Chapter 6: Proof on the Kitchen Table

I slipped into the kitchen, firmly closing the door behind me, and froze for a moment, listening intently to the sounds beyond it. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, my breathing hadn’t fully steadied, and between my legs, a slow, throbbing warmth pulsed. But the real chaos was in my head. There was a naked man in my flat. Well, fine—not a man, a boy. And a rather handsome one at that. But one who, not so long ago, had been a wolf. Hovering over me, and...

“Stop it! Calm down!” I told myself, but my inner voice sneered, “Someone wasn’t complaining about him being a wolf just a little while ago.”

As Jess would say after her trip to Russia: “I’m no Gazprom, but dreams do come true sometimes.” Though she’d always refused to explain what that company had to do with dreams. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

Shaking my head, I realised I needed some external help to clear the fog. I rarely smoked—mostly just kept a pack for Jess—but right now, I physically needed the taste and smell of tobacco. And contrary to what anyone might say about its dangers, nicotine did wonders for clearing the mind.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out a cigarette and flicked the lighter. The first deep drag scorched my lungs, but clarity followed. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the darkness deepen outside.

Fragments of memories swirled in my head: his tongue, his teeth, his scent ... and that moment of transformation—the flash of light, the crack of bones, the roar shifting into a human voice.

“A werewolf. A real werewolf,” I repeated to myself, exhaling smoke. But instead of fear—the natural reaction—what I felt was ... excitement.

What would happen next?

Grey was probably cleaning up the floor, gathering clumps of fur, wondering what to say to me. And here I was, hiding, smoking, trying to process the fact that my life had just taken a sharp turn into something wild, dangerous, and irresistibly alluring.

The door creaked softly. I spun around, holding my breath. There stood Grey—still wrapped in just a towel, his hair damp, his amber gaze even more knowing now, almost human.

“The mess is cleaned up,” he said quietly. “Can we talk?”

I slowly stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and nodded.

“Yes, we should. But first...”

My hands still trembled slightly. Out of habit, I reached for the kettle switch, but then sighed and changed my mind. At two in the morning, after a magical sex-induced shock, I needed something stronger.

I opened the top cabinet and pulled out a half-finished bottle of medium-sweet white wine.

“Want some?” I asked, turning to Grey, who was standing frozen in the doorway.

I studied him with ravenous, insatiable curiosity. The shock had faded with the nicotine, giving way to a reckless, almost teenage thrill. There was no fear—just thick confusion and a wild, physical pull. This young man drew me in like an invisible tether.

He was dressed only in my fluffy towel, which rested precariously on his hip bones. With every step he took, the terry cloth shifted dangerously, making me swallow hard. This lean, cheeky brute had, not so long ago in the form of a massive beast, licked me to screams right here in this kitchen.

The realisation burned through my mind.

Grey tilted his head slightly to the side—just like he had in wolf form when sniffing something out. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, drawing in the air.

“He’s sniffing me,” flashed through my mind, and the thought sent a shiver down my spine.

“Sure,” Grey chuckled, his amber eyes gleaming mischievously in the dark. “I think you could use some alcohol to calm your nerves. And I’ll join you—just for company.”

With a familiar wolfish cunning, he winked at me. I grabbed two glasses, poured the wine generously, and without waiting for a toast, downed mine in almost one gulp. The pleasant burn in my throat spread warmth through my body, finally bringing the relaxation I’d been craving.

Grey stepped closer, took his glass, but didn’t drink. He stared at me—intently, hypnotically, barely blinking—just like that grey wolf in the car. There was something primal, almost animalistic, in his gaze.

“Sasha, are you even ... alive?” he asked.

“Fine, as you can see.” I lifted my chin defiantly, leaning back against the edge of the kitchen counter. “No fainting. Vets have pretty tough constitutions.”