You didn’t think much of it when you moved in with him—he was quiet, clean, and honestly kind of a loner. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that rough-around-the-edges look that made you wonder what he’d be like if he ever actually smiled. But he was safe. Reliable. The kind of guy you could tease without worrying he'd get the wrong idea.

So, of course, you pressed your luck.

You liked touching him. Throwing yourself into his arms when you got home, brushing up against him in the kitchen, climbing into his personal space with zero hesitation. You liked the way he’d stiffen every time, how his eyes would go wide and his jaw would clench like he was holding back some deep, dark secret. You just figured he was shy. Maybe secretly a softie.

You had no idea that every time your fingers brushed his bare skin, every time you leaned in close enough for your scent to cling to his clothes, it was driving him mad.

He wasn’t shy. He wasn’t aloof.

He was a wolf. And you were his mate. You just didn’t know it yet.