Chapter 4
Briar's POV
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Cain's rough tongue on my lips. Saw the way Dylan had stared at me after I fed him—torn between terror and fascination.
Around 2 AM, I gave up and grabbed my phone.
BeastCage.com - Customer Service
Me: Quick question—why won't my beastmen eat?
The response came almost immediately.
Support: Hello! Our Grade A models are designed for comprehensive intimate companionship. They require regular physical contact to maintain optimal health. Could that be the issue?
Me: Grade A? I ordered Grade B.
Support: Let me check... According to our records, you selected product code #PNK-AG-001. That's our premium Grade A package!
My blood ran cold.
Me: What happens if they don't get this "regular physical contact"?
Support: It leads to appetite loss, physical weakness, mental deterioration, and eventually... well, they might die. We recommend intimate contact at least every 48-72 hours.
Me: Die? You're serious?
Support: Technically, they'd lose their minds first and become feral. Then yes, death. But don't worry! Our beastmen are very resilient. ��
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Physical contact. But what kind? How far did it need to go?
The next morning, Dylan didn't come out of his room.
When I knocked, Cain opened the door, expression tight.
"He's not feeling well," Cain said.
"Not well how?"
"Just... fevered. He'll be fine."
But he didn't sound convinced.
"Let me see him."
"Master, I don't think—"
I pushed past him into the room.
Dylan was curled on the bed, trembling. His skin flushed and slick with sweat. Breathing short and sharp.
"Jesus, he's burning up." I pressed my hand to his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me he was this bad?"
"It's not sickness," Cain said quietly. "It's his heat."
"His what?"
"Heat. All beastmen go through it. Usually we can manage, but..." He gestured helplessly. "He hasn't been feeding. Taking care of himself. So it came early."
Dylan's eyes cracked open, unfocused. "Go away," he rasped. "Don't—don't see me like this—"
"Too bad." I grabbed the water glass from the nightstand. "You're dehydrated. Drink."
"Can't." His hands shook violently.
"Then I'll help you."
I brought the cup to his lips, but my hands trembled too. Water spilled out, splashing across his bare chest—of course he was shirtless.
Droplets rolled down his pecs, pooling in the grooves of his abs, trailing along the silver happy trail below his navel.
"Shit, sorry—" I reached for the sheets to wipe it up.
"Don't." His hand caught my wrist, burning hot, trembling. "Don't touch me. If you touch me I'll—"
But I'd already pressed the sheet to his chest, wiping away those drops.
Dylan's entire body arched off the bed like he'd been electrocuted.
"Fuck—fuck—" His hands fisted in the sheets, claws puncturing through fabric. His hips jerked up involuntarily, and I could see the obscene bulge straining between his legs.
I yanked my hand back. "Dylan—"
"Get out." His voice was completely wrecked. "Get out before I do something we'll both regret."
Cain stepped forward, his own breathing labored. "His temperature's too high. He needs skin contact to regulate."
"Skin contact?" I remembered what the support rep said.
"It's beastman instinct. Physical touch helps stabilize body temperature during heat." Cain's hands clenched into fists. "But you don't have to—we can manage—"
"No, you clearly can't." I started unbuttoning my shirt, not letting myself think. "If it helps, I'll do it."
They both stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"You don't know what you're doing," Dylan rasped. "Once we start, I can't control it—I might hurt you—"
"Then Cain will make sure you don't." I pulled off my shirt, leaving just my bra and jeans. "Right?"
Cain swallowed hard, his gaze dragging over my exposed skin. "Right. Yes. Of course."
Dylan made another broken sound.
"Come here," I said softly, sitting on the bed's edge, arms open.
He practically collapsed into me, face burying in my neck. Arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me tight against his burning body. His tail coiled around my thigh, gripping hard, the fluffy tip twitching restlessly against my calf.
God, he was like a furnace.
"Hey, it's okay," I murmured, fingers threading through his silver hair. "I've got you."
Behind me, Cain made a choked sound.
When I looked back, he was gripping the doorframe so hard I heard wood crack. Pupils blown wide, breathing ragged.
"Cain?"
"I'm fine." He gritted out, then another suppressed groan.
Right. The fucking blood bond.
Dylan was burning with need, which meant Cain was too.
"Come here," I said.
"I shouldn't—"
"That's an order."
That broke him. He moved to the bed stiffly, each step looking painful, and sat down.
Dylan stayed still against me, his breath scalding my neck. Then I felt his lips moving, murmuring something I couldn't quite hear.
"Dylan?"
"—smell so good—" he mumbled against my skin, "so good—can I—please can I—"
His tongue flicked out, licking across my collarbone.
I gasped.
Cain's hand landed on my bare shoulder, gripping hard enough to bruise. "Briar, you need to stop this. Now. Before it goes too far."
But his voice was destroyed. Desperate. When I looked up at him, his eyes were as glazed as Dylan's.
"I thought you said this would help," I managed.
"It does. But if you keep touching him—if we keep—" He couldn't finish. His thumb stroked over my shoulder blade. "We won't be able to stop. Either of us."
Dylan's teeth scraped higher, toward my jaw. One of his hands started wandering, sliding up my ribs.
"Please," Cain tried again. "Let us stop."
I finally realized how wrong this was getting and coughed: "I need to get you both some actual food. Stay here."
I extracted myself—harder than it should have been, considering how tightly Dylan was holding on—and grabbed my shirt.
"Food?" Dylan's voice was slurred. "We don't need—"
"You're both malnourished on top of everything else," I said firmly, buttoning with shaking hands. "I'm making steaks. You're going to eat them. Then we'll figure this out."
Before either could argue, I fled.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I seasoned the steaks.
This was insane. Should I call a vet? But they weren't sick—they were in heat. And apparently I was the only one who could help.
The implications of that... were massive.
Hot oil popped, splattering onto my shirt.
"Dammit!" The stain spread right across my chest.
I couldn't go back like this.
I ran to my room, grabbed the only other clean thing I had—a red satin slip that barely covered my ass.
This is a terrible idea, I thought, pulling it on.
But it was either this or the oil-stained shirt.
I grabbed the plate of steaks and headed back.
I should have knocked.
I didn't knock.
I pushed open the door—
Pitch black.
Before I could move, I was yanked inside, slammed against the wall. The plate clattered down.
"Hey there, Master," Dylan's scorching breath swept across my throat, his hand sliding up my bare thigh. "You finally came back for us."
Then Cain pressed in from behind, teeth scraping my shoulder, voice rough and starving: "We couldn't wait any longer."
I felt both their bodies closing in simultaneously, trapping me.
The door slammed shut.
