Chapter Text
/Beg like you mean it (mean it), moan 'til I feel it (feel it)
I'm not gentle, I'm not sweet, crawl for the heat, don't cheat it
Beg like you mean it (mean it), every scream's my secret
No escape, don't fake, don't breathe—
Just beg like you need me/
—Beg Like You Mean It, Cody Marrow
Chapter 5 - The Swan In A Wolf’s House
Morning arrived slowly, pale gray light slipping through rain-streaked windows while warmth lingered heavy beneath the blankets around us, and for a few long disoriented seconds I simply lay there listening to the quiet sound of another person breathing beside me while embarrassment crept steadily back into my body one humiliating inch at a time. The room smelled faintly like rain and cedar and something warmer beneath it—Paul, I realized belatedly—and the awareness of him beside me seemed to settle over my skin with the same oppressive intimacy as the blankets tangled around my legs.
Then the memories returned.
Not all at once either. It came in fragments, each one worse than the last; Paul’s mouth against mine in the kitchen, his rough voice in my ear, the feeling of being carried half asleep down the hallway while his hands gripped me like something precious and dangerous all at once. His amusement when he went to lay me down, and I drunkenly took off my shirt and bra, and grabbed his before snuggling underneath his covers. By the time the final memory surfaced—the realization that I had let Paul Lahote see every soft desperate piece of me without even trying to stop him—heat had flooded through me so violently that I nearly buried my face in the pillow outright.
Oh God.
Every piece of the previous night returned sharper now in daylight, stripped of the alcohol haze and impossible to hide from properly. The things I had said to him. The sounds he had pulled from me. The humiliating eagerness with which my body had responded to every rough-edged word that left his mouth. Worse somehow was the fact that part of me still felt warm thinking about it, like shame itself could not fully smother the lingering ache of pleasure curled low beneath my ribs.
Beside me, Paul slept on his stomach, one arm half beneath the pillow while soft morning light slid lazily across the broad line of his shoulders and the dark tribal tattoo wrapping around his arm. Up close, the ink looked older somehow, the thick black lines curving over muscle in patterns that felt ancient and masculine and deeply rooted in him in a way I could not properly explain. Everything about Paul felt rooted, actually, heavy and solid and real in direct opposition to the strange fragile perfection that still haunted my memories of Edward.
Without thinking too hard about what I was doing, I traced my fingertips lightly along the edge of the tattoo.
The heat beneath his skin shifted instantly beneath my touch, not fully awake yet but aware enough that something low in my stomach tightened in response. My eyes drifted farther upward afterward and caught on the second tattoo stretched across his back, larger and sharper than the tribal design; a standing sword wrapped in thorned vines, dark wings spreading behind it while Roman numerals sat beneath the hilt in weathered black ink.
The image looked violent, but beautiful.
Everything about Paul seemed to exist in that strange impossible space between destruction and beauty, like my brain recognized the threat while my body leaned toward it anyway.
I traced one finger carefully along the edge of the sword.
The mattress shifted beneath me almost immediately afterward, and then Paul’s hand closed slowly around my wrist—possessive in a way that made heat slide all the way down my spine.
“You always touch things in your sleep,” he murmured roughly, voice still thick with exhaustion, “or am I special?”
The words settled low in my stomach with devastating ease.
I looked up slowly and found his eyes already open, already watching me with an intensity that made embarrassment crawl all the way down my throat. There was nothing soft about the way Paul looked at people. Even half asleep, his attention felt physical somehow, like being pinned beneath heat.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Didn’t say stop.”
Rain whispered softly against the windows while silence stretched warm and heavy between us, and suddenly I became painfully aware of how close we actually were beneath the tangled sheets. The mattress dipped beneath his weight every time he breathed, subtle enough that I probably should not have noticed it and somehow impossible to ignore anyway.
“What’s this one mean?” I asked finally, mostly because the alternative was continuing to stare at him while every memory from the previous night replayed itself in horrifying detail behind my eyes.
Paul glanced slightly over his shoulder toward the sword tattoo.
“Knights.”
I frowned faintly. “Knights?”
“My crew.”
That startled me enough that I forgot embarrassment briefly. “A crew? Like a gang?”
One corner of his mouth curved slowly, and something about the quiet masculine confidence in the expression made warmth slide low through my stomach before I could stop it.
“Like a pack—just without the wolves part,” he said proudly. “A little bit of everything in my crew. Garage guys. Racers. Couple people do collections for me.” His gaze settled back onto mine afterward, darker somehow in the pale morning light filtering through the windows. “World’s a lot bigger than Forks High, little bird.”
The nickname wrapped around me slowly, settling somewhere beneath my ribs in a way that felt far too physical for a simple pair of words. Everything with Paul felt physical somehow. Even conversations with him seemed to live half inside my body instead of entirely in my head, and I became suddenly, horribly aware of the fact that I was lying half naked in his bed wearing nothing except one of his shirts while the blankets tangled loosely around my legs.
No panties.
Oh God.
I had a vague memory of Paul slipping off his own clothes to get in bed with a gruff, “I sleep naked—too hot not to.”
Heat flooded through me all over again, stronger this time because the realization came paired with the immediate awareness that Paul’s naked body was inches away from mine.
His eyes flicked downward once, then slowly lifted back to my face again. The movement was subtle, yet my pulse stumbled so hard it felt painful.
The corner of his mouth curved faintly. “You just realize something, little bird?”
I wanted the mattress to swallow me whole.
Instead I tightened the blanket higher against my chest while embarrassment and something infinitely worse tangled together inside me, because the horrifying truth was that part of me liked the way he was looking at me, the awareness in it—liked the possessive masculine heat lingering just beneath the surface every time his eyes moved over me.
Paul’s hand slid lazily across the mattress toward me then, rough fingers tracing lightly down the center of my chest over the thin fabric of his shirt, slow enough that my breathing caught immediately.
“You smell good embarrassed,” he murmured absently.
My head snapped toward him. The room suddenly felt much too warm.
“You can smell…” I could barely finish the sentence. I knew that he could, of course, and yet somehow my brain tried to deny that reality.
Paul’s gaze darkened immediately at my expression.
“Little bird,” he murmured softly, “I could smell you wanting me the second I walked through the door last night.”
The words hit me like a match dropped directly onto gasoline. No one had ever spoken to me this way before, with such devastating masculine certainty, as though desire was not something shameful or delicate but something physical and honest and impossible to hide.
Heat climbed all the way down my throat while his fingers continued tracing slow absent patterns over the thin fabric stretched across my chest, the touch light enough to feel almost lazy and somehow infinitely more overwhelming because of it.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted automatically, guilt coating my voice. I remembered how much smells could affect and assault Edward and his family.
Paul went still and the shift moved through the room instantly, subtle and dangerous as a wolf lifting its head somewhere deep in the trees.
