My Venting Beast is Obsessed with Me

I, Scarlett Rosedale, was thoroughly, stupidly drunk. The world swam in a pleasant, hazy blur, but the cold night air outside the bar was beginning to bite through the fog. Perched on the curb, I took a long drag from my cigarette, hoping the nicotine would slap some sobriety back into my system.

A figure shuffled out of the shadows, a street vendor with a nervous, furtive energy. He sidled up to me, keeping his voice low. “Rough night, ma’am? You look like you could use an outlet. I’ve got a beastkin, a real stress-reliever. Works wonders for pent-up… frustration.”

I exhaled a plume of smoke, squinting at him. “Come again?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then beckoned into the darkness. Another shape emerged, moving with a silent, contained power that immediately commanded attention.

This was a wolfhound beastkin. He was all lean, coiled strength—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, standing a full head taller than the vendor. When he stepped under the flickering bar sign, his frame blocked the garish light, plunging me into his shadow.

Before I could process it, the vendor grabbed the crude metal collar around the beastkin’s neck and wrenched him down to his knees. With a practiced move, he unfastened a rusty muzzle.

A sharp yank on his dark, matted hair forced the beastkin’s head up. His face was revealed in the dim light: pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, a proud, straight nose, and lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Fresh bruises bloomed across his brow and the corner of his mouth. But it was his eyes that held me—narrowed, wary, burning with a feral intensity as they locked onto mine.

Thwack. Thwack. The vendor slapped his cheek, the sound harsh in the quiet alley. “See, ma’am? A face just begging to be punched, isn’t it?”

A strange, dark thrill shot through me. He was… compelling. And my doctor’s recent words echoed in my wine-addled brain: hormonal imbalance, Scarlett. You need to find a healthy release for that tension.

But I already had a wolfhound at home. Julian Aconite. Beautiful, aloof, and utterly off-limits. He’d have a fit.

The vendor, sensing my wavering, kicked the beastkin’s thigh. “Up. Show the lady what she’s getting.”

The beastkin—Elias, I’d learn later—rose slowly, the chains around his torso clinking. With one shackled hand, he pulled his threadbare black shirt over his head. Lean, pale muscle was unveiled, a canvas of suffering marred by a latticework of old scars and angry new welts.

The vendor hastily refastened the muzzle, then patted a bicep that flexed instinctively at the touch. “Premium stock, ma’am. Incredible stamina, fast healer. Two hours of… whatever you need, for just two grand. Short of slitting his throat and watching him bleed out, he’ll bounce right back.”

I recoiled. “Slit his throat? What kind of monsters are you selling to?”

The vendor just shrugged, a chilling casualness in the gesture. “You’d be surprised.”

Forget it. Julian wouldn’t let me near him. This one was cheap, disposable. Maybe an obedient one was what I needed.

I pushed myself unsteadily to my feet, the world tilting slightly. “How much to buy him outright?”

His eyes gleamed. “Ah, that’s a different story. He’s the finest in my collection.”

“Name it.”

“A nice, lucky number. Five thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight.”

I blinked. That was… nothing. My parents had paid millions for Julian’s contract.

“Too steep?” the vendor pressed, misreading my silence.

“Call it five-eight,” I slurred, fishing for my credit chip.

Five thousand eight hundred dollars later, Elias Alpinus was mine.

…

The thought of facing Julian’s silent judgment at home was unbearable. I directed the taxi to a sleek, anonymous hotel downtown.

The vendor’s parting warnings rang in my ears: Don’t remove the muzzle until he’s broken in. Never, ever take off the leash. He’s still wild.

In the sterile luxury of the hotel suite, Elias stood just inside the door, head bowed, a statue of resigned submission. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the climate control.

After a long, scalding shower, I wrapped myself in a plush towel. His shackles felt like a necessary precaution. “Your turn,” I said, nodding toward the bathroom.