Page 51 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

Connor’s mouth lifts with a smirk that makes Alana’s ears go hot. The implication of what she’s here to do is obvious, and somehow, she hadn’t thought about how embarrassing it is until now.

“Godspeed, soldier. Stretch. Drink water. Don’t end up in an emergency care clinic.” He gives her a mock salute.

Alana rolls her eyes, combating a smile. “I won’t. Well, hopefully,” she says. “Is there, um, anything else I should know about this whole rut thing? I mean, other than the obvious. You’re friends with his brother, right? Have you seen what it’s like?”

Connor barks a laugh. “Hells no. I stay far away from the Castillo family on any full moon. Last time, I was around Tommy’s wife for a split second too long and was close to getting maimed. But, uh, I can definitely give you some insight from a bull’s perspective.”

Alana curls her lips at the imagery in an attempt not to laugh. “Please.”

“Honestly? Imagine a time when you’ve been really sexually frustrated. I mean, really. Can you think back to it?”

So, the past 14 years of my life? “ Um, yeah. I think so.”

“Cool. Now crank that feeling up to 100. He’s gonna be wound up, irritable, and intense. Ruts can be really uncomfortable or painful, so there’s a chance he’s probably gonna behave differently than what you’re used to. But it’s mostly the hormones taking their toll. Just be patient.”

Patient. Yeah, okay. She can do patient. “Thanks, Connor.” She steps up to give the Minotaur a kiss on the cheek.

“Like I said: Godspeed.” He grins and gives another salute before he drives off.

Once Connor’s taillights have disappeared into the night, she treads up the gravel driveway, heart racing and stomach tied in knots. She’d gotten dressed before coming, a simple t-shirt and some flannel pajamas, courtesy of Citlalli and the sleepover they were supposed to have after the party settled down. In her hands, a peace offering. Peach pound cake and a serving of leftovers. She balances the food in one hand and uses the other to knock harshly against the solid oak door.

Silence follows.

She hadn’t been aware of how eerily silent it was until she was forced to stand in it. A thin layer of fog weaves through the trees and land, stretching out in a dense blanket that makes it hard to see too far. Normally, there’d be at least some sign of life this far out. Maybe the howl of an animal, or distant chirps from crickets and frogs in the creeks. But instead, the world feels as still as stone. Alana swallows and she knocks a second time.

When there’s no answer again, her impulses get the better of her. Her hand hovers over the brass doorknob, a breath of hesitation, then she turns it. When she meets no resistance from a lock, she pushes it open, peeking her head through the crack in the door before she steps inside.

“Hello?”

Cyrus’ home reflects so much more of himself than his apartment did. The shoes at the door, the pictures decorating the walls, and initials carved into wood paneling are proof that memories were made here; beautiful ones, by the looks of it. It’s properly lived in. She can almost hear the ghosts of laughter, little footsteps that must have spent so much time running up and down the halls during family events. The imagery pulls a saddened smile to her face, quick to push away any thoughts of her family. Or, what’s left of it.

As Alana ventures down the dimly lit hallway with careful steps, she enters the kitchen and living room area.

It’s just as quiet, with no sign of her familiar wolf shifter. “Cyrus?” she calls out.

She sets her goods on the countertop, eyeing all there is to see. It appears her assumption about cowboy memorabilia had certainly been correct. Bull riding trophies and prized saddles are but a few she notices. It’s easier to relax in the stillness of a place like this. She inhales, and it smells like—well—like him. Of spiced rum and something comforting and nostalgic that she can’t quite put her finger on.

“Cyrus!” Alana calls his name again, louder.

This is a bit much. “Trespassing” feels like a harsh way to put things, but arguably the most accurate term. It’s not a forced entry if the door is unlocked, right? Hopefully she can plead her case if an alarm goes off or if the werewolf decides to call the neighborhood sheriff.

A stumbling sound echoes from upstairs. Alana flinches, a lump forming in the back of her throat. She inches towards the stairs, but then her foot catches on the trash bin. She yelps as she trips and sends it—and its contents—toppling over with a loud bang that rattles through the house. When it ceases its clangor, heavy footsteps thump overhead, reminding her of Cyrus’ comment on his family being from Texas. Unsure how deep those southern, cowboy roots fly, she backtracks and dips below the kitchen counter. Getting shot by a rut delirious wolf shifter would really, really suck.

Thankfully, the man who comes rushing downstairs isn’t armed with weaponry. Instead, he clutches a towel haphazardly over his waist, his skin and hair sopping wet with water. He looks better than he did when he’d left. Calmer, more human. At least, he looks calm until he sees Alana’s head poking out from her hiding space. Their eyes meet, and Cyrus seems to cycle through all five stages of grief before landing on an expression that looks like a cross between relief and despair.

“Alana, what in the great hells?” He groans and runs a hand through dampened hair, schooling his brow-line into a glare.

“You scared the shit out of me, what are you doing here?” Alana stands, slowly, and the smile she wields is sheepish. A kid with their hand stuck in a metaphorical cookie jar. “Sorry, sorry. I just—you left the party in such a rush, and I was worried. You didn’t answer the door, and so I thought I’d, um, let myself in.”

“Alana.” Cyrus’ voice is tightly strung, a wire about to snap. Those deep, brown eyes that usually gaze at her with the utmost affection are ireful now. Gone is that soft, empathetic warmth she’s grown accustomed to. “You aren’t supposed to be here right now.” His nose twitches, and then there’s a flicker of gold in his eyes, just like before. His jaw sets tight, and he takes a step back.

“I know, but please listen.” Alana wrings her hands together. “I know what’s going on. Nakita filled me in. I came here because I want you to know you don’t have to go through it alone. Whatever it is you need, I can help—”

An agitated scoff cuts through Alana’s words. Despite their clear difference in size, it’s the first time she’s felt small in his presence. Mortification coils around her throat like barbed wire, jagged and suffocating, painful to swallow.

“Fuck,” Cyrus snaps. The gold in his eyes has taken over completely, and a low growl reverberates from the depths of his chest. Loud and violent enough to turn her blood to ice. “I don’t know what your friends told you, but I’m not some sick puppy you need to take care of, alright? I’ve been through this on my own for years. I don’t need you right now.”

The shifter’s words slice through her, and she clutches her stomach as if she’s been physically impaled there. The drive to immediately rectify the situation is the same as it was with Nana. Her mind begs her to apologize and excuse herself. To shrink under the possibility of upsetting someone. But Alana fights that urge. “I know you’re not,” she says, her voice wavering. “But you’re someone I care about. You looked like you were in so much pain when you left the party. I just wanted you to know that you don’t have to deal with this by yourself unless you want to. I like you, Cyrus. I…I want to help. Just tell me what you need. Even if it isn’t sex.”