Chapter 2 - Richard

If Jared and Alistar had any idea what had nearly happened before they walked into the arena, they would never let us go camping alone.

Shit, they’d probably never leave us alone again.

I have no idea if this is a blessing or a curse.

Carl and I have always had this weird connection. He has been my best friend since the day I could differentiate between my three friends, drawn to him in a way that never quite made sense. The four of us were raised nearly as brothers, born within five months of each other, bound to rule the pack together. But Carl and I—we were born on the same day.

We were closer than the others. A secret language connected us when we were kids, as if we were twins instead of just best friends.

As we grew, we shared everything. First fights. First crushes. First kisses. But no matter how many she-wolves I touched, no matter how many I fucked—I always came back to Carl.

I was sixteen when I realized I was bisexual.

I remember the exact moment. Watching my friends train, their shirts off, sweat glistening on tanned skin as they sparred under the sun. Jared, all thick muscle and power, his arms and thighs built like he was carved from stone. Alistar, tall and lean, his strength hidden beneath his runner’s frame. Both were sexy in their own way, their movements powerful and controlled.

But Carl—Carl stole my breath.

The way the light glinted off his abs, the way his body moved, the sheer presence of him—it wrecked me.

I tried to bury it.

I threw myself into she-wolves, males, even humans. I convinced myself it was a phase, something I could fuck my way out of. But no matter how many bodies I used to chase away the need, it always came back to him.

Every damn day.

And now, tonight is the last night.

By the grace of the Moon Goddess, we will meet our mates in the morning, and this longing will finally disappear.

One more night of temptation.

One more night alone with Carl, with this unbearable ache in my chest, knowing I will never have him.

Jared and Alistar insist on dinner before they leave. Our mothers prepared a feast—some sort of consultation meal since they won’t be joining us in the woods.

I try to get out of it. I need a release. I need to find someone—anyone—to take the edge off before I do something I can’t take back.

But no one says no to their mother.

So I sit through the meal, barely tasting a thing. Not even my mom’s famous chocolate cake makes a dent in the numbness, the anxiety, the anticipation.

Because I know Carl feels the same way.

He refuses to act on it, refuses to acknowledge it—but I see it. The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way his breathing changed when I pinned him in the arena.

He wants me.

And that makes this so much fucking worse.

When the meal is over, Jared, Alistar, and our fathers leave with a contingent of warriors to track the McCreadys at the southern border. Carl and I head in the opposite direction—toward the cliff.

We shift into our wolves, running through the forest under the rising moon. Our saddlebags are packed with supplies—clothes, food, beer. Up on the cliff, there’s a chest with blankets, sleeping bags, and firewood.

Just Carl and I.

At first, we keep a distance between us, neither of us leading, just running side by side. But as we move deeper into the woods, the distance vanishes. Like magnets drawn together, our bodies brush, fur mingling, paws kicking up dirt in sync.

Then comes the playfulness—chuffing, nipping, testing each other, pushing the limits.

It’s like a bachelor party, a last night of freedom before everything changes. I need to shake off the suffocating weight pressing on my chest, the dread that tonight might break me.

This is Carl. My best friend.

If I can just pretend that’s all he is—maybe I’ll survive the night.

By the time we reach the cliff, we shift back and get to work setting up camp. We swim. We eat. We drink. A lot.

The moon is high when we finally settle by the fire, sprawled on the blankets, talking about nothing and everything.

Our parents’ plans for the ceremony. Training schedules. Speculation on our mates—who they might be, where they might come from. We tease each other mercilessly, laughing about the possibility of being stuck with a sixteen-year-old mate and having to wait years before being able to claim them.

The more we talk, the more we drink.

The more we drink, the harder it is to ignore the pull.

I don’t know when it happens, but we’ve moved closer. Close enough that when we laugh, we reach out—a punch to the arm, a playful shove.

But the touches linger.

The looks last longer.

And the conversation shifts.

“All right then, asshole. Who was the best kiss you’ve ever had?” I ask, still laughing from Carl roasting me over the disaster that was Jenny Fleet—also known as "The Inhaler."

Carl doesn’t hesitate. “Easy. Stephanie Manchester.”

“Shit, she’s got a full set of DSLs. And that tongue—” I let out a low whistle, shaking my head. “You ever get a blowjob from her? I swear I almost came in thirty seconds.”

Carl goes still.

His expression shifts—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

“What?” I frown, sitting up.

He mutters something under his breath.

“Speak up, dumbass.”

“I said I’ve never had a blowjob,” he snaps. “I’ve never gone past over-the-pants shit.”

I blink. “Wait, what?”

He swallows hard, not looking at me. “I’ve been saving myself for my mate.”

Oh, fuck.

“Shit, man, I had no idea. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

He shrugs, still not meeting my eyes. “It sounds lame. Who the hell waits for their mate anymore?” A pause. “I guess I just wanted it to be special.”

I don’t know why, but something about that knocks the air from my lungs.

Then Carl changes the subject. “Who was your best kiss?”

And before I can stop myself, I answer without thinking.

“You.”

Silence.

Carl’s head snaps up so fast I think he might get whiplash.

“What?!” he shrieks.

Oh, mother-fucking-hell.

I freeze. My pulse slams against my ribs as his eyes go wide, disbelieving.

“What the fuck do you mean, Richard?” He stands, backing away, hands raised like he can physically push the words back into my mouth. “When did I kiss you?”

I scrub a hand over my face, scrambling for the right words. “You remember the first time we drank? When we stole your dad’s good scotch?”

Carl nods slowly. “We blacked out. Passed out on the couch.”

I exhale sharply. “Yeah, you blacked out, but you didn’t pass out. Not right away. You—” I swallow hard. “You pushed me back on the couch. Kissed me. We made out. Hard. That’s why you had scratches on your back when you woke up.”

Carl just stares.

Mouth covered, pacing, his breath uneven.

Then, out of nowhere, he lets out a scream of pure frustration.

“Are you shitting me?!” He turns back, his voice cracking. “I kissed the guy I’ve been in love with for years, and I don’t even remember it?!”

Wait.

What?

My stomach drops.

Because now he’s just given me information I didn’t have.