You’re already checked into the motel when a familiar black truck rolls into the parking lot.

It’s hard to
miss given the tires are screaming in time to the wail of hard rock music. You skip up to the window to
peek through the curtains and smile, a smile as instinctive as it is totally irrepressible.

Your blush, on the other hand, is plain embarrassing.

It’s just the girls, you tell yourself. Just the Cromwell girls. The same girls as always, who you met years
ago, who you… can’t quite forget given an acquaintanceship with the Cromwells means an
acquaintanceship with the underbelly of this seemingly mortal sphere. But monsters and nightmares
and cheap motels aside, they’re good women. Great women. And they’re old friends and you’re
expecting them and your heart has no reason to stampede like an animal trying to break out of your
chest—

Oh.

The music cuts off and a breath later Grayson Cromwell emerges from the vehicle. Effortlessly cool, as
always. Her dark hair is tugged into a short, low tail, and she’s both soft and muscled in flannel and
leather. You almost roll your eyes but your smile doesn’t falter and your heart still pumps hot blood to
your poor cheeks.

Because Grayson is alone. She came without Annelise.

“This should be fun,” you say, righting the curtain then hurtling across the room.

You’ll wanna be prepared when Grayson knocks at that door. Freestyle isn’t an option around a woman
who sends you swooning with one well-placed smile.

You’d think spending time away from Grayson Cromwell would free you of this ridiculous (and very, very,
very unrequited) decade-long infatuation, but nope.

And now you’re gonna be alone with her. With no Annelise buffer.

Again, this should be fun. In that train-wreck kinda way.

You have your research spread across the table when she finally knocks at your door. The anticipation
that has been building, building, building in your chest does not diminish, unfortunately, but flares to a
new zenith.

“Come on, Y/N,” you mutter, wiping your clammy hands on your jeans. “Keep it together.”

With one more breath, you flash an appropriate smile and open the door.

Jesus.
Grayson leans against the doorframe and her eyes light up when she sees you. She proceeds to flash a
smile that absolutely decimates you. Grayson Cromwell is all dash and charm when she wants to be, but
that smile lacks all endeavour to seduce. Your friendship is a fait accompli so she doesn’t need to
impress you or win you over. She smiles and it’s warm, familiar, maybe almost affectionate. A rare smile
reserved for certain people.

And it makes you a little sick because ugh, she likes you a lot but she likes you as a friend. She doesn’t
have a lot of those (who are still alive, at least) and she doesn’t deserve to have it thrown back in her
face. So you remind yourself to keep it together for both your damn sakes.

“Hey there, neighbour,” she says, still grinning. “Just moved in next door. Was hopin’ to borrow some
sugar.”

She isn’t flirting, you tell yourself. Just being Grayson.

“Very funny,” you say, and step aside to let her in. She ruffles your hair and sweeps into the room. You
refrain from bashing your head into the door and close it instead.

“So,” Grayson says, losing that playful swagger and sounding a little more serious. “You said somethin’
about a woman in white on the phone?”

“Yeah, right, sorry,” you say, and hop over to the table. Grayson peels off her leather jacket and tosses it
onto the bed, rolling up the sleeves of her flannel as she ambles to your side. You shake your head and
focus on the job. “I’m sure I’ve got it right. Thing is, I’m not so great out there in the field. As I’m sure
you remember.” She stands beside you, pushing around some of your papers with a thoughtful furrow
to her brow. “Try as I might,” you continue, “I’m not a hunter. Just a researcher.”

“Yeah, well, thank god for that,” Grayson says absently, still studying your papers.

You glance at her.

“Why’s that?” you ask.

She looks at you, realizes herself, and shrugs it off with another grin.

“Dangerous job, kiddo,” she says, slapping your arm. She looks back at the table. “Would be a damn
shame to lose someone who can put together a case like this. Seriously, what the hell.” She picks up
the portfolio of newspaper clippings. “Man, I’ve been doin’ this job since hell’s been hot but to pick up
patterns like this—” She flips through the papers then looks at you sincerely. “It takes a hell of an eye.
Nice work. Seriously.”

“Thanks,” you say, smiling warmly.

Because you aren’t much of an active hunter, you made research and case-finding your niche. Once the
cases are worked through, you leave the messy business to whichever hunter is in the area. But Grayson
is the first to acknowledge your work beyond a nod, a thanks, and a catch ya later.
She ruffles your hair then strolls into the room with the portfolio. You blow some hair out of your face.

She really doesn’t let you forget the whole friend thing with the kiddos and hair ruffling, does she?

“Yeah, well, it’s definitely a woman in white,” Grayson says, plopping onto the bed. You follow her over.
“Hell hath no fury, I guess…”

She slams the portfolio closed and looks up, blinking in surprise at your proximity. You admit to standing
a little close, having wandered in front of her. She tips her head back to look at you and—fuck, yeah,
this is a bad place to stand. Inappropriate vantage, to say the least. You take a step back and hope it
isn’t obvious. You’re certain that unspoken stutter on her lips and the vague once-over is just a figment
of your nervous imagination, so you clear your throat and cross your arms. That snaps her out of it and
she looks down at the blank portfolio cover.

“You, uh…” She clears her throat too, “You figure out where she’s buried?”

“No, sorry. I was gonna ask today.” You smile again. “Wasn’t expecting your company so soon. Did you
leave as soon as I called?”

“Yeah, well…” She throws you a debonair glance. “I was in the area. And you’re more fun to look at than
the tall chick. Who told me to say hi, by the way.”

“Where is Annelise?” you ask on a laugh. Don’t dwell on the compliment unless you wanna lose your
cool. Again.

“Two towns over with a broken clavicle,” Grayson answers.

“Ouch.”

“She’s got a case of beer and access to the Discovery Channel, which is like Mardis Gras for nerds like her,
so I think she’ll pull through.”

“In that case, it sounds like someone’s just playing hookie.”

“No way, sister. Ferris Bueller, she ain’t.”

You snort and Grayson smirks. It always takes a second, her first (and second and third) impression
never failing to make your heart pitter patter, but it’s nice when you find a natural rapport.

It used to be like this always. You met the Cromwells ages ago, even travelled with them for a bit, and
you weren’t so Grayson-crazy in the beginning. Sure, there might have been little moments. Both the
Cromwells were attractive, inside and out, and keeping close company for weeks meant your imagination
was sure to run amock on occasion or two.

But it wasn’t a braless escapade or display of brains and brawn. It was something small, that gentle
nothing which meant something all at once. You were simply curled up in the passenger seat and
Grayson called you over to her side because—
“You’re gonna bash your friggin head in, kid.”

You were trying to sleep but the motion of the car kept rattling you around. Annelise was stretched
across the backseat while Grayson drove through the night. You heartily welcomed her offer and slid
across the seat, nestling into her side. She kept one hand on the wheel, her other arm wrapped around
you. And somewhere down the midnight highway, with your head against her shoulder and her hand
rubbing up and down your arm, you realized your friendly feelings were a whole lot friendlier than you
ever cared to realize.

You went your separate ways after that. Being close to her without being close to her proved torturous.
And you appreciated her friendship too much to risk destroying it when those bubbling feelings finally
boiled over.