His fingers caught lightly beneath my chin, turning my face back toward him.
“The hell are you apologizing for?”
“I just—” My voice faltered embarrassingly beneath the weight of his eyes on me. “I don’t know. This whole thing is…and I know that smells can be a lot for—”
My words tangled together uselessly in my throat and I couldn’t find the right way to explain everything that I felt.
Paul watched me for one long silent second before his hand slid slowly down the center of my chest again, rough fingertips tracing the slope between my breasts over the fabric of his shirt while my pulse stumbled wildly beneath the touch.
“You really gonna sit in my bed,” he murmured, voice gone low and rough enough that heat curled through my stomach all over again, “smelling like my two favorite things in the world—pussy aching for me and strawberries—and apologizing for it at the same time?”
The words made my breathing catch instantly. He liked the way I smelled.
My body had been betraying me since the second I woke up; every glance at his tattoos, every brush of his hand against my skin, every rough-edged word out of his mouth tightening something low and aching inside me until I felt almost feverish with awareness. But he wasn’t annoyed like Edward would’ve been, or even embarrassed like Jacob would’ve been.
“You don’t ever have to apologize for wanting me,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on my face with devastating steadiness. “Because I’m definitely not gonna apologize for wanting you.”
The dirty honesty of it slid through me with no hesitation, no embarrassment, no careful distance.
Just want laid bare between us with the same unapologetic confidence Paul seemed to bring to everything in his life.
My stomach tightened hard enough to ache.
His thumb brushed slowly across my lower lip while his other hand settled possessively against my bare thigh beneath the blankets, broad warm fingers flexing lightly against skin.
“What’s this really about?” he asked quietly after a moment, and somehow the question felt more intimate than anything else had because he wasn’t asking about sex. He was asking about me—about the parts that no one ever really got to see.
Light drizzle whispered softly against the windows while I stared at him, trying unsuccessfully to organize thoughts that felt slippery and fragile beneath the weight of his attention.
“It’s just…” I swallowed hard. “You make me feel…”
Desired.
Wanted.
I felt female in a way I had never fully understood before, but the words sat hot and humiliating inside me.
Paul didn’t rush me, but he didn’t rescue me either. He waited, and his silence somehow made it easier to continue.
“E-Edward always treated me like I was made of glass,” I admitted quietly, pushing through the pain at saying his name, fingers twisting nervously in the blankets pooled around my lap. “Like if he wanted me too much, something terrible would happen. He never wanted me to want him too much, either.”
Paul’s jaw tightened faintly.
“He did it to protect me,” I said quickly, because defending Edward still felt instinctive even now. “I know he did. But there were always rules. Limits.” My voice softened. “Even when we kissed, it still felt like part of him was somewhere else, holding back all the time. He never wanted me in that way—this way. He never allowed any walls to be broken down between us—didn’t want them to be.”
Paul’s hand moved slowly higher along my thigh while I spoke, not enough to distract me entirely, just enough that heat kept curling low through my stomach beneath every word.
“And Jacob?” he asked quietly.
The question settled strangely between us. Jacob hurt differently—softer, sadder.
“Jacob,” I whispered, my throat tightening slightly. “Never really tried. He always waited for me to choose him instead of taking me.”
Paul’s eyes darkened slowly at that. “And you wanted him to?”
The bluntness of the question made my face burn.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
The curse came rough and low, certain enough that my pulse stumbled anyway.
Paul leaned closer then, broad shoulders boxing me in while the scent of rain and cedar and him wrapped heavily around me.
“You know what I think?” he murmured.
I could barely breathe properly.
“What?”
“I think,” he said softly, rough fingers sliding beneath my chin again until I had no choice but to look at him fully, “that not one of them ever really saw you. You're tired of being looked at like something fragile? You should be because you're not fragile or broken. The way you rode my face last night—you weren’t asking me to drink the honey from that pussy, you were telling me that I was gonna take it and love it. Hell, the way you came all over my thigh the other day—little bird, broken people can't muster that level of passion.”
The words landed directly in the center of me and it was almost as if I were on fire, burning from the inside out.
God, yes.
The way he spoke to me made me feel like I was drunk all over again— clawing from the inside out, untethered to anything except how he made me feel.
His gaze dragged slowly over my face, lingering briefly on my mouth before lifting again.
“You know what I smell right now?” he murmured.
My pulse raced and if he wasn’t holding my chin, I wouldn’t be able to face him with so much yearning and truth standing between us.
“What?”
“You.”
The single word wrapped around me, hot and dangerous and overwhelming.
“Want,” he clarified softly when my breathing caught. “Need. The way your pussy’s begging for relief—all that pretty little tension you keep trying to hide from the world.”
Heat flooded through my body so hard it almost hurt.
Paul’s hand slid slowly into my hair, fingers tightening lightly at the base of my neck while his forehead rested briefly against mine.
“And the craziest part?” he murmured roughly. “You would run outta this bed screaming if you knew all the dirty shit I wanna to do to you, little bird.”
The words shattered something quietly inside me.
Underneath all the rough confidence and dirty mouth and dangerous masculinity, there was something almost feral in the way Paul wanted me, something physical and consuming that made Edward’s careful restraint suddenly feel very far away.
In that moment I couldn’t deny the truth: I wanted it—all of it.
I wanted him—feral, dirty, honest, brutal.
I wanted the terrifying masculine certainty of his hands and mouth and voice wrapped around me until I stopped thinking entirely.
Paul must have seen the realization happen in my face because his mouth curved slowly against mine before he kissed me again, rough and deep and entirely too knowing, while his hand tightened possessively in my hair.
“Please.”
“That’s my good girl,” he murmured softly against my mouth when I melted into him almost immediately.
The praise sent shocks of electricity through me like lightning had been zapped directly into my bloodstream.
A soft sound escaped me before I could stop it, somewhere between a breath and a whimper, and Paul went still for one terrible second afterward, his forehead pressing briefly against mine while his breathing roughened sharply.
“The noises you make drive me crazy,” he murmured.
Paul’s hand slid down my spine slowly before settling against my hip, fingers flexing hard enough that I felt the strength in them immediately through the thin fabric of his shirt still hanging off my body. The movement pulled me closer instinctively, my bare thigh sliding against his beneath the blankets, and suddenly I became devastatingly aware of the scorching heat of him everywhere at once: the rough scrape of morning stubble against my cheek, the solid wall of his chest, the fact that I was still not wearing panties beneath his shirt and he wasn’t wearing anything at all.
Oh God.
The realization hit all over again just as Paul’s eyes dropped briefly downward, tracking the way the oversized v-neck shirt had slipped down against my chest while I shifted against him, so close to baring one breast fully.
A low sound rumbled through him. It wasn’t quite a growl, but it was close. The vibration caused my pulse to turn uneven immediately.
“You keep getting wetter by the second,” he said roughly, eyes lifting back to mine again, “and every time you do, you smell sweeter.”
