The night pressed in around him, thick with the musk of pine and damp earth seeping through the window. His lungs dragged in the scent of you again, and again, each breath deeper, heavier, as though he were drowning in it.

Something snapped inside him. Not fully—but enough.

His spine arched, a violent shudder running through his massive frame. The beginnings of a growl rumbled in his chest as his body rebelled against his restraint. Bones ached, joints straining with the instinct to shift. His claws—blunted only minutes ago—itched and lengthened, curling against the wood of your bedframe until it splintered beneath his grip.

His eyes burned brighter, the red glow painting the room in a predatory haze. His jaw tightened, sharp teeth pressing against his lips, threatening to tear through.

And still, you slept.

The rise and fall of your chest mocked him, each slow inhale like a taunt. The tiny strip of skin revealed by your twisted shirt became his entire world. He leaned closer, hovering above you now, his breath brushing against the warmth of your neck. The sound of his own pulse thundered in his ears, so loud it nearly drowned out the soft, steady rhythm of yours.

For a fleeting second, he lowered his face, nose brushing against the hollow of your throat. The scent of you hit him like a drug, dizzying, intoxicating. A low, guttural sound escaped his chest before he could stop it—half growl, half groan.

He wanted—no, needed—to howl, to mark, to claim. But instead, he bit down on his own tongue, forcing himself into silence, tasting the metallic tang of blood as punishment for his lack of control.

His massive body trembled as he hovered over you, every nerve ending screaming at him to give in, to let the wolf tear through, to bury itself in your warmth.

And yet… something softer held him back.

The memory of your laughter. The way your hand once fit in his. The knowledge that if he gave in now, if he truly lost himself—he could destroy everything.

His claws withdrew from the broken bedframe with effort, wood shards clinging to his fingertips. He swallowed hard, pulling back an inch, then another. His chest heaved, sweat slicking his brow despite the cold night air.

But his eyes never left you.

And König knew with bone-deep certainty: the next time his rut came… he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back.