“So,” you croak, your mind having wandered. It seems hers did too because she straightens at your
voice. “Is there something else I can do for you?”

“Uh...” She stares for a heartbeat. Then she stands and passes you the portfolio. “Yeah, actually. I
could use a good cop to my bad cop routine. Kinda spooks the civvies when I do them both, Jekyll and
Hyde style.”

You smile at her goofy joke but she seems a little off, a little distracted. Her gaze blankly explores your
face and you try to ignore the molten twist in your gut when that stare brushes your lips—but she looks
away again and scratches the back of her neck.

“Besides,” she says, “Somethin’ tells me the locals are gonna tell you before me which boneyard they
shoved their dead lovers in.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, watching as she grabs her jacket and shrugs it on. Genuine
amusement creeps into her features as she adjusts the collar.

“You don’t have serial killer branded on your forehead, you innocent little lamb, you,” she teases.

You roll your eyes, playful, and swat at her.

“Yeah, whatever,” you say. “What’s our cover gonna be?”

“We’ll make it up as we go.”

You’re so damn fond, you think you might burst.

She grabs your coat off the chair and holds it out for you. You turn and shrug into it, toes curling as she
smooths her hands down your arms and pats your shoulders.

“Good to go?” she asks.

“Yup,” you say, and march to the door without meeting her gaze. “Can’t imagine having more fun
anywhere else.”
“Yeah, well, don’t go getting your hopes up,” she says. She beats you to the door somehow and opens it
before you can. She ushers you through. “This is lookin’ like a pretty routine case.”

“This is not lookin’ like a routine case,” Grayson says about half an hour later as the two of you return to
her truck.

The house behind you is property of one Mortimer Jackson, husband to your latest spook. People are
often hesitant to release personal information, even to authorities or other professionals, but Jackson
wasn’t so much hesitant as just playing dumb. Meticulously crafted evasions, a smile here or there, an
apathetic response to just about everything else…

It was a lot of things. Routine, it wasn’t.

“What are we gonna do?”

“We,” Grayson says, hooking her fingers about your elbow and guiding you to the car, a bit superfluously
as you haven’t exactly lost track of it, “Are gonna sit tight until my man John Tucker decides to head out.
Then we scavenge. Full-on Blue’s Clues.”

“Is this one of those ‘we’ll know it when we see it’ things?”

“Here’s hoping.”

Grayson parks the car down the street, the house within view but far enough Jackson won’t notice the
suspicious black truck if he leaves his driveway. Grayson shuts down the ignition and you peel off your
jacket. Once you’re both settled, you become very aware of your own breathing in the complete
silence.

“This could be worse,” Grayson says a heartbeat later, “At least we aren’t sitting in a totally awkward
silence.”

You laugh but fidget, pushing hair out of your eyes.

“Sorry,” you say. “It’s just— it’s just been a while. Since we’ve talked. Face to face. And stuff.”

“Yeah…” Grayson says, strumming her fingers on the steering wheel but looking at you. You don’t look
back, a little terrified you might blush, but you see her in the corner of your eye. She stops strumming
her fingers and pushes that hand through her hair. She looks away too, out her window while you stare
ahead. “It sucked, you know—” She starts and stops.

“What did?” you ask, looking at her. She looks back so you look away again.

“You know,” she says, and leaves it hanging. Like she can’t quite force the words. “It’s been a while,”
she eventually adds. “Like you said. It just—it sucked.”
“Are you… saying you missed me?” you ask, fighting a laugh. At least Grayson is awful at this crap too.
She laughs like she knows it.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says. You look at her and she looks at you and this time you smile at each other.
It’s comfortable, familiar, and it lingers. She blinks those absurdly long eyelashes and her green, green
eyes roam a little, her expression going from fond to thoughtful as she traces the contours of your face—
over your eyebrows, down your nose, across your cheeks. Softly over your mouth.

Whoa.

A splice of heat rips through you, flooding your cheeks and twisting low in your gut.

“I, uh,” she starts, falters, blinks, and looks from your mouth to your eyes. She swallows and you feel
nervous. Did you make her uncomfortable? Did you react too weirdly? She sits straighter and tugs at
the collar of her jacket, looking ahead again. “Annelise says hey, by the way.”

“Yeah, uh, you mentioned that,” you say, heart still slamming away despite the moment passing. You
scratch the back of your neck.

“Did I?” she asks, and you catch her looking at you again. She looks away.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Um.” You drop your arm to your lap. “Tell her hey, for me.”

“Will do,” she says. “Will do.”

It’s quiet again but this time it doesn’t last. Only because Mortimer Jackson is already making a
departure. You instinctively reach across the seat and grab Grayson’s arm, just in case she hasn’t
noticed. She grabs your knee at the same time, both of you staring over the dashboard and watching
Jackson climb into his car. Preoccupied, it takes you both a moment to glance at one another and return
your hands to your own person.

“Right,” Grayson says, then drop downs the glove box. “You should take this. Just in case.” You take the
handgun but look at her, a dry regard. “I know, I know,” she says. “You probably won’t need it, but an
ace up the sleeve never hurt anyone, kiddo.” She looks down at the gun. “Well. It has. But not the
person holding it.”

“Aren’t you funny.”

“Yeah, and drop-dead gorgeous. But enough about me.”

You laugh in spite of yourself and tuck the gun behind you, into your waistband.

“All right,” Grayson says, “Show time.”

-
“Seriously? Dude has nothing,” Grayson grumbles, rifling through the desk drawer in Jackson’s office.
You turn about the room, studying the bookshelves, but there isn’t even a picture of his late wife and kid
never mind something to indicate their burial site. “No church pamphlets or flyers or pictures or letters
—”

A rustle, rustle sounds in the next room, prompting you and Grayson to freeze. You look back at her, a
little panicked, because it’s been a while since you’ve been on an actual scene and you aren’t braced for
confrontation.

“Get behind me,” Grayson says, and pulls her own gun out.

You scurry around the desk, all but plastering yourself to her arm as she cocks the gun. You stare at the
closed door but Grayson, experienced trespasser that she is, gives the room a quick survey.

“Come on,” she says, and grabs your arm to lead you aside. Her hand drops down to yours as she pulls
you into the nearby closet and shuts the door.

There is a crack of light from the door slat, enough you can slightly make out her features. And enough
you see her approach when she suddenly drops your hand but steps right into your personal space. You
step back on instinct, startled, but she follows you. Your back hits the wall and she’s right there, her
breath ghosting across your forehead. Her free hand slips behind your back, under your jacket and shirt,
and one sharp tug has you pressed up against her. Your knees collide and you grab her arms, gasping.

And you cling to her as… she pulls your gun free and holds it in front of your face.

There’s enough light you can see her expression, a sarcastic if not amused, Really?

Because of course. Stupid, stupid. Why the hell would she come onto you in a closet? In the middle of
a case! Come on.

Thanks, you mouth the word, taking the gun. You aren’t sure you can look at her, but her hand glides
over the back of yours when you take the weapon. Her thumb strokes your knuckles and you look up at
her. Her attention is elsewhere, however, eyes darting back and forth, and she listens carefully for more
disturbance.

“Wait,” Grayson whispers, “He had a dog house, right? That mighta been the mutt—”

Grayson has her little revelation at the same time you notice a draft from the back of the closet.