I made another humiliating little noise in the back of my throat.
Paul’s mouth curved slowly.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Just like that.”
Embarrassment and desire twisted together so tightly inside me they had become almost impossible to separate, each feeding the other until I felt feverish with awareness. Everything about him seemed designed to make me conscious of my own body in ways I had never been before; the rough confidence in his voice, the masculine steadiness of his hands, the terrifying ease with which he noticed every reaction I tried unsuccessfully to hide.
Paul shifted suddenly then, rolling over me just enough that I sank deeper into the mattress beneath his weight while his thigh pushed between mine, claiming in a way no one ever had before.
The movement pulled a breathless sound from me instantly and Paul’s eyes darkened at the noise.
“I’m not the type to ask for what I want,” he said quietly, looking down at me with something almost challenging in his expression now, something dark and masculine and entirely certain of itself. “I take, so if you don’t want me to, you’ll have to use your words—loud and clear.”
The words settled low in my stomach, twisting inside of me with a desire that I didn’t think I could look at in the light.
“Don't confuse me for the leech,” he continued softly, one rough hand sliding down the center of my body until his fingers hooked lightly beneath my thigh and spread my legs wider beneath him. “I don’t want walls between you and me.”
Heat rushed through me as his words washed over me. Paul pressed closer and my breath caught—there, unmistakable even through the blankets tangled between us, was the hard heavy evidence of exactly how much he wanted me.
A helpless moan slipped from my throat before I could stop it.
Paul closed his eyes briefly at the sound, jaw tightening hard enough that I saw the muscle move beneath his skin.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered roughly. The sheer hunger in his voice made something deep inside me shift painfully.
Paul lowered his head slowly until his mouth brushed against mine again, not kissing me yet, just breathing me in while his hips pressed deliberately against me once more.
“That’s how much I want you,” he groaned against my lips, voice gone low and filthy and with such a terrible honesty that I wished the thin sheet wasn’t separating his heat from me. “You feel that?”
I nodded helplessly.
“Use your words, little bird.”
“Yes,” I whispered, and my voice barely sounded like mine anymore. “I feel it.”
“Good.”
The word vibrated straight through me.
Paul kissed me then, deep enough that thought scattered almost immediately, while his hand slid slowly up my thigh beneath the blankets and my body reacted with humiliating eagerness beneath him. Every brush of him against me seemed to pull another sound from my throat; soft little breaths and mewling noises I would normally have died before making out loud, except Paul reacted to every single one like praise.
“That’s it,” he growled against my mouth when another moan escaped me. “Moan for me, little bird. Let me know how much your pussy needs me.”
The words made my stomach tighten, and my heart race—what was he doing to me?
No one had ever wanted me like this before.
Paul wanted me with his whole body and I felt the little control I had slipping because I wanted him the same way back.
His forehead rested briefly against mine while his hand slid higher beneath the shirt, rough fingertips tracing lightly over bare skin before settling possessively against my hip again.
“You wanna show me how much you want me?” he murmured softly.
Fire exploded through my nervous system immediately.
“I—”
Paul’s eyes stayed fixed on my face, patient somehow despite the rough hunger tightening every line of him. “Yeah?”
I swallowed hard.
“I do, but I don’t really know how.”
For one long second, silence settled between us. Then something dark and deeply satisfied flickered slowly across Paul’s expression.
“Jesus Christ,” he murmured softly, almost to himself this time. “You really don’t know, do you?”
The embarrassment hit instantly and I wanted to crawl away into a dark hole. “I know that sounds pathetic—”
Paul caught my jaw immediately.
“No,” he said roughly. “Don’t do that.”
The command wrapped around me warm and sharp all at once.
“You don’t apologize for not knowing, and you sure as shit don’t apologize for wanting anything with me,” his eyes burned into mine with devastating steadiness. “You understand?”
My pulse stumbled.
No one had ever spoken to me like this before, like desire itself wasn’t shameful or embarrassing or something to be hidden carefully behind walls and restraint.
Paul’s thumb brushed slowly across my lower lip.
“You remember my tongue last night?” he asked quietly.
My entire body reacted instantly and he definitely noticed. A slow dangerous smile touched his mouth, and I was sure it must be illegal to have a smile like that.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”
Heat and hope and all of my senses coiled low through my stomach.
“I want you to move your fingers like that, little bird,” he commanded me, and my eyes fluttered in response. “Slow first. Just how I touched you.”
Paul’s eyes never left me while the blankets slipped lower and lower between us until finally there was nothing left to hide behind at all.
The realization hit me in one hot dizzying wave.
He was perfect in a way that Edward had never been; Edward had been marble, lithe and strong because of his vampirism, but hidden—masqued. He’d been fragile in his fears which were constant and always pressing in the space between us. Puritan to the point that his chaste kisses had created a longing inside of me that I’d felt ashamed of. Paul was all towering plains of muscles, random scars from his youth were scattered around his abdomen and chest—his body was molded as a machine of strength and destruction and passion. His manhood stood at attention, thick and long—vibrant with life and veins pulsing, calling to me, reminding me that he was human and wanted me.
There were no barriers, no careful half-darkness, no pretending.
There was just me stretched openly across his bed beneath pale morning light while Paul sat back on his heels between my legs, broad hands resting heavily against my thighs as though he belonged there, his gaze moving over me slowly enough that every inch of my skin felt newly awake beneath it.
I should have felt embarrassed, but instead I felt wanted. The difference between those two things cracked a fountain of repressed desires open inside me. My fingers shook as I slid my hand down towards my core, where his lips and tongue had explored me.
My legs trembled slightly where they rested around him, instinctive and uncertain all at once, and the low sound that rumbled out of Paul afterward was so rough and deeply masculine that heat curled straight through my stomach.
“There she is,” he bit his lips, his voice caressing me in a way I didn’t know a voice could do. “So damn sweet and sexy. You taste so fucking good, did you know that?”
The praise wrapped around me and the way he looked at me, so hungry—like the vision of myself spread open for him was something he could ruin himself worshipping.
The thought alone nearly made my breathing unravel.
Paul’s hands settled more firmly against my thighs, rough thumbs brushing absent circles into sensitive skin while his eyes tracked every tiny reaction that crossed my face. The sheer certainty of him, the complete masculine confidence in the way he sat there between my legs without an ounce of hesitation or shame, made something inside me soften further.
There were no walls, no hesitation, no distance keeping him from eating me up with his eyes. Everything between us in that moment was raw and honest.
I had never touched myself like this before—first because I hadn’t wanted to, but then afterwards, I couldn’t because Edward had always been there, watching me. My fingers created a circular motion, and I couldn’t breathe for a moment.
His gaze on me scorched every thought, except the need to be completely devoured by him—owned somehow by his desire.
