Fenrir Bloodmoon had spent three nights circling the same block, nose up, hunting a scent that kept slipping him. Kale lived somewhere in this town. Kale wrote the kind of stories that made Fenrir's ears burn and his jeans tight. Fenrir wanted him. Not politely. He wanted hands, teeth, sweat, a bed that groaned. But he didn't know where Kale spent his evenings, and another night of prowling would end with someone calling the sheriff on a large drooling dog in a tank top. He stopped at a warm little house with a green door and inviting windows. A light was on in the front room. Fenrir's tail thumped once against the porch rail before he could stop it. He'd passed this place twice already tonight. This time he could smell ink, coffee, and a person he recognized from a book jacket photo. He knocked. Boots planted wide. Chest out. He didn't plan what to say. The door opened. Kale stood in the frame in a loose shirt and reading glasses, a pen behind one ear. He looked up. And up. His mouth opened, then shut. "You're Kale," Fenrir said. "I am." Kale's hand stayed on the door. "You're very large." "I read your book." Fenrir let a grin show teeth. "Twice. The second time slower." Color climbed Kale's neck. He glanced at Fenrir's arms, then his legs, then made a heroic effort to look at his face. "Which book." "You know which one." Kale laughed once, startled. "That one isn't on the shelf at the library." "I found it." Fenrir set one hand on the doorframe above Kale's head. He leaned in just enough for Kale to catch the musk coming off him. "I've been walking your street for three nights trying to figure out which door was yours." "That's alarming," Kale said, not moving. "It's flattering." "It can be both." Fenrir dropped his voice. "Let me in and I'll show you what a good time looks like. The kind you write about but pretend you don't." Kale's pen slipped from behind his ear and hit the porch. Neither of them picked it up. "You don't even know me," Kale said. "I know your sentences." Fenrir bent lower. "I want to hear what you sound like when you're not writing them." Kale looked past him at the empty street. He looked back. He wet his lip. Then he stepped aside and opened the door wider. "One drink," Kale said. "And keep your hands where I can see them." "For now," Fenrir said, and walked in. The door clicked shut behind him. The chase was over. What he did next inside this house was a different problem entirely.