“Grayson,” you whisper, “Check it.”

“What?”

She watches you push the wall. It gives way to a hidden passage.

“Of friggin course,” Grayson says. She squeezes your hand then moves past you. “Awesome. Creepy
back rooms. Come on.”
-

So. Mortimer Jackson buried his wife in a makeshift crypt under the house, complete with a creepy little
shrine. Someone clearly felt bad for his role in her death. And the death of their child. The kid must’ve
been buried properly, though, because they weren’t there. No matter. The woman in white was the
only real concern, so one salt-and-burn later you and Grayson were escaping out the back door.

“Gross,” Grayson says once out in the sunlight, brushing dust off her coat. You cough a little. The
downstairs crypt was already dusty, and the smoke from burning the bones didn’t help. Grayson pats
you, her hand lingering on your lower back as you start down the alley. You need to circle to the front,
back to the truck, and hopefully without getting caught by the neighbours who will undoubtedly wonder
why two people are snooping around a private lane—

That would make for an easy escape. So naturally, you are both immediately caught.

“Shit,” Grayson says. You both stumble to a halt as a pick-up turns the corner.

The wheels in Grayson’s head are clearly spinning as her gaze darts to-and-fro, but your instincts are
quicker. Just this once. Maybe because the thought is already there, has been in your head all day, but
it takes all of two seconds to grab Grayson by the front of her coat and pull her towards you. She looks
at you, momentarily surprised, but clues in when your hand slips up her neck.

She meets you halfway, her mouth slanting over yours in a surprisingly graceful kiss. It’s almost—ready.
Like the instinct came to her as naturally as it did you. Which is just because she’s Grayson, you try to
tell yourself. She’s always ready to use that damn mouth.

But, uh—okay. Her mouth slides perfectly over yours and she gives this little breath, almost shaky
before her hands wrap over your hips and she walks you backward. Your back hits the cement wall
behind the Jackson property. You don’t even care how it’s rough and cold because Grayson dips her
head and her lips move against yours and—it’s all a little much for pretending to be a handsy couple in a
random alley.

But you don’t stop her. Because when else will you ever be this close to her? Never.

Your fingers curl in the short ponytail resting on the nape of her neck and your lips part on a breath.
Your eyes are closed, hers too, something you don’t even notice until opening yours on that same
breath. A faint whimper leaves the back of your throat, encouraged by the totally blissed-out look on
her face. Her mouth dives down to recapture yours, swallowing that breath and that noise as your
bottom lip slides between hers. She grips your waist hard, then soft, then hard again. She draws out
that long kiss and frees your bottom lip slowly. Then she kisses you again, a little softer, a little different
than what you expected from Grayson, but somehow even better.

It’s warm and it’s deep and it’s slow, and you’re certain you never understood desire until this exact
moment.
“Grayson,” you murmur, helpless but to do so.

“Nrgh,” is the noise she makes, an unintelligible response as she stops kissing you. She ducks her head,
tipping forward so it almost rests on your shoulder. You slide your hands across her shoulders,
squeezing lightly, breathing hard, feeling her every breath and pant against your neck. “Sorry,
sweetheart,” she finally says, voice coarse. The sound dives south immediately, because holy hell.
Grayson Cromwell has no right to sound that completely wrecked while also apologizing.

“It’s, um, fine,” you breathe, barely louder than a whisper.

“No, it’s not,” she says, still roughly. She clears her throat and lifts her head, wets her lips, a little pinker
from the press of those kisses. Ugh, you want her back, you want her back right now. Everyone else,
Mortimer Jackson, his neighbours, the whole town can go screw themselves.

But Grayson backs away. She does so very gradually, staring at the growing space between your bodies
as she removes one hand from your waist, then the other. You glance down as well, taking her lead.
Your brain goes numb when your gaze passes her belt buckle and—

Oh. Wait a second. Fuck.

It’s not weird for Grayson. She did it all the time back then. Whether it was relevant to the case or a
night on town. Not to mention she expressed a general comfort, having always fluctuated somewhat in
her gender presentation. So it’s not out of wont, per se—but it catches you off guard anyway.

Because Grayson is packing. Now that you’re looking right there, that is an undoubted bulge. And the
idea that you could use a lot more than just mouths and fingers and soft, slow kisses right now—

Grayson moves so achingly slow, like stepping away from you is causing her physical pain, is so torturous
that you choke down a squeak.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—

She takes another few steps backward. Each step is careful, like if she doesn’t pay attention then gravity
will snap her back to you.

It takes all your willpower not to reach out and pull her back yourself.

“Uh, come on,” Grayson says, and her voice is still low. “Let’s get outta here before we have company.”

“Mhm,” is your barely-there reply, staring at the back of Grayson’s head as she walks off without waiting.

Train-wreck kinda way, indeed.

“You said you got the room next door, right?” you ask, remembering Grayson teasing you with hey there,
neighbour when she first arrived. That teasing air has dissolved, replaced with a tension so thick you
can barely breathe through the smog of it. She plays music all the way back to the motel and you don’t
ask your question until parked.

“Yeah,” Grayson says, “Figured I’d stay the night, just in case. Make sure everything’s resolved.”

“Sounds good,” you reply, and look at her. She isn’t looking at you, not at first, her eyes on her car keys.
She turns them over in her hand. Then she looks at you. Your heart skips a beat because you swear
there’s a question in that glance. And if she can’t force the words I missed you, then she sure as hell
can’t voice whatever that gaze implores. But she wets her bottom lip again, tearing her gaze away from
you.

“I’ll walk you over.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply, just climbs out and closes the door. You take a second to breathe, the car
ride too claustrophobic even though it was just two of you. Your mind is still reeling. Grayson. Kissing.
Grayson. Enjoying it. Grayson. Wanting it. Grayson. Wanting you?

She opens your door for you. You mumble a distracted apology, hoisting yourself up. You find yourself
somewhat trapped between her and the car so you slide over while she closes the door. But she
pauses, hand on the door, staring down the passenger window. Then she stands straight, hands at her
sides. You lean against the car because your knees feel more like jelly than bone.

“Sorry for that back there,” she says. “That was good thinkin’ on your part. I was just— We both got
caught up, I guess. Freak adrenaline, you know.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice higher than usual. “Totally. I get it.”

“Yeah,” she says, rubbing her chin.

When Grayson wants something, she takes it. As of right now you are thoroughly un-taken, so you can
only assume she doesn’t want you. Maybe it was just adrenaline that overcame her. The general thrill
of physicality, never mind that it was you.

So what’s happening here then? She either wants you or she doesn’t, and it seems like she doesn’t, but
here she is still looking at you. And it isn’t an empty stare. It isn’t even a friendly smile that melts your
insides, that special look reserved for certain people. And it’s not the lusty gaze you’ve seen her throw
at other women. It’s a complicated, scorching bright heat that makes your skin sing. It’s full of
passionate promise but lacking all follow-through.

You only can stand there so long. You straighten and Grayson snaps out of her reverie and looks at you
properly.