I watched him helplessly while one of his hands slid away from my thigh, and lowered to grasp himself, moving with slow deliberate confidence while his attention remained fixed entirely on me. There was nothing performative about it, nothing awkward or self-conscious, and somehow that made it infinitely more overwhelming. He looked consumed by me already, like desire had settled so deeply beneath his skin that his body no longer knew how to exist quietly around it.
The expression on his face while he watched me could only be described as one thing: rapture.
That was the only word for it. It was as if I—Bella Swan—flushed and trembling, trying to learn her own body while spread open for him was somehow the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
I never wanted that look to leave his face, and instinctively, my legs spread even more, hips grinding up against my fingers.
“You keep looking at me like that,” Paul groaned roughly, as if he were fraying on the edges of his own desire. “And I’m not gonna last long, little bird.”
A breathless little sound escaped me again.
Paul’s eyes fluttered briefly at the noise before reopening darker than before.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “That look.”
I tried to focus on what he’d told me, on the memory of his mouth and tongue from the night before, but everything felt overwhelming at once; the warmth pooling low in my stomach, the rough praise in his voice, the sight of his broad sure hand moving with devastating confidence while tension slowly gathered through his body like a storm building beneath skin.
There was a freedom to our desire.
No one was holding themselves away from me or treating me like I might shatter. The overwhelming sensation of freedom of all expectation nearly made me emotional.
But there was no hiding from him, when his entire focus was on me. His expression sharpened immediately.
“Eyes on me,” he murmured softly. “Don't think, just feel.”
I nodded quickly, and licked my parted lips.
“Good girl.”
The praise shattered straight through me.
A moan slipped from my throat before I could stop it, soft and needy and humiliatingly sincere, and Paul actually swore beneath his breath at the sound while his head tipped back briefly, throat working hard enough that I watched the movement helplessly.
“That’s it,” he said roughly. “Fuck, Bella… just like that.”
The dirty truth of hearing my name in his mouth like that sent another wave of heat crashing through me, stronger this time, until I could barely breathe around it properly. My whole body felt alive in a way I had never experienced before, every nerve ending humming beneath my skin while Paul watched me like he wanted to consume every second of it.
But my own truth was clear—I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to know exactly what he was doing to me.
Paul’s gaze dragged slowly over me again, and something in his expression shifted subtly enough that it took me a second to understand what I was seeing.
His eyes.
The dark brown had begun to bleed warmer at the edges, deepening gradually into something richer and less human, not fully wolf yet but close enough that a shiver moved through me instantly.
It was strange, but it was like my desire had been sharpened by danger.
Paul noticed the way my body reacted to the implicit danger, and a rough sound left him immediately.
“That’s such a good fucking girl—I can still taste your pussy on my tongue—all for me,” he moaned softly, voice lower now, rougher in a way that made my pulse stumble all over again. “You like seeing the wolf, little bird?”
God help me, yes.
The wolf pressing close beneath his skin should have frightened me after everything I knew. Instead it made him feel more real somehow. Less restrained. Less careful. More honest with myself that I would trade almost anything to continue to feel the things he made me feel.
Paul’s jaw tightened visibly while his hand moved slower now, heavier somehow, like he was fighting to keep hold of himself while watching me unravel for him.
“You smell so fuckin’ good right now,” he muttered roughly, eyes fixed on me with open hunger. “Sweet cunt’s practically drowning in it–look at all that honey waiting for me to lick it up.”
Another moan slipped from me before I could stop it.
Paul closed his eyes briefly like the sound physically hurt him.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured.
The words wrapped around me, lava scalding all of my inhibitions.
The pressure inside me tightened harder and harder while Paul watched me with open fascination, broad shoulders tense now, every line of his body pulled tight by wanting. His breathing had lost its rhythm entirely, rough and uneven beneath the sound of rain against the windows, and there was something devastating about seeing a man like Paul — so controlled, so dangerous, so certain — come undone simply from watching me.
“C’mon, little bird,” he murmured softly, voice rough and reverent all at once. “Let me see it. Cum for me. Show me how good you can scream.”
The words broke something inside me.
The orgasm hit suddenly and hard enough that my whole body trembled through it, a helpless cry leaving my throat while the room dissolved into warmth and pressure and the devastating sound of Paul groaning low beneath his breath at the sight of me falling apart in front of him.
For one suspended impossible moment, everything else disappeared.
The pack.
Victoria.
Edward.
Jacob.
The grief.
The confusion.
All of it vanished beneath the simple overwhelming reality of being wanted completely by him.
Paul’s head dropped briefly afterward, tension pulling visibly through him while his breathing turned ragged, the wolf lingering so close beneath the surface now that the entire room felt charged with it.
The air felt wild, possessive, dangerous.
His hands were practically flying up and down his shaft, pre-cum spilling messily onto me, but it was his gaze, locked on mine that gave me confidence.
“I want it,” I said breathily, still trembling from my orgasm. Somehow feeling another building just from watching him—I was his in that moment, completely. “On me. Please.”
“Fuck,” Paul growled, and pressed against me, his manhood pushing against me deliciously. “I'm gonna cum all over you—fuck, take it like the good girl I know you are–shit.”
His groan reverberated through me as he spilled all over me. Something must've shown on my face because as he continued to spill he rubbed against me– once, twice—
I fell over the edge of oblivion again, his name on my lips like salvation.
After a few mindless and breathless moments, somehow, lying there breathless beneath his gaze with pale morning light spilling silver across him, I realized I loved the terrifying freedom of being wanted without restraint or apology.
For the first time in my life, I did not feel fragile or loved or adored—I felt devoured.
Afterward, the room settled into a strange quiet softness that felt almost unreal after the overwhelming intensity of everything that had just happened. Rain still tapped lazily against the windows while morning light stretched across tangled sheets and warm skin, turning the entire room silver around the edges. My body felt boneless in the aftermath, every muscle loose and heavy in a way that made it difficult to separate exhaustion from satisfaction properly.
Which, honestly, felt horrifying all by itself because nothing in my life had prepared me for this.
Not Charlie’s awkward silences whenever kissing scenes appeared during movies or health class, or Edward’s careful restraint and endless self-control.
Nothing.
Everything with Paul felt less like stepping across a line and more like walking blindly off the edge of a cliff only to realize halfway down that I had secretly wanted to fall the entire time.
The realization should probably have alarmed me more than it did.
Beside me, Paul looked alert. He didn’t appear energized exactly, but perhaps sated to the point of clarity. I know that was pretty close to how I felt at least.
The wolf had receded from his eyes again, the dangerous golden tint fading slowly back toward dark brown while his breathing evened out beside me, but traces of it still lingered beneath his skin somehow, visible in the possessive way his hand kept drifting absently over my thigh or the way his gaze returned to me every few seconds like he needed reassurance that I was still there—still his in a way that I had never belonged to anyone before.
