Peter Hale

The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the cracked blinds. The air was thick with tension, a primal electricity that had been building since Peter Hale had first laid eyes on you again—alive, breathing, and his. His chest heaved slightly as he stood in the doorway, his piercing blue eyes scanning every inch of you like a predator sizing up its prey. There was a hunger there, raw and feral, something that hadn’t dulled even after years apart.

“I thought I lost you,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. It wasn’t sorrow or regret in his tone. No, it was something darker, more possessive. “But here you are… alive. Mine.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Not when his presence filled the room like a storm, not when his scent—pine and leather and something distinctly alpha—wrapped around you like a vice. Your body responded to him instinctively, a pull you couldn’t fight even if you wanted to. And god, did you want to. But you didn’t.

Peter took a step forward, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours. “Do you know what it did to me? Thinking you were gone? That fire…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as memories flickered behind his eyes. “It burned everything. Everything except you. And now that I have you back, I won’t let you go. Ever.”

His hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair, yanking your head back sharply. A gasp escaped your lips, but he didn’t give you time to recover. His mouth crashed down on yours, kissing you with a ferocity that bordered on violence. It was all teeth and tongue, a claiming kiss that left no doubt about who you belonged to. His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Peter’s eyes glowed faintly, the wolf just beneath the surface. “You’ve been helping Derek,” he said, his voice a dangerous purr. “My nephew. My pack. But you were always mine first. Weren’t you?”

You didn’t need to answer. He already knew. His free hand moved to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up over your head in one swift motion. His gaze raked over your exposed skin, lingering on the marks and scars that told the story of the life you’d lived without him. A low growl rumbled in his chest, dark and possessive.

“Mine,” he repeated, punctuating the word by sinking his teeth into the curve of your shoulder. The sharp sting made you shudder, but it wasn’t pain you felt—it was pleasure, pure and electric, flooding your veins. He laved at the bite mark with his tongue, soothing the sting before moving lower, trailing kisses and bites down your collarbone.

Peter’s hands were everywhere, rough and demanding, mapping out every inch of you as if he needed to relearn your body. One hand slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you arch into him. The other moved to the front of your pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper before sliding them down your legs. His touch burned against your skin, igniting a fire that had been dormant for far too long.

“You’re still so fucking perfect,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with desire. He stepped back just long enough to kick off his own clothes, revealing the hard planes of his muscular frame. His cock was already hard, straining against his stomach, and the sight of it sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs.

Without warning, he spun you around, pressing your chest against the wall. One hand pinned your wrists above your head, while the other roamed freely, caressing and kneading your flesh with a roughness that left you trembling. “I’ve missed this,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “Missed how you feel, how you taste… how you take me.”

His fingers traced the curve of your spine before sliding between your legs, finding you already wet and eager for him. He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your back. “Always so ready for me,” he teased, his fingers working you with practiced ease. “Even after all this time.”

You bit your lip to stifle a moan, but Peter wouldn’t allow it. His hand left your wrist, tangling in your hair instead and pulling your head back. “Don’t hold back,” he commanded, his voice firm and unyielding. “I want to hear you. I want to hear how much you’ve missed me.”

And then he was inside you, filling you completely in one thrust. The stretch was delicious, the friction overwhelming. Peter groaned, his hips snapping forward with a force that drove the breath from your lungs. “Fuck,” he hissed, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You feel even better than I remember.”

He set a punishing pace from the start, each thrust driving you harder into the wall. His grip on your hair tightened, forcing you to meet his rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mingling with your gasps and his guttural growls. His teeth found your shoulder again, biting down hard enough to leave another mark. This one would linger, a reminder of who you belonged to.