“So, um, good night?” you say, even though it’s early evening and the sun just started to set. Knowing
Grayson, she’ll make a trip to whichever cheap dive suits her fancy. It doesn’t even have to be a dyke
hangout; she just has that effect on women.
Without exception, it seems.

“Yeah,” Grayson says, and takes a step back. “See you in the mornin’ or whatever.”

You begin to pass her, but something in your gut swears if you don’t do something you will regret it
forever. But the sensible voice in your brain tells you to keep walking, not to ruin a good thing anymore
than you already have. In the end, you compromise. You swallow and turn, Grayson looking at you.
She forces a stoic expression with only hints of curiosity in the crease of her brow.

You don’t do much. You simply walk to her, lay a hand on her heart, then kiss her gently on the cheek.

But before you can move away, her hand swings up to cup the back of your head. She exhales, a breath
of relief or surrender, and that leaves you a second to gasp before her mouth covers yours in a ravenous
kiss. Your fingers and toes curl, your heart races, and her other hand cups the side of your face as she
melts all that tension and pours it into a kiss.

“Jesus Christ,” she says when the kiss breaks, her hands leaving your face. You fist the material of her
jacket, a little terrified she’ll step away when it’s suddenly so good and your brain is flying a million miles
a minute and you don’t know what’s happening even while you do, you do, you do, because this is the
best thing in the world, this is—

“Kiss me,” you almost beg, clawing at her jacket. “Grayson—”

“Damnit, Y/N—” It’s a little broken but her grip is strong, one hand diving into your hair and the other
curling around your waist. She pulls you into her, crashing your bodies together and drawing you into
another wild kiss.

Worth the wait, totally worth the wait, you think, opening your mouth under her probing ministrations
and happily returning a deeper, more thorough kiss. You don’t care if she turns your mouth fire engine
red; you don’t ever want to stop kissing her.

Her kisses trail. She leaves a quick press to the corner of your mouth before she tips your head and
sweeps her nose down the line of your throat. She takes a moment before she kisses you there, open
and wet and so so hot.

“Grayson,” you breathe, tugging on the front of her coat. “We should—inside—”

You’re brazen enough to make out in an alley or parking lot, but you need privacy for whatever comes
next.

She must agree because she nods, her hand leaving your hair and smoothing down your back. She takes
a breath, kisses your forehead, then follows behind you when you grab her hand and lead her to the
door. You fumble with the key card, dropping it to the ground. She swoops in before you do, glancing
at you and smiling that familiar smile before swiping the card herself. The door unlocks and you decide
click is your favourite sound in the world.
Wrong. You favourite sound is the ragged groan when Grayson gets you inside and the door closes.

“C’m here,” she says, and pulls you forward by your hips. You bump into her, grabbing her jacket and
immediately pushing it open. She shrugs it down her arms, tosses it blindly aside, while you scramble to
pull off your own jacket. You throw it somewhere just as she backs you into the door, breathing you in
and pressing a kiss to your forehead. The heat in your belly feels like a rock, burning you inside out, but
you give her this respite.

She kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then her mouth hovers over yours. She
plants her hands on the door, either side of your head. You try to kiss her mouth, and barely succeed
before she nudges your nose with her own.

“You have no idea,” she says, her voice rumbling low again, “How long I— How much I—”

You stare at her, wriggling where you stand, and maybe that’s all too distracting because her words keep
melting on her tongue.

At least until she kisses you, then leans back to say, “You’re sweet, you know that?”

“Sweet?”

“Yeah,” she says, and kisses your chin, then a spot below your jaw. “All over, sweetheart.” Her hands
slide down the door, to you, over your hips. “But I gotta be honest. I have been wonderin’...” Her
thumbs skim the waistband of your jeans. “Exactly what you taste like.”

“Mhhrph—” is all the reply you manage.

“You gonna let me?” she asks, already unbuttoning your jeans. Her voice is low, raspy. “Gonna let me
taste how damn sweet you are?”

“Mhm—” You answer with a faint hum, running your fingers up her neck, into her hair.

Her long fingers slide into your jeans, rough over the softer material of your underwear. You aren’t
exactly wearing the sexiest lingerie in the world, hardly having packed for such an evening, but Grayson
doesn’t even care to notice. You suck in a breath, head hitting the door as you look up and find her eyes
locked on you. Your hands spread over her shoulders, her free hand cupping the back of your head. Her
other clever fingers tug aside the material keeping her from where you want her.

“Holy crap,” she mutters, finger finding your clit then sliding down through the wet heat of you. There’s
no denying how fucking turned on you are. But it seems to take her by surprise, discovering just how
much. Her mouth is on yours before you can even think about it, then it’s just hot breath and the skilled
drive of her lips while her fingers slide gently over you, taking her time to explore every sensitive spot.
Her other hand slips a little lower, her thumb over your pulse. You break the kiss to emit a little guh!
when she curls two fingers up inside of you.
“Grayson,” you gasp, already short of breath. She dives in to kiss you again, her free hand threading
back into your hair and holding so tight you feel it pull at the base.

“God, I can—hear you—” Grayson chokes out, her fingers gliding up and down inside you, the wet slide
easy to hear in the otherwise quiet room. With her mouth off yours, you tip forward and start kissing
along her jaw, instinctively nipping at her throat when she curls her fingers just so—a teasing promise,
asking you to come. Your hips tilt up, giving her more room. She groans at that, tugging your hair
lightly, thoughtlessly.

“Come on,” you say, because these sensations are wild but nowhere near enough.

Grayson kisses you quick and slides her hand out of your pants. You whine a little. Her other hand slips
from your hair, smoothing down the side of your body. She gets onto her knees in front of you, one
then the other. You leave one hand in her hair while the other scratches the door behind you.

“Too damn sweet,” she rasps, grabbing at your jeans and tugging. Both your hands fly to your waist,
helping push them down. It’s messy and quick, your underwear following. She helps you pull off your
shoes and obstructing bottom clothes. She presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then lifts herself a
little higher to kiss at your thigh. This kiss is rougher, has a bite that makes you gasp, gasp then shudder
when she licks over that same spot.

“Grayson,” you murmur.

“Yeah, ‘m here,” she mumbles into your skin, kissing her way up when she grabs your leg and lifts. Your
spine feels like jelly, a small tremor in your whole body as she opens you up and a part of your brain
snaps awake and shouts Grayson, Grayson, Grayson! About to go down on you! This is happening! She
rests your leg over her shoulder, kisses between your thigh and the place you really want her mouth.

Then she’s there, groaning and licking with the flat of her tongue before squeezing your thigh and letting
up with smaller, experimental licks. You shudder again, hand diving into her hair, fingers running back
and forth while she finds a pattern that gets you bucking forward. She holds your knee over her
shoulder, her free hand skimming your thigh until she teases a finger at your entrance again.

Guh, continues to be your only capable sound. You close your eyes and lick your lips, breathing hard as
she slides her fingers up inside you again. You look down, tugging at her hair which only makes her
groan, pant a little before trapping your clit with her lips and sucking, flicking, causing you to tighten up
around her fingers and moan. Her hips buck forward, absently, that artificial thickness probably pressing
on her clit. All the while she makes satisfied sounds at your pleasure.

“Grayson,” you breathe, then, “Grayson!”

