MB Saucy Side: Puppy Love (Featuring Kent) (Patreon)

Kent Zarneki looks like a man. His face is handsome, his grey eyes attentive and intelligent. 

Had someone whispered in your ear that he was something more, you might have postulated that, if anything, Kent might be a vampire. He certainly possesses the stereotypical pallor and standoffish demeanor of a night lurker befitting bedtime stories of horror and romance, so much so that those not familiar with Kent’s true temperament usually assume that your stoic boyfriend is cold and callous. “Ice King,” the newspapers dubbed him throughout your relationship. Ironic, given that Kent is both hot as hell and the most physically affectionate person you’ve ever dated.

The press’s misconception is understandable, you suppose. Kent’s touches are usually subtle and hidden: stroking your thigh beneath the table during dinners; his fingers lingering overlong as he brushes a lock of hair from your eyes; his thumb pressing between your lips as he wipes away an invisible crumb; frantic, breathless kisses after he pulls you into the cloak closet at an overcrowded party (to Kent, all parties are overcrowded). His natural enthusiasm has been curbed by caution learned from an existence where public displays of affection provided paparazzi with photographs, and where a single hug from his father would lead to political speculation on whether the Mayor intended to take time off to spend with his poor, bereaved son. But there’s a difference between who Kent was trained to be and who he is.

Each of his touches teaches you more about the real Kent. He’s not indifferent; rather, he cares for you more deeply and abidingly than anyone you’ve ever meet. He may move the sleek grace of a cat (Sally accusingly refers to him as “feline” due to his tendency to accidentally sneak up on people), but Kent has the adoring heart of a puppy. The only condition to Kent’s devotion is that you accept him, and you have with utter totality. . . even after he revealed his secret.

More so than his father’s position, Kent’s secret is the reason that he’s held everyone at bay.

Until you.

Kent’s heavy lidded gaze slides over your body and lingers on your throat. The hunger in his eyes is darker and more primal than lust. It would frighten you—it should frighten you­—had belonged to anyone else. Kent, though, you trust utterly. Even as his silver eyes shift golden, you feel only excitement and longing. You could never fear Kent, not when you’ve seen his heart and given him yours. Not even on a full moon.

“So pretty,” Kent murmurs.

Kent runs a claw—black, curved, talon-sharp—alongside the tendon of your neck, your breath hitching as his touch comes to a rest at the hollow below your jugular. His hands and eyes are the only things which have transformed so far, but his muscles are tense and straining. He’s holding himself back, as promised.

“So fragile.”

His claws explore lower, their caress against your skin featherlight even as their sharpness effortlessly shreds through the fabric of your shirt.

“I liked that shirt.” Your protest is half-hearted, your eyelids drifting closed and head falling back as he licks down the pathway bared by torn fabric. A pleading whine escapes your lips.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promises in a rough voice before returning his attentions to your exposed skin.

You thread your fingers through his black hair and pull him close; a low growl rumbles from his chest as your lips interlock and tongues intwine. His kiss tastes of toothpaste and copper, and his need matches your own, longing laced with both devotion and desperation.

Something sharp slices a hot streak of pain over your lower lip, and you let out a surprised yelp.

Kent stills.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, gently drawing away. His voice is lower than usual, echoingly deep in a way that makes the hair on your arms prickle and your heartbeat race from something other than desire. Your mind and heart may not be afraid Kent, but your instincts? The generations of evolutionary intuition which kept your forebears alive? Those survival instincts scream at you to escape, to run, damn you, run because he’s a predator and you’re a clueless deer and those fangs were designed to seize and shred and tear . . .

No.

You refuse to fear Kent.

Your palm cusps his cheek, lifting his downcast head and gazing deeply into eyes as golden as the full moon outside your bedroom window. Kent’s chest heaves with gasping breaths, his body shakes with effort to stave off the full change. “With you, I think that I can remain myself tonight,” he had said. “I want to remain myself.”

Slowly, as if comforting a wounded animal, you roll back Kent’s upper lip. You stare without judgement or disgust at his extended canines, jagged fangs forcing their way through bloodied gums in a too-small human jaw that stubbornly refuses to shift. That explains the copper of his kiss. You’ve seen Kent’s wolf form, once, but never the transition from man to beast. Kent had warned you that his shapeshifting wasn’t pretty, yet you hadn’t realized that it hurt him. Werewolves always transform so easily in the movies.

The truth is uglier and far more brutal. No wonder Kent wanted to fight the moon with you by his side.

You smile at him reassuringly, only to wince as the cut on your lower lip pulls. “Nothing a little Neosporin won’t fix,” you tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

“I hurt you,” Kent’s expression turns crestfallen as he stares at your mouth.

He stands abruptly, and you almost tumble off the bed at the way the mattress shifts from the movement. Then his entire body spasms, his back curving like a bending cage bar. He collapses back onto the bed with a guttural, broken moan.

“Leave,” he orders.

You wrap your arms around his shivering torso and mutely shake your head. His lips and teeth migrate towards your neck, his growl is so low that you feel its vibrations.

“Leave!” he snarls. This time the command is ragged and begging, his low voice—so low, it no longer sounds like Kent—cracking on the word. “I can’t . . .”

You place both hands on his shoulders, forcing him upright so that you can glare directly into his eyes.

“You can, and you will.” You grin widely, ignoring the sting of your lip splitting even further open. “When have I ever been wrong?”

His laugh at your audacity ends in a pained whimper. Still, your boyfriend is well-trained.

“You’re never wrong,” he jokes between muscle spasms. “Except I . . .”

“No exceptions,” you say with mock sternness. “I’m always right. And Kent?”

His eyes, squeezed tightly shut through the pain, reopen. They’re still attentive and intelligent, but the hunger is darker than ever before. Their gold is so bright that it burns. This time, his expression does scare you a little, but you push down the fear and focus on the man—not the beast—in front of you.

“It’s okay if you can’t hold it back,” you say softly. “You’ll still be you, and I know that you would never hurt me.”

It’s only when you say the words aloud that you realize the full depth of their truth. The instinct to flee dissipates entirely, and you cradle him in your arms with newfound resolution. Even if the moon wins and Kent end up losing a part of himself tonight, he would still never hurt you. He might become stripped of his words and rationality (last month, he almost ate Antigone), but his desire to keep you safe is as deeply ingrained as your need to protect him.

Wrapped in your tight hug, Kent’s breathing eventually steadies. He buries his face in the crook of your shoulder, but the proximity of his teeth to your neck doesn’t make you shudder as it did before. You simply hold him tighter and wait for morning.

Hours pass. Neither of you fall asleep.

Dawn creeps in through the window, its light through the glass casting rainbow prisms against your bedroom walls. Kent stops trembling.

And when he finally looks up from your embrace, his eyes are once again grey.