His Human Mate

The Heat of the Moment

The bathroom door creaked as Rayla pushed it open, the sound sharp and grating against her already throbbing head. She stumbled inside, her knees hitting the cold tile floor as she knelt before the toilet—again. This had to be the hundredth time today, or at least it felt like it. Her stomach churned violently, and she gagged, clutching the edges of the porcelain bowl as her body convulsed. Nothing came up this time, but the acidic taste in her mouth was a cruel reminder of how many times she’d already emptied her stomach.

She cursed under her breath, her voice hoarse and shaky. “Stupid… so stupid,” she muttered, resting her forehead against her arm. Last night’s choices played on a loop in her mind: the laughter, the shots, the dizzying rush of freedom that had seemed so exhilarating at the time. Now, it all felt like a cruel joke. She’d sworn she wouldn’t be that girl—the one who got wasted on a school night, the one who made reckless decisions she couldn’t take back. And yet, here she was.

Rayla forced herself to stand, her legs wobbling beneath her. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face, the shock of it momentarily grounding her. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and winced. Her reflection looked like a stranger—pale skin, dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and her hair piled into a messy bun that had seen better hours. Her lips were dry and cracked, with a few small cuts from the stomach acid she’d been throwing up all morning. She looked like death warmed over, and she felt even worse.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the sound making her flinch. She pulled it out and stared at the screen. Zach’s name flashed up, followed by a string of messages:

"Ray, where are you? You missed my game."

"Are you okay? You weren’t answering last night."

"Please just let me know you’re alright."

She knew Zack would be worried sick by now. But she couldn’t bring herself to face him. How could she explain that she’d gotten drunk, ended up with a tattoo, and spent the entire morning throwing up? He’d be upset—no, furious—and worse, he’d tell her dad. The thought alone made her stomach churn again, though there was nothing left to expel.

She leaned against the sink, gripping the edges tightly as another wave of nausea washed over her. Her mind raced with excuses, but none of them sounded convincing. Zack knew her too well; he’d see right through her lies. And her dad? He’d be devastated. She could already picture the disappointment in his eyes, the way he’d lecture her about responsibility and making good choices. It was a conversation she wasn’t ready to have.

She typed out a quick reply, her fingers trembling:

"I'm fine, just feeling a bit sick. I'll catch up with you later."

Rayla took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She needed to pull it together. She couldn’t let one bad night ruin everything. But as she looked at her reflection again, the dark circles under her eyes and the faint outline of the tattoo peeking out from under her collar, she felt a pang of guilt. She had messed up—big time—and now she was stuck dealing with the consequences.

Her phone dinged once more, the sound echoing in the empty bathroom. She glanced at the screen, seeing Zack’s name flash across it. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the answer button, but ultimately, she silenced the call and shoved the phone back into her pocket. She couldn’t face him right now. Not like this.

With a heavy sigh, Rayla straightened her shoulders and forced herself to leave the bathroom. She had classes to attend; she couldn’t afford to mess up her academic life, too. When she got to the classroom, she kept her head low, heading directly to the seat beside the window. The weather wasn’t chilly, but she kept pulling her turtleneck up, avoiding any chance that her classmates might see her new tattoo. The professor began the lecture, and Rayla kept glancing at the clock, hoping the day would end already. She thanked God that it was the last class of the day, and as soon as the professor left the hall, she gathered her things and hurried to her dorm.

Another sigh of relief left her body when she saw that Scarlet wasn’t there. Without realizing it, as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was already drifting into slumber.

The room was quiet when Rayla first stirred in her sleep. She didn’t wake up fully, but her eyebrows furrowed as fragmented memories played in her mind, obscured by a hazy cloud. She turned her head as if sensing a figure hovering over her, the warmth of their breath brushing against her collarbone. A muffled moan escaped her lips as her body responded instinctively, her skin tingling with anticipation.