Her fingers curl again, that same beckoning, come, come for me, and her tongue swipes perfect circles on
your clit and you can hear her and you can hear yourself and it’s so much, it’s all so much—

“Ah—Grayson!”
You come, gasping and shaking and practically mewling like an ecstatic kitten, pulling on her hair and
riding her face as she happily takes everything you offer. You slump against the door, tingling and
singing all over. But when she moves her fingers out of you, despite the mind-blowing orgasm, all you
feel is empty and needy.

She kisses her way back down your thigh and helps you off your perch. You can barely stand straight,
your knees buckling a little, but you somehow manage, clawing at her as she rises to her feet.

“Grayson,” is the only word in your vocabulary right now, and she doesn’t have words if that totally wild,
wanting look on her face is any indication. She leans toward you, grabs your chin and tilts your head
back so she can kiss your neck.

Your shirt is long, covering you somewhat decently, which wouldn’t matter at all if her phone didn’t ring
that exact second. She freezes where she stands, one hand on your waist and the other your jaw. You
feel her go completely rigid, tense across her shoulders. She breathes out on your neck and leans back,
then slips her hand over your throat before letting you go.

“I should—” She has to clear her throat because her voice is completely shot to hell. “Answer,” she
croaks, but can’t get any more words. She slaps at her back pocket, fumbling to find her phone, her
own untended arousal making her as shaky as you were. You reach around, easily sliding your fingers
into her back pocket and pulling out the phone. You hold it in front of her the way she held your gun, a
similar teasing Really?

The tension in her body loosens again, that familiar fond smile returning.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me,” she says, and it’s muttered so lowly it sounds more like personal
commentary than something directed at you. She takes the phone and stumbles back as if drunk. She
runs a hand through her hair, looking away from you. “Uh, what?” is her somewhat dumb greeting.
She looks at you outta the corner of her eye. She rubs her hand over her lower face and looks pained
when she forces herself to look away.

“Uh, yeah,” she says. “Case is goin’ fine, Annie. I’m just with— Uh, yeah. Yeah.” She lowers the
phone, stares at the floor. “Annelise, uh. Wants to say hi.”

“Um. ” You almost laugh but Grayson’s body language is reading differently than two minutes ago.
She’s thinking, and whatever she’s thinking has her rewinding the evening. “Sure. I guess.”

“Right,” Grayson says, and hands you the phone without looking at you.

“Uh, hi, Annelise, ” you say—

It’s a quick conversation but, as much as you love Annelise, your heart isn’t exactly in it. When you
hang up, Grayson is sitting on a chair in the kitchenette, your research still spread across the table, and
she looks up at you. There’s a moment of quiet, her eyes traversing the length of your body, and when
she stands she does so slowly, her eyes still wandering every which way. The bulge in her jeans still
promises more potential fun, and when you lick your lips you swear her hips buck forward.

“I, uh,” Grayson says, stepping closer to you. You look up to meet her gaze and it’s heavy with unspoken
sentiment. “I think I better run.”

“Wh—”

The sound is barely past your lips when she says, quickly, and with a laugh that does nothing to hide the
fact it makes her miserable to say, “I think you’ve got to enough to regret in the morning, sweetheart.”

That comment stuns you, because you can’t imagine Grayson would think that way of herself. Especially
in regards to your opinion of her. Your silence gives her an opportunity to grab her things, though,
practiced and quick. She’s got her hand on the doorknob when she suddenly spins around, determined,
and falters again at the last second.

“G’night, kid,” she says. She steps a little closer to touch the side of your face and lean down. You grip
the front of her shirt, squeezing the material as she kisses your forehead. Your body ignites again,
reminding you how badly you want her. But you feel shaky, inside and out, and Grayson is clearly
working through a million voices in her head, and you can’t quite find your own voice—

You manage a broken, “Good night, Grayson,” as she smiles that familiar smile and opens the door.

two.

When you left the Cromwells, way back when, you tried your very best to move on from Grayson. She
had kinda been the awakening of your whole sexuality, so your first stop after her was to test whether
you were actually gay, or bisexual, or one of many straight women willing to bend their shape for
Grayson Cromwell.

Gay turned out to be the answer. As much as you enjoyed bulging belt buckles, whether of the flesh or
silicone variety, if it wasn’t on a Chesire-grin wearing lady, then it was moot.

Men were out of the question. Other women were fine but no one ever measured up. Sure, some
were just as good looking. They were excellent in bed. You could forget details for a few hours when
sharing their company. But Grayson always came to mind once the high passed—sometimes even when
it hit. That was always awkward. Thankfully you had learned to bite your lip and stifle screaming her
name while in bed with someone else.

But the fact of the matter was, it wasn’t about sex or being sexy. Sure, that was part of it, but that was
never what you thought about while laying in bed, lonely even when you had company. It was nestling
against Grayson in the front seat. It was sharing a milkshake and flicking whipped cream at each other,
giggling like children. It was jumping on her back and wrapping your legs around her, innocent and
carefree and playful. It was long nights spend pouring over texts. Agonizing hours as the sisters went
on a hunt. It was the occasional nightmare, when you burst awake and couldn’t sleep, and Grayson
would stay up with you because she had nightmares too, and she knew how it was…

You lay in bed tonight, staring at the motel ceiling, feeling lonelier than ever. There’s still a gentle throb
between your legs. That heat hasn’t dissolved in your loneliness. It feels like someone slashed your
belly right open. It aches but bleeds warmth.

Groaning, you twist under the bedclothes and roll on your side. The littlest touch of everything feels
overtly sensual, even while your heart is desolate. It’s that very despair that prevents you from
touching yourself. It would be easy to get off in this state, but it would feel wrong.

You toss and turn for what feels like frustrating hours. You use the washroom a few times, hoping it will
alleviate the pressure in your core, but it does nothing. When you do finally fall asleep, it’s fitfull and
three.

“So, we gonna talk about this?” Annelise asks.

The Cromwell sisters are three miles out of Grand Junction. They left the house early— black sky of the
morning void kind of early— and only made one pit stop. Even that was just to juice up the truck.

So Annelise has been stuck in the car with an irritable Grayson for the better part of nine hours and none
of her gentle coercions hit the money. So she goes for the jugular. Like a good huntin girl.

“What?” Grayson asks, or snaps. She’s got both hands on the wheel and she clutches it damn hard.

A few times she lost herself to music or driving, even a little conversation, but she’s got a crease in her
brow and her shoulders are locked up. It looks like she kept the coat hanger in her jacket. Something’s
knocked her off kilter. And Grayson is overcompensating to hide it, just that bit. Acting a little gruffer, a
little rougher. And that’s saying something.

They don’t keep normal schedules, even with the house as a headquarter, so it couldn’t be the early start
that got her. No, it’s something else. And Annelise has no desire to deal with it for the entire case and
the car ride home. It’s been said Annelise Cromwell is a hero, but she’s not a fucking saint.

“I don’t know,” Annelise says, “Whatever’s got your panties in a knot would be a good place to start.”

Grayson looks at her, a side glance. “Nothin’,” she says. Her jaw clenches. She looks at the road.

“Right,” Annelise laughs. She sounds as amused as Grayson sounds perturbed. “Because you always
strangle the steering wheel while driving.”

