Humans imagine scenes in movies where werewolves scream in agony and tear out of their clothes, which I’ve never understood. We know when the full moon is. It doesn’t take us by surprise. And we know how to dress for it.
Or undress. My breath freezes in my lungs as Nathan walks into the circle. He stops in front of the monolith to Lycaon and drops his robe.
I shamelessly look him over, the way he did to me, from his broad shoulders, down his chest dusted with dark hair that thins to a line on his shockingly sculpted abs. I wasn’t expecting him to look as good as he does. I wasn’t expecting that my mouth would water at the sight of his cock, that my thighs would clench together at the thought of how huge it must be hard.
I wish he could see me. I hope he feels me, smells me.
And I hope that the strange attraction between us is making him as crazed with need as I feel.
An acolyte—a thrall trained in our ceremonies and rituals—steps forward with a shallow silver bowl bearing a glistening human heart. It’s required for the transformation; Lycaon himself was transformed into a wolf after he angered Zeus by feeding the God human flesh. Nathan grabs the heart with his bare hand and bites into it.
That’s when he lifts his gaze and finds me, seconds before the transformation starts.
It begins with his eyes. They flash silver, then red. His face shifts, nose and jaw elongating into a muzzle. We don’t turn into wolves. That’s a myth. We turn into a creature that stands upright; body covered with short, silky hair from our clawed feet to our canine-like heads. The fur flows over every contour of Nathan’s body and his spine curves, drawing him into a hunched posture. His ears elongate, pointing straight back, a shape humans would consider more elfin than dog-like, with tufts of fur accentuating the points. His arms grow longer, as well; in this predatory manifestation, a wide reach is an advantage.
In his animalistic form, he waits for the others but stares up at me. Like this, I’m vulnerable. Far too human. I would be no match for him, should he want me. And he does want me, but even this way, he has self-control, as well as some common sense. He knows he can’t reach me, and so do I, but being the target of all that concentrated power and bestial drive is still heady and frightening.
The good kind of frightening. The kind that makes me wonder what could happen if I only push a little further.