a night bird called. Somewhere in the house, a pipe ticked. His wolf purred—not literally, he’d argue that point to the grave—and settled down for the first time since he’d scented Jalen in that apartment. Chase tightened his arm around Jalen and closed his eyes, already planning a late-night errand that involved a certain piece of human trash and a dark stretch of road.
Later. For now, he had a mate to hold.
Chapter Eleven
Chase, Wade, Liam, and Zeppelin moved silently through the ankle-high grass, hugging the hedgerow that ran along the driveway like a dark spine. Midnight draped the street in sleepy quiet. Porch lights glowed here and there, while moths pinged a yellow bug-zapper like idiots chasing the sun.
Derek’s ranch sat squat and tidy, brick painted the color of burned toast. One gutter hung a little low, catching moonlight like a crooked grin. A box fan rattled in a bedroom window. Somewhere close, laundry detergent and lemon cleaner drifted off a vent.
Scare him into leaving me alone.
Zeppelin slid ahead, one hand signaling the pace like they were on a late-night hike instead of stalking a human stain. Wade slid past a cypress with a rustle so soft it barely counted. Leaves shifted at the chain-link fence. Liam slipped through the gate from the alley like a shadow unrolling, lifting two fingers at his hip in silent greeting before taking the corner near the grill.
Not a word between them. Not with Jalen’s mother asleep somewhere in this house and the reason for Jalen’s pills parked inside it.
Chase let his breath in slow and thin, every step placed carefully. Pebbles under the arch of his boot caught and threatened to skitter. He eased his weight away.
Zeppelin pointed two fingers then tapped his own eyes. Window check.
Low and slow, Chase crept to the living room picture window and angled himself to avoid his reflection.
A man on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, a bottle neck gleaming next to his ankle.
A stack of mail.
Remote near his knee.
No sign of Jalen’s mom in the main rooms.
In the reflection of the TV, the corner of a forearm moved. Derek’s, judging by the wristwatch and the smug casualness of the gesture. Remote in one hand. The other hand on his thigh near a black pistol laid out like he was on the cover of Middle-Aged Men’s Weekly.
Just great. An idiot with a firearm. What could go wrong?