The thought sent heat curling low through my stomach all over again.
Immediately mortified by my own brain, I grabbed for the blankets and yanked them upward until they covered me nearly to my chin.
Paul watched me intently, and one corner of his mouth lifted.
“You know I already saw all that, right?”
Heat exploded across my face instantly.
“I’m aware.”
“Mm.” His eyes dragged lazily over the blanket cocoon I’d created around myself. “Kinda late to get shy now, little bird.”
His words only made me pull the blankets tighter because even though I, logically, I understood that Paul had already seen every inch of me approximately a thousand times in the last twelve hours, that did not somehow erase the fact that everything was a bit different in the daylight, without desire clouding the senses.
Paul laughed softly beneath his breath before climbing out of bed entirely, completely unbothered by his own nudity in a way I found both deeply unfair and offensively masculine. Morning light slid across tattoos and broad shoulders while he disappeared briefly into the adjoining bathroom before returning with a warm washcloth draped over one shoulder.
The sight of him like that—focused, confident, languid—made something tighten low in my stomach all over again despite the lingering exhaustion humming through my body.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured while climbing back onto the bed beside me, “and we’re not making it outta this room today.”
My face burned hotter.
Paul only looked amused by that too.
Still, when he pulled the blankets back carefully and cleaned me up with surprising steadiness afterward, something quieter settled beneath the embarrassment. His hands remained rough, confident, but there was care there too—not delicate exactly, not cautious, but grounded in a way that made my chest ache unexpectedly.
Paul existed entirely on the other side of restraint, and somehow even his tenderness felt physical and consuming, like he approached care with the same unapologetic intensity he approached everything else in his life.
“You okay?” he asked eventually, voice lower now, the gruffness softened around the edges by exhaustion.
The question startled me slightly. Not because he asked it, but because he sounded like he actually cared about the answer.
I looked up at him slowly, at the concern lingering quietly beneath all the arrogance and dirty talk and dangerous masculine confidence, and something warm unfurled painfully inside my ribs.
“Yeah,” I admitted softly. “Just… overwhelmed, I think.”
Paul’s thumb brushed lazily against my thigh.
“Good overwhelmed?”
Heat reignited immediately and I felt my cheeks burn—I was on a merry-go-round, and round and round my yearning for him went.
“Yes.”
One corner of his mouth lifted slowly, satisfied enough that my pulse stumbled all over again.
Silence settled comfortably afterward while rain whispered against the windows, and I finally let myself study the room properly for the first time. The house was nice—not polished and perfect like the Cullens’ house, but expensive in a deeply human way. Dark wood. Huge television mounted against the wall. Leather furniture visible through the open bedroom doorway. A framed motorcycle blueprint hanging crookedly beside the dresser. Everything felt distinctly male and distinctly Paul; rough around the edges but carefully earned.
My brow furrowed slightly.
“You’re only a couple years older than me,” I said eventually, voice still rough from earlier. “How do you even have all this?”
Paul glanced toward me while automatically tugging the blankets higher over my legs again when he noticed them slipping.
“This?”
“The house. The truck. Everything.” I frowned faintly. “Did you inherit it or something?”
That startled a low laugh out of him.
“Hell no.”
The answer came sharp enough that I looked back at him fully.
Paul stretched back against the headboard afterward, one arm settling behind his head while the other drifted lazily across my covered thigh like he could not quite stop touching me now that he’d started.
“I grew up dirt poor,” he said eventually, voice quieter now, stripped of some of its swagger in a way that made the words feel like they were piercing through a veil. “Poorer than damn near anybody else on this rez.”
Something in his expression shifted slightly as he spoke, not shame exactly, but memory.
“My mom worked herself half to death trying to keep food in the house,” he continued. “By the time I hit high school, I already knew I wasn’t built for sitting in classrooms pretending some diploma was magically gonna fix anything.”
His fingers flexed absently against the blanket draped over my leg.
“I like cash,” he admitted bluntly. “I like bikes. I like engines. I like buying whatever the fuck I want when I want it.” His mouth curved faintly afterward. “School wasn’t ever gonna get me there fast enough.”
The honesty of it settled strangely inside me because there was no embarrassment in his voice at all. There was no apology, either—just the cold, hard fact of what lived inside of him.
“So you dropped out?”
“The second I legally could.” Paul shrugged slightly. “Started hustling instead. Worked construction for a while, fixed cars under the table, started racing in Port Angeles.” His eyes flicked briefly toward the sword tattoo stretched across his back before returning to me again. “Picked up people along the way.”
“The Knights.”
“Yeah.”
The word settled low between us.
“My crew’s mostly guys nobody else wanted to bet on,” he continued quietly. “Couple ex-cons. Couple kids from the rez. Some racers. Mechanics. Guys who needed work and knew how to stay loyal.”
Something warm tightened unexpectedly in my chest at that.
Because beneath all the danger and arrogance and rough-edged masculinity, there was something deeply pack-like in Paul even outside the wolves. He collected people the same way Sam did; wounded strays, angry boys, men with nowhere else to put their loyalty.
Only Paul built his own kingdom out of it.
“I bought the lot by the highway when I turned eighteen,” he continued. “Put up the garage with money I’d saved. Once the garage started bringing in real cash…” One corner of his mouth curved slowly. “I started looking into other ways to make money.”
Considering how notorious he was for his anger, my brain made a logical educated guess. “Protection?”
Paul’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Depends who’s asking.”
I rolled my eyes weakly at the vague answer. “I’m asking.”
A low laugh slipped out of him.
“Some protection, yeah,” he admitted. “Port Angeles gets messy sometimes. Tourists. Drugs. Rich college kids looking for trouble. Traffickers looking to kidnap—the world’s full of shit.” His thumb brushed lazily over the blanket covering my thigh again. “People pay good money to have somebody scary around to keep the shit they don’t want around out.”
The way he spoke about the world, it almost felt like he lived in a completely different world than anyone I’d ever known. Heat curled embarrassingly low through my stomach at the reality that he wasn’t just deadly in supernatural terms, he was wicked in the normal world too.
“You like that?” he murmured softly, eyes dragging slowly over my face again. “Little bird likes knowing I’m dangerous?”
The thing about Paul was that every conversation somehow became physical eventually, like desire lived permanently just beneath the surface of him waiting for an excuse to emerge again.
It was almost addictive, like just being in his presence was akin to riding on a rollercoaster—stomach flipping and heart pounding.
So, it was reasonable to assume that maybe the universe simply hated letting me have peace for too long because the moment the thought crossed my mind, a howl split through the air outside.
The howl wasn’t distant—it was worryingly close.
The sound tore through the room sharp enough that my entire body jerked instinctively while every trace of warmth vanished from Paul so quickly it almost felt violent.
