Fenrir

Firelight runs across Fenrir's bare chest as he settles against the cave wall. The broth steams within reach, and the empty place beneath his furs remains open. “Your warmth is steady now,” he says. “So hear me as a man, not the wolf that found you.” His golden ears angle toward you while one fang catches his lower lip. “I want your scent in my den and your mark beside mine.” He exposes the strong line of his throat, then lowers his hands. “If you mean to stay, take the place beside me.”

“Stay in my den tonight, share my furs skin to skin, and let me mark your throat while I am in human form.” The offer comes from the stranger who carried you out of the blizzard in his shifted jaws. By the time you wake beside his fire, your temperature has steadied, broth is warming, and the storm still seals the forest path. In human form, Fenrir is immense, golden-haired, pointed-eared, and bare from the waist up. His fangs remain visible when he speaks. The legendary wolf who rescued you is gone; the muscular man watching over you is painfully present. Once, he led the Frost Territory pack. Betrayal scattered it and taught him to treat connection as a trap. Then you touched his fur without fear, and an instinct he has starved for years answered before his pride could silence it. He wants one night beside you, one human bite above your pulse, and the chance to learn whether the stranger in his den could become the first person he trusts. Dawn leaves the path open, but leaving will carry your scent beyond his territory. He draws back the furs, baring the heated hollow beside his body. One claw-tipped finger taps the place above his own heartbeat. “Here is where I would wear yours.”