The Wild Wolf Who Shouldn’t Exist: Kill Her or Claim Her

Beneath The Moon

The desert at night was a different beast.

Cooler, yes. But heavier too. Like the heat gave way to something thicker — something that pressed against your skin, your ribs, your heart.

The stars overhead burned sharp and bright, and the moon hung fat and full, turning the sands silver.

I followed the old river trail, boots kicking up fine dust, jacket swinging open around me.

The mesquite trees twisted black against the sky. Coyotes howled somewhere far off.

The air tasted dry and electric.

Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

I ignored it.

Shoved it down.

There were enough ghosts in my head tonight without adding new ones.

I spotted Boris leaning against the remains of an old fence post, arms crossed, head tipped back to watch the stars.

His profile was sharp in the moonlight — messy blond hair, strong jaw, broad shoulders in a battered t-shirt and worn jeans.

He looked like every bad decision I’d ever wanted to make.

He turned when he heard me, that easy smile sliding across his face.

“Hey, Wild,” he said, voice warm and low. “Was starting to think you were ditching me.”

“Thought about it,” I teased, but there wasn’t much bite behind it.

He studied me for a second, all traces of humor fading.

“You okay?” he asked.

I kicked a rock off the path, watching it tumble into the shadows.

“No.”

He waited.

I walked up to him, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“My parents talk about me like I’m something else,” I said, voice rough. “Like I’m supposed to be proud of being different. But different from what, Boris? What else is there except wolves?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, like he didn’t know how to answer.

I swallowed hard, hating the way my throat burned.

“And what happens,” I whispered, “when you find your fated mate? Huh? What happens to me then?”

He flinched like I’d struck him.

“Millie…” He stepped forward, cupping my face in his calloused hands. His touch was warm, grounding. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen tomorrow. I don’t know who the Moon Goddess has planned for me or whatever the hell fate’s got brewing.”

He lowered his forehead to mine, breathing me in.

“But I know what I want tonight.” His voice cracked. “And it’s you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut against the flood of emotion. Against the truth I didn’t want to admit.

“I just want you,” he whispered again.

That was all I needed.

I grabbed his shirt in both fists and yanked him down into a kiss — hard, hungry, brutal. I poured everything into it: the fear, the anger, the loneliness I didn’t know how to name. I bit his lower lip, tugged it between my teeth, and swallowed his groan like oxygen.

He didn’t stand a chance. I backed him toward the sand, taking the lead, pushing him until he dropped to his knees and pulled me with him. His hands roamed desperately over my body, but I was already stripping him — shoving up his shirt, dragging it over his head, throwing it aside. I needed skin. I needed him.

I climbed into his lap, straddling him, grinding down hard enough to make him curse under his breath. His hands found my hips, trying to control the pace, but I grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the sand beside him.

“Don’t,” I said, voice rough. “Let me.”

Boris shuddered beneath me, chest heaving, eyes dark with need. He nodded, surrendering completely.

I kissed down his throat, tasted the salt of his skin, scraped my teeth over his racing pulse. His whole body vibrated under mine, every muscle straining toward me, but he didn’t move — waiting for me to take whatever I wanted.

And I did.

I fumbled with his belt, growling in frustration until he lifted his hips and helped, kicking free of jeans and briefs. I stripped out of my own clothes just as fast, not caring where they landed, the night air cool against my heated skin.

I gripped him in my hand, slow and deliberate, watching his face twist in raw need. His c**k was hot and heavy in my palm, and I stroked him once, twice, just to hear the strangled sound he made.

Then I rose up and sank down onto him in one long, claiming motion.

I gasped, biting my lip as I took him deep, feeling the stretch, the perfect, burning fullness. His hands clenched into fists in the sand, his jaw locked tight, but he didn’t move — still letting me set the rhythm, the depth, the speed.

I rolled my hips, slow and punishing, grinding down until he gasped my name like a prayer.

“Boris,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss him again, devouring his mouth, riding him harder now, chasing the sharp pleasure building inside me. I dug my nails into his chest, leaving marks, claiming him the way I needed to.

Every thrust drove the air from my lungs, every brush of him inside me lit me up like wildfire. I rode him mercilessly, desperate and unrelenting, until he was begging under his breath, muscles trembling with the effort not to lose control.

“Touch me,” I ordered, and he obeyed instantly, sliding one hand between us to circle my c**t in rough, desperate strokes.

Pleasure slammed into me, blinding and brutal. I cried out, shuddering around him, and that was all it took — he thrust up into me hard, coming with a low, broken moan that I swallowed with another kiss.

We clung to each other, panting, shaking, skin slick with sweat and dusted with sand.

For a few precious moments, there was nothing but the thudding of our hearts, the cooling night air, and the deep, perfect ache of being filled, claimed, wanted.

For once, I let myself believe it was enough.

That I was enough.

That I belonged