Her gaze flutters down and Grayson loosens her grip. “Sorry,” she says, but it’s directed to the car, not
Annelise.

“Seriously,” Annelise says, and sounds more sincere than pissy. “Is there something I should know
about? Did you forget to take your vitamins?”

“Funny,” Grayson says, then deflects, “Do you take vitamins? Like an old man?”

“Grayson.”

“Wha-at? I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“Gray—”

“Seriously, what are you, my wife?” Grayson asks, then flicks on the music and jacks up the volume.
She doesn’t look at Annelise again, her avoidance more particular. Meticulous. Like her dirty little
secrets are written on her face and if she looks there, Annelise will be able to read them in excrutiating
detail.

Of course, as it turns out, Annelise doesn’t need to read Grayson’s face. Just her phone. She doesn’t
even consider it but then it bluh-bloops and Annelise, unthinkingly, grabs it. It’s all second nature, flying
through the passcode. The text messanger opens in her face and—

“Oh.” Annelise smiles, then grins. Wide as a Chesire. “I see.”

“What?” Grayson asks. She grips the steering wheel tight again. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Annelise says. She laughs and this time it’s real. She also passes the phone over. “It’s your
actual wife. The one from your dreams, at least.”

“Give me that.” Grayson snatches the phone out of her hand, glaring at Annelise. Annelise may have
mastered the bitchface but Grayson fucking invented that crap. Annelise gets whammied by the master
bitch until Grayson looks down at the phone and all that frustration, all that tension, all that ridiculous
bullcrap bravado just simmers right off her. Up it goes into the stratosphere, leaving behind a stupid
grin.

“Ha,” Annelise laughs.

“Shuddup,” Grayson grumbles, glancing at her but only for a second.

She looks at the phone and maybe smiles again.

Because you see—you and Grayson have this thing. No, not like that. It’s not a fling thing or a ring
thing. It’s barely a thing at all. You’re her prophet—ah. Their prophet. The prophet. Shit. A prophet.
You’re a prophet, the resident prophet, just another idle participant in the Cromwells versus the Universe
cage match. Only, you know, you’re a lot easier on the eyes than your predecessors. Which, your
predecessors were Chuck and Kevin. Who were probably fine in their way but, ah—

Grayson wouldn’t admit it, not out loud, maybe not even to herself, but she was a goner the second you
walked in the door. You were totally off limits, of course, which she knew from the get-go. And she
figured that would be fine. She had some self control, thank you very much. Had to make that point to
both Annelise and Sariel before Sariel flew off to fetch you from your temporary sanctuary. Still.
Grayson could keep it zipped around one girl.

Then you strolled into the bunker in your little blue sundress and damn.

She’s not gonna lie, your general everything isn’t her usual schtick. She means nothing by it, honestly,
but everything about you pretty much screamed sweet little virgin.

Well, not always so sweet.

Your wit has freakin annihilated more than one sucker. It gets Grayson laughing every time, a proper
laugh, the kind you feel in your bones, muscles, belly, and all over your face. She’d have fallen for you
one way or another. It just so happened to be right away and all at once, then over and over again for
the next year or so.

There’s just something about you. It got her the second she saw you. She was there minding her own
business, figuring her part in this new prophet activation bullshit was almost done. Sari just needed
somewhere to stash you while she wrangled a few malevont forces in the attic, but you were an adult so
it wasn’t like Grayson had to babysit. It was all hands-off.

Till you strolled in behind Sariel, this shy little smile on your face, but so damn genuine. Likes of which
Grayson hadn’t seen in— hell, maybe ever. So there was that, but also the fact she was cleaning a
bunch of guns and it didn’t even phase you. You just glanced at them, then offered a handshake. She
was happy to do it, gripping your hand tight in hers.

And Jesus, your hand was this soft little thing with a grip like hell. And your smile was still shy, still crazy
sweet, but it crooked in the corner and you had this pretty sparkle in your eye that just—
Damn.

Grayson has a sweet tooth. She doesn’t dig the prude thing but that isn’t your thing. You’re just—you.
All sugar and spice and everything nice. And she’s a horrible fuckin monster, yeah, but she wants to
freakin devour you and lick her fingers clean after.

But—she’s been decent. New prophet. Important person. Off limits. Also a nice girl. Sweet girl. Not
for Cromwells to mack on. Especially Grayson. So, despite it guaranteeing a slow and painful death by
love and lust and everything in between, she keeps her distance. Subtle glances and side hugs galore.
She doesn’t even let herself think of you when her right hand gets a little friendly.

You— have not bound yourself to that moral code. And she isn’t complaining. It wears away at her
sanity but whatever. If you wanna cozy up in the library or snuggle under her arm in the car, then go to
fuckin town, sweetheart. Your body wriggling against her might get her squirming in her jeans, but she
didn’t get this far in life without becoming something of a masochist.

So she likes it. This thing between you. The hugs and casual intimacy.

And she has a favourite thing— you giving her a nice big kiss on the cheek before she goes anywhere.

She isn’t even sure how she functioned before you were there to send her off. She just knows that if she
leaves the bunker without that kiss, the best kind of benediction, then she feels wrong all day. Like a
part of her is missing. Like every night when you sneak up behind her, when you wind your arms about
her shoulders and give her a long, affectionate hug good night, she gives you a part of herself, and when
you kiss her the next morning, you give it back, having kept it safe for her all night so the nightmares and
shadows can’t get it. It’s an important part of her. Maybe it didn’t even exist before you walked into
her life, but now she can’t live without it.

And she hates leaving without that kiss.

So it goes without saying, she didn’t get that kiss this morning. It was way too early and she didn’t
wanna wake you. Annelise left a note while Grayson packed the car, then they hit the road. Grayson
kept it together, mostly. But not getting that kiss goodbye meant she was gonna be miserable for the
whole lousy case—

Until Annelise passed her the phone. Then she didn’t care if Annelise made fun of her stupid girly crush.

Because you sent the message.

Missed you this morning, the text reads. Good luck on the case! <3

And just below the text is a picture. You snapped it yourself, your eyes closed and a gorgeous flush to
your cheeks. And your lips… hell. Lush and full and pursed in mimicry of a kiss. You were gonna fuckin
kill her. It’s such a warm, innocent picture and it gets her goin faster than a nudey mag. The whole
photo is cast in a soft, dreamy filter, but your lips are bright and clear and right there, all for her, and she
feels a lick of heat swirl low in her gut.
“Nice,” Grayson mutters, still grinning like an idiot.

Annelise, enchanted and amused and also a huge asshole, shakes her head and laughs again.

“Eyes on the road, Juliet,” she says.

“Bite me,” Grayson returns, but it lacks animosity. To say her spirits have lifted would be a vast
understatement.

Not just because she got her kiss, but because you thought to send it. Grayson isn’t exactly famous for
her sharing-and-caring sessions. You might have inferred the significance of the kiss by now, but for the
most part— the kiss is important to you too. Important enough you took a picture in the middle of the
day.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Annelise teases, “When you get pissy or when you get creepy cheery.”

“You’re just jealous,” Grayson says, still grinning wide.

“Are you gonna text her back?”

