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"Ryker, please," I arch into his touch, my hands roaming over the expanse of his chest, skimming his nipples, and tracing the sculpted lines of his torso.

A groan rips from his lips. He looks down at me, his dark hair falling around his face, his blue eyes blazing. Slowly, gently, his hand trails up my chest, his long, clawed fingers lightly tracing the delicate line of my collarbone.

"You know," Ryker whispers. “When I look at you... my hands just want to create.”

His voice is thick with emotion as his thumb strokes the small hollow at the base of my throat. “I want to design things for you. Wrap you in the softest silk, tailor a coat that fits every curve of your shoulders so perfectly that the whole world stops to look at you. I want to show you off. To spoil you and show the world how much I care."

I look up at him, my breath catching in my throat.

"Then make it for me," I whisper back, pulling his face down to mine again. "Wrap me in your silks. Make me whatever you want. Just don't let me go. Don’t stop.”

"Fuck. Never," Ryker vows against my lips.

We lose ourselves in the tender kisses and the safety beneath his wings for hours. Every touch is a vow of devotion. Every kiss a sensual promise. Over and over again until we are trembling and breathless.

Later, when the room has gone dark and the moon casts light through the window, Ryker lies on his back with me clinging to his front. His long tail wraps possessively around my waist, holding me close. He feels so perfect here. We fit together like two puzzle pieces. Like this was where we were always meant to be.

I rest my chin on his chest, looking up at his handsome face. "Hey," I say.

"Hey," he replies, a lazy smile touching his lips.

"No more ignoring whatever this is between us, okay?"

Ryker chuckles. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead.

"No more," he murmurs. “You're mine now, Teagan Dae. And I'm yours."

“Fucking finally,” I smile.

I lace my fingers with his, already drifting to sleep.

Chapter twelve

Ryker

It’s Mid-October. The air outside Karloff Hall has turned crisp and sharp, the autumn leaves painting the quad in shades of orange and brown. I’ve always loved Fall. But I seem to be the only one enjoying the weather. Students drag themselves between the library and their dorms like zombies, fueled by coffee from Mummy Mocha. Students all around panic over midterm exams.

Even with our new, secret intimacy blossoming behind closed doors, the academic grind is relentless. Teagan has spent the last three days juggling script rehearsals for Empire of Beasts with late-night cram sessions for his theater history exam. I’ve been right beside him through every assignment, every rehearsal, and every secret kissing session.

It’s just after 2:00 PM when I step into the Karloff Hall mailroom on the ground floor to clear out our suite’s box before our next study session. The mailroom is chaotic and crammed with sleep-deprived freshmen sorting through care packages.

I squeeze my broad frame past a couple of shivering wolf shifters, my wings folded tightly against my spine to avoid knocking over any display racks. I reach for out box, turn the small dial, and pull out a stack of envelope mail. There’s two bills, an art magazine for Zay, and a sports gear catalog for Kieran.

Then I notice the box sitting on the counter directly below the mail slots.

It’s small, square, and wrapped in brown paper. Unaddressed. No postage stamps. No return address. No shipping label. Just my human’s name written across the front in jagged, thick black ink: TEAGAN DAE.

A violent spike of adrenaline shoots down my spine, causing the tip of my tail to whip from side to side.

There’s no freaking way this was dropped off by the campus postal service. Someone walked into this damn hall, stood right where I’m standing, and dropped this box off by hand.

I pick it up carefully. It's surprisingly light. My gargoyle senses flare, catching a subtle, lingering scent on the paper. Something synthetic and sickly sweet, underlying the stale smell of cardboard. Ignoring the curious looks from a nearby student, I slide my claw beneath the tape and slice the wrapping open right there in the alcove.

Inside the box, resting on a bed of shredded black tissue paper, is a clear acrylic display case. Inside the case sits a single, pristine golden hair clip shaped like an intricate leaf cupping a star on it. It’s a piece of custom merch from Teagan’s old teenage idol group, I recognize it from one of his photos he showed me last week.

My blood turns to liquid ice.

Pinned beneath the clip is a handwritten note.