Feral Cravings

The city never truly slept. It pulsed with life, the scent of rain and gasoline thick in the air, neon lights flickering in the distance. Rhea Calloway moved through the streets like she belonged there—not a stray, not lost, just another shadow slipping between the cracks of the world. Her job tonight was simple—clean up some mansion for an anonymous client. She’d done it a hundred times before. Supernatural beings paid well, especially the ones who didn’t want humans in their space. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make conversation. Get in, clean up, get out. Rhea tugged at the hem of her too-short shorts, adjusting the strap of her bag as she approached the gate of Blackthorne Mansion. The place was massive, all dark stone and towering windows, the kind of estate that reeked of old money and even older power. The scent hit her before she even stepped inside—wolves, something stronger, and… something else. It made her stomach twist. She should have turned around. But she needed the damn money. With a sigh, she swiped the key card the agency had provided, stepping into the dimly lit entryway. The place wasn’t the disaster she expected. The air smelled clean, expensive, masculine. No dust. No mess. No reason for her to be here. Her boots clicked against the marble floors as she made her way deeper into the mansion. It was eerily quiet, but not in the way of an empty house. No, this was a predator’s kind of silence. Then she heard it. A low, guttural sound. A moan. Rhea stilled. Her heart pounded, her senses sharpening. She should turn around. She should. But she didn’t. Instead, she followed the sound, rounding the corner into the massive living room. And saw them. Two men. One sprawled against the couch, his dark hair tousled, his lips parted in a breathless moan. His shirt was open, his toned chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. The other man was behind him—tall, golden-eyed, and completely in control. A Lycan. The raw power in his grip, the possessiveness in his eyes—it was unmistakable. He held the dark-haired man’s hair in his fist, his other hand gripping his hip as he thrust forward with a force that made the couch shudder. Rhea’s stomach flipped. Not from shock. Not from embarrassment. But because the moment their scents crashed into her, something inside her snapped. Her wolf lurched forward, howling, desperate, starving. The Lycan stilled. The vampire—because that’s what the dark-haired man was, she realized—snapped his head toward her. Rhea couldn’t move. The weight of their gazes pinned her in place, her breathing shallow, her pulse hammering. Something ancient, unbreakable coiled around her soul. The Lycan’s golden eyes darkened, his grip tightening on the vampire’s throat as he growled one word. “Mate.” Rhea’s world shattered.