Her pulse skips a beat— Hey, she scolds herself before her imagination runs too rampant, imagining
exactly what kinda pictures she’d like to exchange. Keep it together, you old lech.

“Yup,” Grayson says. She clears her throat. “Later, though.”

Later.

Later turns out to be at the police station. Dressed to the nines in the ol FBI gear, Annelise and Grayson
are interrogating a subject for clues. They call it quits after a few rounds, getting about all they can.
Annelise leaves to chat with the chief of police so Grayson has a moment alone. She pulls out her
phone. Just looking at that picture again gets her thinking all sorts of things she shouldn’t be thinking.
Not right now. Probably not ever.

thanks for the picture sweetheart, she types, almost had to turn around and go back for that one. u stay
outta trouble

There. That’s friendly without bein too friendly, right?

She’s about to slide her phone into her pocket when it buh-bloops again. She hopes she doesn’t end up
with a pavlonion response to the ringer. Either way, she opens the messanger, grinning when she thinks
about you lounging somewhere in the bunker with your phone beside you— maybe smiling when you
see her name flash.

It’s just a text which is— strangely— disappointing. Not that she expects a picture with every single
message but, well. That first one got the wolf in her chest humming with interested delight.

She clears her throat before reading.

Just napping, lol, you text, only so much trouble I can get into.

Her laugh is more a grunt, but she smiles and shakes her head. yeah right, she types.

She doesn’t put her phone away this time, leaning against the wall and ignoring the bustling precinct
around her. She scrolls back up to the earlier picture, mentally scolds herself, and scrolls back down just
as another message flies in.

It’s a text. And a picture. The loading sign swirls around itself and Grayson’s eyebrows lift. That stupid
hungry thing in her chest perks up as well. Down girl, she says, even while her pulse is thud-thud-
thudding away. But the picture can’t be anything too salacious. It’s you. You might be a little hopped
up on the same adraneline as her (horniness, is what that adrenaline is called, thank you) but still. How
bad can the picture be—

“Oh,” she says, out loud. “Oh.”

#innocent, reads the text.

And the picture—

The picture is perfectly decent, for all intents and purposes. Another— what do the kids call em?
Selfies. Another selfie, the dark leather of a library couch beneath your head. Your face is turned
aside, eyes closed, a silly smile on your face. But your hair is all pushed back, spread over the couch
cushion. It leaves your throat bare. Her eyes easily follow the long slender line, curving down one
shoulder barely concealed in a loose flannel—

Oh, was her response, because that is her flannel. Some ugly fuckin plaid thing.

It’s her new favourite colour and her new favourite shirt.

She can only see the collar, really, but it’s big on you, hanging off that one shoulder. And you’ve got
nothing on underneath it.

You’re cuddled up on the couch wearing her shirt with your phone beside you so you can text her back at
a moment’s notice and holy hot hell batman. Why is that simple and thoughtful and affectionate
domesticity so much hotter than, well, anything?

“Grayson.” Annelise claps her hand on her shoulder and Grayson jumps. Actually jumps. Like her life
isn’t full of jump scares. “Dude—” Annelise starts.

Grayson shuts the phone down quick.

“Yeah, right,” she says, clearing her throat. “You talk to the woman?”

“Are you still looking at that picture?” Annelise asks.

“Yup,” Grayson lies. “That’s what I was doing.”

“Man, you got it bad.”

“Annie, you have no friggin idea.”

Grayson tries to put you out of her head, at least long enough to work on the case. The second Annelise
starts in on recon, though, Grayson is outta there. She flops back on the motel bed and distractedly
waves off Annelise’s protestations. With a wearied sigh, Annelise eventually turns to her laptop and
gets to work, while Grayson flicks through your messages.

Hope the case is going well, you texted sometime between the police station, the road, the investigation,
and now. Her silence after your last pic might have spooked you. Jesus, it probably did. Probably gave
you second thoughts. She really doesn’t want to cap this, even while she logically should, so she holds
up her phone and snaps a picture of herself.

case is going, is what she says. would rather be home

With you is the unwritten conclusion to that sentence. Her heart hammers and everything down south
fares just as well.

She stares at the phone for a minute. Maybe you’re busy, maybe you didn’t hear it beep—

Then the typing symbol flashes and she swallows, scratches her chest.

:) is the first thing to appear.

Typing symbol.

With you were here too, you write. Gets a little lonely.
-

“We need to pretend to have sex?”

You intend to pose the question with stark incredulity. Unfortunately it feels as though someone has
slashed your belly right open, a red heat pooling downward from the gaping wound, so your enquiry
bursts like a winded exclamation.

Grayson looks both soft and muscled in leather and flannel, doubled over in her armchair. At least, the
armchair she claimed the second she walked through the door of your fake house.

Well, it’s a real house, but the livelihood is fake. You and Grayson are posing as a newlywed couple in a
sweet-as-pie neighbourhood to spy on a suspected mobster. Grayson was there for brawn and social
brains, and you were the most capable hacker and therefore “the best pair of hands I could have with
me when we get onto his property to steal some virtual dirt.”

Yes, Grayson had actually said the best pair of hands. You thought that was the most
“Wait, I’m a what?”
“A wolven.”

“A wolven… Shit. Sounds sexy. Is it sexy?”

“Miss Monroe, if you please. My perspective is solely medical.”

“Damn… so it is sexy.”

The doctor sighed and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Georgia Monroe was a mouthy
handful on her better days, and today was not one of her better days. She had spent the last two
weeks languishing in a pit of irritability and petulance. And given Georgia was generally aggressive with
her impertinance, that was saying something.

At first, she hadn’t thought she was sick. She displayed no outward symptons of illness. She seemed to
suffer from the very opposite of a cold, if such a thing existed. Her senses were heightened, her body
more responsive, her instincts quicker.

But her blood thundered with a voracious intensity. Her skin felt stretched, pulled tight over a body too
big to contain. She scratched and sighed and slapped her own face to the brink of hysteria. After
another night tossing and turning, she finally decided to see a doctor.

She expected a prescription for some cardio pills or something. God only knew what condition her body
was in. She was a confident enough woman to confess she liked cinammon rolls more than treadmills.

But no. She wasn’t about to have a new sugar-related disease named after her.

“Wolven,” she said. “I’m a wolven. Sick! Do I get to transform on the full moon? Fight vampires? Shred
some peasants on the roadside?”

“Miss Monroe,” the uptight doctor said, “Do you actually know anything about the wolven?”

Georgia was sitting on an examination table, kicking her bare legs and fiddling with the hem of her
obnoxiously patterned floral skirt. An absolutely uncontrollable tangle of dark curls fell around her face,
and her usual cocky smile graced her soft brown face. Her plump cheeks were freckled and the little
spots seemed more pronounced as she scrunched her nose.

She sniffed.

The sterile doctor’s office smelt stronger than usual. Wax on the linoleum. Peroxide on the glass.

“They can smell better?” Georgia guessed. “And they fight vampires.”

“Vampires aren’t real.”

“Right.” She squinted at the doctor. “No offence, but that sounds like something a vampire would say.”

The doctor sighed again.