Her vision was blurred, but she recognized the touch—the fingers tracing her body, the lips that briefly grazed her skin, the soft hair brushing against her cheeks. She let out a breathy moan when the lips landed on her tattoo, sucking gently and sending waves of heat through her body. She arched her back as a rough hand touched the delicate skin of her waist, and she snaked her arms around the man, pulling him closer.

"Just shut up and kiss me," the words echoed in her mind, and the man obliged, his lips finally meeting hers in a searing kiss. But as he pulled away and raised his head to look into her eyes, Rayla gasped and woke up, breathing heavily.

She looked around, disoriented, letting out a deep breath when she saw that she was alone in her dorm, which was now dark. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers lingering on her neck where the tattoo was. “What the heck was that?” she whispered, her voice shaky. Her body was still tingling, her heart racing as if she’d just run a marathon. She shifted uncomfortably in the bed, acutely aware of the dampness between her legs.

Why, of all people, did it have to be him? Why did her first wet dream have to feature someone like Asher? Her fingertips still tingled with the memory of his soft hair, and her lips felt warm, as if they’d just been kissed. She jolted out of bed, grabbing a fresh set of clothes. “I’m definitely hallucinating. That was just a nightmare,” she muttered, trying to convince herself that nothing had happened.

But deep down, she knew better. And as she stood there, her body still humming with the remnants of the dream, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something she wasn’t ready to face.

Rayla pushed through the bathroom doors, the dim lights casting long shadows across the tiled floor. It wasn’t that late, but it was late enough that she hadn’t expected anyone else to be there. She groaned softly when she heard the sound of running water, but her steps faltered completely when she saw a girl stepping out of the shower stall, wrapped in a towel. The girl moved toward the door that connected to the men’s side, where the water was still running.

Rayla froze, her breath catching in her throat as she heard a deep, angry voice snap, “What the f**k are you doing?” The girl stumbled back as the door swung open, and a tall figure stepped out, his presence commanding and intimidating. Rayla’s eyes widened as she recognized him—Asher.

She cursed her luck and ducked behind the row of cabinets, hoping the stacks of towels would hide her small frame. Her heart pounded as she pressed herself against the wall, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. She heard the girl—Stacy, apparently—whine in a high-pitched, fake-crying tone, “Ash, you hurt me.”

Rayla almost gagged at how forced the girl’s voice sounded. She clenched her fists, her stomach twisting with an odd, uncomfortable feeling she couldn’t quite place.

“I was naked, Stacy,” Asher growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You can’t just barge in and touch me like some creep.”

Rayla swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing as his words brought back the vivid memory of her dream—his lips tracing her skin, his hands on her waist, the heat of his body against hers. She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered like a stubborn shadow.

“Oh, come on,” Stacy purred, her tone dripping with false seduction. “We could have a good time.”

The knot in Rayla’s stomach tightened, and she frowned, blaming it on her lingering nausea. But when she dared to peek around the corner, her breath hitched. Stacy had her hands on Asher’s bare chest, and he stood there, wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his waist. Water dripped from his dark hair, trailing down his chiseled abs and the defined lines of his torso. He looked like a Greek god, all power and perfection, and Rayla felt her face heat up as her imagination ran wild.

She ducked back behind the cabinets, pressing a hand to her racing heart. What is wrong with me? she thought, trying to will away the blush creeping up her neck. She was so focused on calming herself that she didn’t notice the conversation had stopped until she heard the heavy slam of the bathroom door.

Rayla let out a shaky breath, relief flooding her as she gathered her things. But as she stepped out from her hiding spot, she froze. Standing right in front of her, arms crossed and a smirk playing on his lips, was Asher.

She jumped in fear, her back hitting the wall with a soft thud. Before she could react, he closed the distance between them, caging her in with his arms. His presence was overwhelming, his scent—clean and masculine, like soap and something uniquely him—filling her senses.

“Why were you hiding, kitten?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, his eyes glinting with amusement.

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