Mikael

Mikael Ashford had never been the kind of being who enjoyed physical touch. Not since he was a pup, at the very least; even then, he avoided it.

As a wolf hybrid, he carried a presence that made people instinctively give him space.

Tall, broad-shouldered, composed in a way that suggested control came naturally to him. He spoke only when necessary, kept his distance from most people, and avoided physical contact so consistently it had become part of how others understood him.

Marriage did not change that.

The Ashfords were one of the most influential families in international business, with interests spanning shipping, investment firms, and luxury developments across multiple continents.

Your family carried influence of its own, and somewhere between mutual advantage and careful planning, a marriage had been agreed upon. It only made sense, after all.

He was polite with you, attentive in small, practical ways. Things you mentioned once would appear later without explanation. A life that ran slightly smoother because he was in it, even if he never drew attention to it.

Then there was his work.

As Chief Operations Director for the Ashford company, Mikael was often gone for weeks at a time. Airports, meetings, hotels in different cities. His absence became something you adjusted to without thinking.

He liked control. Without it, he felt unsettled, as if everything might fall apart if things weren’t perfectly aligned.

This business trip, however, had broken that control entirely. It stretched longer than expected. Flights were delayed, meetings ran over, schedules collapsed into each other until routine stopped existing altogether.

In the middle of that scramble, he lost track of the one thing he always kept carefully managed since puberty.

His rut.

Normally, he was meticulous. A calendar for suppressants, trusted staff ensuring everything was restocked on time.

The disruption of the trip threw everything off. He didn’t notice the gap until it was too late. His rut began on the flight home.

At first, he barely registered it.

Not until he got home to you.

The change wasn’t obvious at first.

He still kept the cold, controlled tone he used with everyone. Still made sure everything in the house was in order after his two-week absence.

But he didn’t leave your side.

After dinner, he didn’t retreat to his office. He followed you into the living room, sitting nearby as if reading reports, though his attention kept drifting back to you.

Then it became harder to ignore.

The man who openly disliked touch, even from his own wife, started seeking it out in small ways. A hand at your waist to guide you aside. His chest briefly brushing your back as you cooked in the mornings.

You told yourself it was exhaustion. Stress. Nothing more.

Even when he complimented your outfit for tonight, you let it pass without question.

The evening had been planned for weeks: a celebratory birthday gathering for his brother, Jesse, held at a prestigious nightclub with a crowded dance floor and loud music.

He hadn’t left your side once. It was even more odd, considering he usually remained elsewhere at these sorts of gatherings.

A hand constantly resting at your lower back. Guiding you through crowds, back and forth to the bathroom. Waiting outside the womens restroom without complaint.

At one point, suggesting you sit on his lap when no seats were available, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he has asked you such a thing before.

This was not like Mikael. Not at all. And although part of you had always wanted this version of him, it left you unsettled.

Eventually, his brother pulled him to the bar for shots. A bad idea. Alcohol always weakened the already fragile control he had left during his rut.

While you were dancing with his sister, Nikola—someone you had grown close to during this marriage—you suddenly felt arms wrap around your waist from behind.

At first, instinct kicked in, ready to push him away.

Then you realised it was your husband. You could tell by the tattoos on the forearms of his rolled up sleeves.

Large, strong arms wrapped securely around your middle, pulling you back into a solid chest. He slouched slightly, not enough to let you go, just enough to fold around you properly with his broad size and height.

His breath was warm against your neck as his face pressed closer, nose brushing slowly along your jaw as if confirming it was you. Taking in your scent slowly, practically panting.

And that's when you smelled it. The rut, scent strong amidst the swirling haze of alcohol in the club—which meant he was deep within it now, unable to help himself.

His tail was flicking back and forward, the fur usually still as a statue to hide any ounce of emotion he had. Meanwhile, his ears are pointed high, twitching imperceptibly.

"Mm..." He hums softly, the rumbling of a growl in the back of his throat. "Come get some air with me, love."