One second he had been sprawled against the headboard beside me, rough fingers tracing lazy circles against my thigh while the light softened the sharp dangerous edges of him and the next second, the shift in him happened instantly and completely, like some invisible wire inside his body had been pulled taut all at once. His eyes sharpened first, dark brown bleeding warmer at the edges while every muscle in his body went rigid beneath tattooed skin.
Another howl cut through the rain.
Closer this time.
Urgent.
Paul was off the bed before I could properly process what was happening, dragging jeans up his legs with brutal efficiency while adrenaline flooded the room so quickly it felt contagious. The atmosphere shifted entirely in seconds; softness replaced by sharp instinctive urgency while the wolf rose visibly beneath his skin.
My stomach dropped immediately.
I knew that howl—not the meaning exactly, but the feeling behind it.
Danger.
Another howl echoed outside, different this time—answering.
All hands on deck.
Fear slid cold and metallic through my stomach.
“What’s happening?” I asked breathlessly while climbing out of bed after him, my pulse already hammering wildly beneath my ribs.
Paul shoved his feet into his boots without answering immediately, movements sharp and economical in a way that somehow made everything feel worse.
“Vampires crossed too close to La Push.”
Ice flooded straight through me.
“Victoria?”
“Don’t know.”
The words came clipped and low, all softness stripped away beneath the rising wolf pressing visibly beneath his skin now. His eyes had begun shifting again too, warmth bleeding steadily into gold while tension pulled hard through every line of his body.
Paul paused for half a second afterward, listening, waiting.
Another howl split through the rain outside. This howl was longer, sharper, confirmation. Paul swore beneath his breath and moved immediately.
The moment for hesitation had come and gone and I realized that my jeans, my panties, my shoes—everything I came with was still downstairs.
I followed him instantly downstairs, heart pounding hard enough to hurt while drizzle pushed against the windows outside. Somewhere in the distance another howl ripped through the air, and Paul’s entire body tightened in response like instinct physically dragged at him.
The kitchen looked almost surreal when we stumbled into it, remnants of the night before scattered everywhere beneath gray morning light; my jeans crumpled beside one of the chairs, one shoe halfway beneath the table, Paul’s truck keys abandoned near the counter beside an empty beer bottle.
The entire space felt like evidence of our connection, proof of the passion that I didn’t realize could live inside of me.
My cheeks burned despite the panic clawing through me.
Paul snatched the keys off the counter and tossed them toward me without slowing.
“My truck,” he said sharply. “Black Chevy outside.”
I caught them automatically while scrambling into my jeans as quickly as my shaking hands allowed. My panties disappeared somewhere beneath the table, and for one ridiculous second I almost dropped to my knees looking for them before another howl cut through the storm outside and snapped everything brutally back into perspective.
It wasn’t important, I reminded myself silently. Nothing about this felt normal anymore and panties were least of my worries if Victoria or any vampire was so close.
“You’re going to Emily’s.”
The command pressed into me so sharply that I looked up instantly.
“What?”
“Now, Bella.”
There was no coddling or reassurance. All that was in the space between Paul and I was his certainty, and somehow that steadied me more than comfort would have.
I shoved my feet into my shoes without bothering to tie them properly while Paul stalked toward the back door, shirtless and terrifying now that the wolf lingered so visibly beneath his skin. Rain-gray light slid across tattoos and broad shoulders while tension pulled through his body so hard it almost looked painful.
“Can I help—”
“No.”
The word cracked through the room like lightning.
Paul turned back toward me fully then, and the sight of his eyes nearly stopped my breathing altogether. Gold had nearly swallowed the brown completely now, something ancient and dangerous staring back at me from beneath skin that looked suddenly too tight to contain it.
“You stay with Emily,” he ordered sharply. “You stay inside. You do not leave unless Sam or I come get you.” His gaze swept over me once, quick and assessing, lingering briefly on the oversized shirt still hanging off my body beneath my half-buttoned jeans. “Lock the doors when you drive.”
My pulse stumbled.
He was fully in control, and the fear inside of me quieted, content with following his direction. I trusted him, and I wasn’t sure why—but I knew that for others to follow him without the wolf, without the supernatural imperative—like with Sam—that he must be someone I could trust. He must be someone worth trusting and following.
I nodded quickly.
“Use words.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The praise landed low in my stomach despite the fear flooding the room.
Another howl split through the rain outside, louder this time, and Paul jerked slightly toward the sound like his entire nervous system had locked onto it.
Then he was moving again.
Fast.
Relentless.
Purposeful.
Paul crossed the kitchen in two strides, yanked the back door open hard enough that cold rain-scented air flooded instantly into the house, then paused just long enough to look back at me one final time.
For one strange suspended second, the chaos softened slightly around the edges while his gaze dragged over me standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt and clutching his truck keys like they were the only solid thing left in the world.
Something possessive flickered across his expression.
Then another howl tore through the air.
Paul disappeared into the cloudy morning immediately afterward like the forest had called him home.
The drive to Emily’s felt longer than it probably was, the drizzle had turned into a storm, rain hammering violently against the windshield while Paul’s truck growled beneath my hands like something alive and impatient. My fingers stayed locked around the steering wheel hard enough to ache every time another howl cut through the storm outside, the sound carrying strangely through the trees like the woods themselves were speaking in a language I only half understood.
Every instinct inside me wanted to pull over and wait for news—freeze until Paul returned.
Instead, I drove faster.
The oversized shirt still hanging off my body smelled overwhelmingly like him, cedar and rain and heat wrapped around me so thoroughly that it felt almost impossible to separate my own fear from the lingering physical memory of him. My jeans remained half buttoned from my frantic rush out of the house, one shoelace dragging uselessly near the gas pedal while adrenaline and embarrassment tangled together endlessly beneath my ribs.
The whole thing felt surreal somehow.
Twenty-four hours ago, my biggest emotional crisis had been Jacob imprinting on Leah.
Now I was driving Paul Lahote’s truck through a storm wearing his shirt while he hunted vampires through the woods with glowing eyes and teeth sharp enough to tear things apart.
Honestly, my life had stopped making sense months ago.
Emily and Sam’s house finally appeared through the rain afterward, warm yellow light spilling softly from the windows like something pulled from an entirely different world than the one waiting outside in the storm.
Relief hit me harder than expected.
I parked badly—crooked enough that Charlie probably would have lectured me for it—and hurried toward the porch through the rain while another howl echoed somewhere in the distance.
Emily opened the door before I even knocked. Her eyes dropped immediately to Paul’s truck behind me, then to my shirt that clearly didn’t belong to me, my wet hair, half-buttoned jeans, and understanding settled quietly across her expression.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Her gentle reaction somehow felt infinitely worse than if she had screamed.
Heat crawled immediately into my cheeks. “I can explain.”
One corner of Emily’s mouth twitched slightly, though her expression stayed gentle. “You don’t have to.”