“The wolven,” the doctor said, “Are so named due to an outdated mythological understanding of their
physiology. Certain aspects of their composition combined with behavioural inclinations bore some
resemblance to wolves and wolf pack behaviour. It is thought to be the beginning of the werewolf
legend, but has no real correlation. Wolven humans—or the lycanthrope— are a biological anomoly,
rarer in some parts of the world where the gene was not bred outside the initial families, clans, or
‘packs’. You cannot contract the gene, only inherit it. From what I recall from your file, you never knew
your parents and grew up in the system, so I suppose it’s fair to say this comes as a surprise to you.”

“Doc, you lost me about three hours into that lecture. Do I transform or not?”

“Not.” The doctor sat in a chair and propped her clipboard on her knee. Georgia continued to swing her
legs. “However, there are other changes that may take place and you should be prepared for them. I’ll
have one of my nurses compose an information packet for you. But you should also know that you’re
something of a rarity among rarities, Miss Monroe.”

“What?” Georgia stopped kicking. “What do you mean?”

“I mean most people present in their teenage years, when they go through puberty. You’re almost
twenty-five. It’s quite a late bloom. Though I suppose it’s possible you began to present earlier and
simply repressed it out of sheer force of will.”

That did sound like something she would do. If anyone could give Mother Nature a kick in the pants, it
was probably Georgia Monroe.

“So why now?” Georgia asked, and started kicking again.

“My guess?” The doctor removed her glasses and gestured vaguely with them. “You have been in the
company of another wolven and their prescence triggered your hormones. It’s easier to repress the
gene if you don’t come in contact with other lycanthrope. Granted, even without contact, some wolven
are still suspesctible to presentation if they know it’s coming. But you didn’t know you were wolven, so
you probably just satisfied your urges in other capacities.”

“Like binging on chocolate?”

“Most likely.”

“Explains a lot.”

“It does.”

“Is it possible to keep repressing it then?”

“Not likely. Like I said, it’s largely hormonal. And seeing as yours are a bit pent up, it’s going to be one
hell of a burst. It would be worse if you were an omega, but you are quite unique in that sense, young
lady.”

She had no clue what an omega was but the doctor called her a lady. Nice.
“Yeah?” Georgia asked, blowing a curl out of her eyes. “And what’s that?”

“You’re a female alpha,” the doctor said. Georgia once more stopped kicking. The hairs on the back of
her neck prickled at the alpha title. “And if I was to guess what triggered this revelation, I would say you
have been in the company of an omega and it awakened your instinctive, primal urges.”

Georgia stared at the doctor. Then she heaved a sigh.

“Damn,” she said, and grinned. “I knew this would be sexy.” She paused then asked, “Are you sure I
don’t get to transform?”

“Please get out of here.”

Right.

Word to the wise.

It was a bad, bad idea to google “alpha/omega dynamics”. The first two pages were nothing but
pornography. And not the sexy homemade kind. The scary, dick-slapping, pussy-pounding kind. And
almost all of it heterosexual.

“Holy shit!” Georgia stared wide-eyed at her computer screen, watching a giant dude pound a
frighteningly large cock into a precariously tiny woman. “This is like straight culture on steroids.”

Well, it looked like she had more heterosexual nightmare fuel. Right next to visions of khaki shorts and
Jimmy Fallon laughing so hard it unhinged his jaw and swallowed the world into darkness.

“Dear Lord,” Georgia said. She did the sign of the cross. “God in heaven, thank you for making me gay.”

The screen door rattled and Georgia lifted her head.

She was sitting cross-legged on the couch in Aunt Bonnie’s living room. Bonnie Jacobs wasn’t her actual
aunt but had always been the closest thing Georgia had to family. Aunt Bonnie owned the scrap yard
adjacent to her large property, an old antebellum-era inspired manor, and she had taken in various strays
through the years.

One of those strays wandered in the side door and joined Georgia in the living room.

“A right enough prayer, honey,” Grayson Cromwell drawled in that honey-thick Louisianna accent.
“Somethin’ particular cause it?”

Georgia had to refrain from crossing herself again.

Grayson had been living with Georgia and Aunt Bonnie for two weeks now, but her presence never failed
to get Georgia’s engine purring. An apt enough metaphor given Grayson worked with machinery and
did repairs to the scrap yard deposits.

They had crossed paths years ago but Georgia was very young. In true baby lesbian fashion, her eleven
years old self declared she was going to marry the then-fourteen year old Grayson, despite having only
known her a month. To an eleven year old, fourteen was ancient, and Grayson always seemed so
damned worldly with her leather jacket and short hair.

Georgia was smitten then and she was smitten now.

These days Grayson sported a somewhat more sophisticated look. Somewhat. She had grown her hair
long though it did nothing to dispel her heady energy. It was a sleek auburn, and always tied back in a
thick tail. She grew into her face, the splotchy awkwardness of youth gone, leaving her with fine
cheekbones and winking green eyes. She always looked both soft and muscled in her tank tops and
flannels. And she wore a big thick gold ring on her left middle finger.

Oooh. Those were good hands. Georgia loved those hands.

It really did take great restraint not to praise Jesus again.

“For this and that,” Georgia said vaguely. “How’d it go today?”

“Ah.” Grayson ambled into the kitchen as it opened right into the living room. Georgia watched her
strut over the fridge, probably in search of a beer. “The usual. Can’t say I’m so fine at customer service.
Thinkin’ these sales’d go better with Bonnie. When’s the old girl back again?”

“Next week,” Georgia said. Aunt Bonnie left Kansas to visit her sister two states over.

Georgia briefly wished her life was a crazy porno. Two lesbians alone in a sexy manor in the middle of
summer... One of them on the verge of lyncathropy, apparently... That had XXX hardcore lesbian
pounding on the kitchen floor XXX written all over it.

But Grayson, for all that she looked capable of a nice dirty fuck in the flatbed of her truck, was cursed
with good southern politeness. She was happy to hold open doors and tuck in chairs, but Georgia didn’t
see much XXX in her future. Sadly.

The recently conjured thunderstorm in her blood was most morose.

“Whoo!” Georgia slammed her laptop closed. “Right. I think I’ve had enough straight people porn for
the day. You wanna watch Jeopardy or something?”

Grayson laughed loudly and tossed her the remote.

“I’m sorry I interrupted,” Grayson said. “Special research project?”

“You could say that,” Georgia replied. She turned on the tv. What channel was Jeapordy again?
Though when Grayson returned to the living room, sipping a beer and sweating from the Kansas summer
sun, the picture muddied in Georgia’s head.

Maybe it was her height and significant bulk, but Grayson had the confident airs of Georgia’s usual
partners. Partners that had proven admittedly lacklustre in the past. But when Grayson dropped into
an armchair, Georgia didn’t see herself sitting in her lap. It was her wont as a shorter, softer woman, but
it felt… off.
Her pulse quickened as she imagined beckoning Grayson forward, and Grayson complying, shuffling to
her knees in mute acquiesence—

Cis-gendered wolven males are primarily alphas, while female counterparts are omegas. It can go the
other way around but very, very, very rarely. It’s an eception to the evolutionary rule as it’s not ideal for
breeding. The gene can only be passed from a male alpha, not a male omega, and there’s no examples
of two alphas breeding another wolven. It ends the genetic line.”

“Well, I’m not interested in being an incubator anyway, so it’s probably for the best.”