The stale, lemony scent of industrial cleaner did little to mask the underlying odor of spilled beer and desperation. Joey wiped down the bar top with a mechanical aggression, the rag making sharp, squeaking sounds against the Formica. Another fucking Tuesday. The Services of Mutual Benefit pamphlet sat tucked under the register, its cheerful design a personal insult. Mating season was approaching, and he could already feel the first annoying tremors in his blood—a low-grade itch under his skin, a shortening fuse on his already spectacular temper.

His phone buzzed with a text from Kit: "DONT U DARE BAIL. UR HIBERNATING ENOUGH. GOTTA GET U OUT B4 UR SEASON HITS AND U BECOME A MENACE 2 SOCIETY. MY PLACE. 9PM. LOOK SEMI-HUMAN."

Joey typed back a single character: "k". Adding 'Go fuck yourself' felt like too much effort. Kit wasn't wrong. The dread was worse than the damned season itself—the loss of control, the single-minded obsession, the sheer, humiliating neediness. He'd rather chew off his own foot.

Several hours and one grudging shower later, Joey found himself swallowed by the throbbing bass of the upscale club. Bodies pressed in from all sides, a humid swamp of designer perfume, expensive liquor, and the raw, nervous sweat of high stakes. He stood anchored near a pillar, a scowling, compact figure in a sea of glittering idiocy, his dark eyes scanning the crowd with palpable contempt. His ears, black and leathery and pinned flat against his skull, twitched at a particularly shrill laugh.

Then he caught it. A scent that cut through the olfactory garbage like a cleaver. Sweet hay, clean musk, and the undeniable, potent aroma of a healthy mate. A big one. His head snapped up, nostrils flaring. His entire focus narrowed, the party fading into a dull, irrelevant roar. Find it.

His gaze locked onto the source. Oh, hell. They were tall—impossibly tall, and built with a sleek, powerful grace. A horse demi, maybe. Or even a dog. Everything about them screamed Protector-Class—broad shoulders, confident posture, the kind of size that promised security. And they were looking right at you. Their expression was hazy, softened by obvious intoxication, but their gaze held a clear, interested heat.

Joey didn't soften his scent. He let it roll off him in waves—musky, sharp, a pungent, unmistakable predator's claim. He moved through the crowd with single-minded purpose, people instinctively edging out of the path of the short, intensely focused demon with the murderous look in his eyes. He stopped directly in front of you, having to tilt his head back to meet your gaze. The difference in height was absurd. He should have looked comical. He looked lethal.

You smiled—a slow, drunk, and utterly condescending curve of your lips. "Well, hello there, little thing. You smell... interesting."

Joey's jaw tightened. "Interesting's one word for it," he replied, his voice a low, gravelly snarl that didn't match his size at all.

You leaned down, your large frame draping over him, blocking out the strobe lights. The scent of clean sweat enveloped him as your fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

"Wanna get out of here?" you murmured, your breath hot against his ear. "These rooms upstairs... they're soundproof."

Joey just gave a sharp, single nod. "Lead the way."

The walk to the elevator was a blur of Joey's heart hammering against his ribs, a possessive heat coiling tight in his gut. He watched the easy sway of your shoulders, the powerful line of your back, and all he could think was mine, mine, mine. You chatted about the view from the high floors, completely misreading his silent intensity for nervous anticipation.

The second the hotel room door clicked shut behind you, the quiet enveloped you both. The abrupt end of the club's bassline left a ringing in Joey's ears, or maybe that was just the roar of his own blood. You turned, your movements a little unsteady but your intent crystal clear. A confident, lazy smile spread across your face as you looked down at him, your gaze hooded with alcohol and desire.

"Alone at last," you rumbled, your voice a deep, warm thing that vibrated in the quiet room.

Before Joey could form a smartass retort, you closed the distance. Large, strong hands landed on his shoulders, pinning him firmly against the solid wood of the door. You leaned down, your body a warm, heavy weight against his, and captured his mouth in a deep, claiming kiss.

It was all heat and bourbon and overwhelming confidence—expensive whiskey and the sweet undertones of your Protector nature. Your tongue swept into his mouth with an ownership that made Joey see white behind his eyes. It wasn't aggressive, not in the way he understood aggression. It was possessive—the kiss of a Protector who had secured what was theirs.

For one single, suspended second, Joey let it happen. Then the switch flipped.

A low, guttural sound ripped from his chest—a noise that was all predator, all threat. His hands shot up, fisting in the front of your expensive shirt. He didn't push—he yanked, using your own forward momentum against you, crashing your mouths together again. This time, he was in control. The kiss wasn't deep and claiming; it was a savage, biting clash of teeth and tongue, a raw display of dominance that stole the breath from your lungs.

You jolted in surprise, your body stiffening against his. The confident hands on his shoulders slackened for a fraction of a second, confusion breaking through the drunken haze. It was all the opening he needed.

With a brutal twist of his body, he broke the kiss and reversed your positions in one fluid, shocking motion. He drove his shoulder into your midsection, using his low center of gravity to his advantage, and slammed you back against the door with a force that made the frame shudder. The air left your lungs in a stunned oof.

Joey pressed his entire body against yours, a compact, immovable force. He braced one forearm across your collarbone, pinning you, and brought his other hand up to grip your jaw, his fingers digging in just shy of painful. His dark eyes, blazing with feral intensity, locked onto your wide, startled ones.

"The fuck did you think this was?" he snarled, his voice a gravelly, vicious thing. The musky, pungent scent of a Tasmanian devil in rut—truly unleashed now—flooded the small space. "You think you're in charge here? You think you pin me?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as you struggled to process the seismic shift in power.