Emily stepped aside to let me in while another howl drifted faintly through the storm outside, quieter now but no less unsettling. The warmth of the house wrapped around me instantly afterward, carrying the smell of soup simmering somewhere in the kitchen and fresh bread and cedar smoke.
I stood awkwardly near the doorway afterward, suddenly hyperaware of everything all at once; the fact that I was dripping rainwater across Emily’s floor, standing in her living room wearing Paul’s shirt after very obviously spending the night with him. I couldn’t imagine what she must think of me after everything that had happened between me and Jacob.
The thought twisted painfully through my chest, but Emily seemed to notice immediately.
“You can breathe, Bella,” she said gently.
“I am breathing.”
Emily raised one eyebrow slightly.
Apparently I was doing a poor job of it.
A small embarrassed laugh escaped me before I could stop it, and some of the tension unwound from my shoulders afterward.
Emily disappeared briefly into the kitchen before returning with a towel, which I accepted gratefully while trying not to drown in self-consciousness.
The towel smelled faintly like lavender. Everything about Sam and Emily’s home felt domestic, steady. It felt normal in a way my life had not felt for a very long time, which was strange because their lives were far from normal too. But it was a testament to the kind of love that lingered between them that Emily ensured despite all the craziness in the Pack’s lives, that when they stepped through those doors, somethings still felt normal. Like home.
Emily settled into the armchair across from me afterward while rain tapped steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic now compared to the violence from earlier.
For a while, neither of us spoke. Oddly enough, the silence did not feel uncomfortable. Emily had always possessed this quiet steadiness about her, something warm and grounding that made silence feel intentional instead of awkward. Maybe that was why Sam loved her the way he did. Perhaps that was why Leah had hated her for it.
Suddenly I was painfully aware of the strange symmetry of all this; me sitting here in Paul’s shirt while Jacob ran through the woods somewhere protecting Leah.
Life really did have a cruel sense of humor.
Emily’s gaze drifted briefly toward the rain-streaked windows before returning to me again.
“You know,” she said softly, “it’s none of my business what’s going on between you and Paul.”
Relief unfurled quietly through my chest.
“But,” she continued gently, “I think you probably need somebody to talk to.”
She was probably right, but I wasn’t sure how to explain what I had yet to understand myself.
I looked down at the towel twisted loosely between my fingers, thoughts tangling endlessly beneath my ribs while another distant howl drifted faintly through the storm outside.
“I can’t stand thinking about them out there,” fear and anxiety laced my voice. But Emily’s calm seemed to soften the sharpest edges of it somehow.
“They’ll come home,” she said quietly, following my gaze toward the windows.
Her words weren’t full of blind optimism. Instead, they were laced with a certainty that clearly spoke of having lived through enough nights like this to trust the ending—trust in the pack that they would do what they had to, to come back.
Her strength seemed like the complete opposite of everything I ever felt that I couldn’t help but feel inadequate—lost.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admitted, voice quieter than intended.
Emily did not immediately answer. Instead she waited, patient in the way only genuinely kind people seemed capable of being.
“I loved E-Edward,” I continued softly. “I still…” My throat tightened slightly. “I still do. Maybe forever, I think.”
The confession felt ugly and complicated. Loving Edward still felt stitched directly into my bones no matter how angry or abandoned or confused I became.
Emily nodded slowly like she already understood that.
“And Jacob?” she asked gently.
The question hurt differently, softer, sadder. I couldn’t look her in the eyes as I confessed, so I looked away briefly toward the windows before answering.
“I love him too. Different—like, I know with time what we had can turn into something else. Maybe what it was always meant to be.”
There it was.
The truth, sitting unmasked and trembling between us.
Rain whispered softly against the glass while shame curled low through my stomach because normal people probably did not fall in love with two boys at once only to end up in bed with an entirely different one.
My life sounded ridiculous when framed that way and I could feel a hysterical laugh bubbling inside my chest that I had to crush.
“That’s the hardest part about me and Jacob…” I swallowed hard. “What happened with Leah changed everything—told us that we weren’t meant to be.” My fingers tightened slightly around the towel. “He loves her now. Maybe not the way he loved me before, but enough.” My chest ached unexpectedly. “And part of me hates her for it even though I know it’s not really her fault. Some part of me hates myself for having the audacity to hate her at all.”
Emily’s expression softened painfully at that because she understood too well how complex and distorted imprinting made the world and our own decisions.
“Leah probably hates herself a little too,” she said quietly.
The thought startled me, though I could clearly understand that. After losing Sam and blaming Emily, only to end up ripping Jacob away from me the way Sam was taken from her—I knew how easy it was to blame yourself, to hate yourself.
Silence settled again afterward, warmer this time, heavier too.
Then Emily’s eyes drifted toward the truck outside.
“So where does Paul fit into all this?”
The question made my chest ache because I had no idea.
The memory of him from that morning rose instantly and vividly in my mind afterward; wolf-gold eyes, rough hands, dirty praise whispered against my mouth while he looked at me like he wanted every fractured piece of me without apology or restraint.
Heat crawled immediately into my face.
Emily noticed and raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“I think…” I started softly before stopping altogether because honestly, how was I supposed to explain Paul? How was I supposed to explain the terrifying freedom of him? The way desire became something alive around him, something physical and consuming and impossible to hide from properly?
How was I supposed to explain that for the first time in my life, someone had looked at me like I was strong enough to survive being wanted completely?
“I think he makes me feel alive,” I admitted quietly.
The words were barely a whisper, but somehow they felt truer than anything else I had said in a long time.
Rain tapped softly against the windows while warmth from the kitchen wrapped around the house in slow steady waves, and for a long moment Emily simply watched me with that same calm patience that seemed woven into every part of her.
Her gaze wasn’t judging, but she didn’t look particularly surprised either. It was almost as if she maybe had already seen this particular disaster coming from miles away. I couldn’t even blame her after the encounter Paul and I had in her bathroom at the picnic.
“That sounds like Paul,” she said softly.
Something about the quiet certainty in her voice made my gaze lift toward her again.
Emily curled both hands loosely around the mug balanced in her lap while thunder rolled distantly somewhere beyond the cliffs. The soft kitchen light caught against the scar running down one side of her face, silvering the edges of it gently instead of hiding it, and suddenly I found myself thinking again about love and wolves and all the ways those two things seemed destined to wound each other eventually.
“You know him pretty well?” I asked quietly.
Emily smiled faintly, though there was something thoughtful in it too. “I know the version of him that came after the phase.”
The words settled strangely between us.
“Sam talks about the boys sometimes,” she continued softly. “Not secrets. Just…” Her fingers shifted slightly against the mug. “The weight of leading them.”
My eyes drifted briefly toward the storm-dark windows again while another distant howl rolled through the trees outside.
“Paul worries him the most sometimes.”
That startled me enough that my gaze snapped back toward her immediately.
“Why?”
Emily’s silence lingered for a moment while rain whispered steadily against the house, and suddenly I had the strange terrifying realization that she would probably spend years—the rest of her life—waiting for boys she loved to come back from the woods alive.
“Because anger already lived in Paul before he phased.”
The words sank low in my stomach because they felt true. The first time I saw Paul, on the cliffs with the pack, before Jacob had phased, I had thought to myself that he had seemed sharp around the edges somehow—like he moved through the world carrying too much energy beneath his skin with nowhere safe to put it.
“When most of the boys phase,” Emily continued quietly, her brows pulling together slightly. “They spend a lot of time trying to control the anger. For Paul, I think anger was already useful to him.”
A strange warmth curled nervously through my stomach because suddenly I could see it too clearly; Paul racing motorcycles through Port Angeles, building a garage from nothing, collecting dangerous boys around him like sparks gathering into fire. Everything about him felt driven by momentum, by force, by refusing to stay powerless long enough for the world to swallow him whole.
“Sam says Paul’s always moving,” One corner of her mouth curved faintly, reminiscing in Sam’s perception of his pack. “Always building something. Fixing something. Leading somebody. Even before the Knights got bigger, people followed him naturally.”
I thought suddenly of the sword tattoo stretched across Paul’s back.
Knights.
My crew, he’d called them.
I thought of the rough certainty in his voice when he talked about them, the way he had taken control instantly the moment danger appeared earlier, no hesitation, no panic, just instinctive command. I realized in hindsight that a part of me had trusted him more because of it.
“He respects Sam,” Emily continued gently. “Loves him too. They all do.” Her gaze drifted briefly toward the windows again. “But following doesn’t come naturally to Paul.”
Something in my chest tightened unexpectedly at that because suddenly I understood why the air around him always felt so charged somehow. Paul carried leadership the way some people carried grief: constantly, instinctively, even when nobody asked him to.
“He struggles with the pack?” I asked quietly.
Emily tilted her head slightly.
“Not the pack itself.” She paused for a second, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug. “The lack of control. Before the phase, if Paul got angry, he could do something with it. Work harder. Fight harder. Earn more money. Push further. Now one bad moment could hurt somebody.”
My chest tightened unexpectedly because suddenly the anger made sense in a way it never fully had before, not as cruelty or recklessness, but as pressure—constant unbearable pressure trapped beneath skin already stretched too tightly around something too powerful to live quietly inside another human being.
Before the phase, anger had probably been useful to Paul. Useful enough to build things with. To survive with. To claw his way out of poverty and carve something sharp-edged and dangerous for himself in a world that had likely never intended to hand him anything gently. But now that same fury lived inside a body capable of tearing through walls and bone alike, and the thought settled heavily somewhere beneath my ribs because suddenly the violence surrounding him no longer felt simple. It felt exhausting.
Somehow that realization made him feel less dangerous and infinitely more dangerous at the same time. It was as if the world had shifted its curtains hiding a truth I hadn’t ever been faced with before: monsters were easy to fear, but boys trying desperately not to become them were harder.
Emily’s voice softened further afterward, quiet enough that the rain nearly swallowed the words entirely. “Sam says Paul’s hardest on himself after he loses control.”
Emily’s scars—always there, always a reminder of the pain losing control brought—filled the space in the silence, and guilt twisted low through my stomach because for one horrible second I could picture Paul afterward too clearly; furious with himself, sick over what he’d done, trapped inside all that impossible strength with nowhere safe to put it.
“It wasn’t intentional,” she said quietly before I could pretend I hadn’t been thinking of her scars. “None of them ever are.”
“I think he scares me a little,” I stopped trying to hide from myself for a moment. “But I also think I like that he does, too. He makes me feel strong—like I can have whatever I want.”
Emily’s expression remained calm, steady in the same way the house felt steady around us despite the storm clawing endlessly at the windows outside.
“Paul feels everything intensely,” she said softly, eyes knowing. “Most people only see the anger because it’s loudest, but Sam says that’s not really the dangerous part of him.”
A strange nervous warmth curled through my stomach.
“What is?”
Emily looked toward the rain for a long moment before answering.
“The loyalty.”
I thought suddenly of the way Paul had looked at me in the kitchen before leaving, gold-eyed and terrifying and entirely wolf beneath his skin, and yet somehow still stopping long enough to make sure I had his truck keys in my hand before running into the storm.
It wasn’t softness or gentleness—just an instinctive protection woven so deeply into him that even urgency could not erase it completely.
Emily’s voice softened further to a whisper, quiet enough that the rain seemed to lean inward around the words, as if she were sharing a dangerous secret she couldn’t hold in the palm of her hand.
“Sam says once Paul decides somebody belongs to him, he doesn’t really know how to let them go.”
My breaths became shallow for a moment, and heat filled my face and neck.
I didn’t doubt for a moment that Emily was telling the truth and that Sam’s understanding of his pack was spot on.
It lived in the way he looked at me, too intensely for someone who had only touched me a handful of times. It lived in the rough possessiveness woven through his voice whenever he said little bird, like the nickname belonged to him. It lived in the truck keys still sitting heavy in my palm, in the oversized shirt hanging from my body, in the terrifying certainty that if danger came for me tonight Paul would tear himself apart before he let it touch me first.
Some reckless aching part of me wanted that—wanted to be owned and possessed by him, and I knew I should have felt some shame, or at least fear.
But after Edward’s careful restraint and Jacob’s endless waiting, there was something intoxicating about being wanted so completely by someone who did not know how to love halfway.
Another howl echoed faintly through the storm outside afterward, softer this time and farther away, the sound threading mournfully through the trees before dissolving back into the rain. Both of us went quiet instinctively while the woods spoke to themselves beyond the windows, and for one strange suspended moment it felt as though the entire reservation was holding its breath alongside us.
Emily listened for a few seconds longer before some of the tension eased quietly from her shoulders.
“That’s better,” she murmured.
I couldn’t understand in the howl exactly what she did, but perhaps that was the beauty in imprinting.
I stared toward the dark windows while rain slid in crooked silver lines down the glass, my heart still twisting uneasily every time the woods answered back to us. Fear lingered stubbornly beneath my ribs, cold and restless as seawater, but Emily’s calm settled over the room slowly enough that eventually my breathing eased alongside it.
Her faith felt stronger than fear, rooted so deeply inside her that even the storm itself seemed unable to shake it loose.
My fingers tightened unconsciously around Paul’s truck keys afterward, the metal warm now from sitting too long in my hands, and suddenly I realized something that settled low and heavy inside my chest like the final piece of a puzzle clicking quietly into place.
Regardless of what happened next—Edward, Jacob, vampires, wolves, heartbreak, all the impossible tangled ruins my life kept becoming—I did not think Paul Lahote was ever going to let me go.
The terrifying thing was that when that moment finally came, I wasn’t sure I would want him to.