Another knock. Sharper. Harder.
Panic spiked in my chest. I killed my phone screen instantly, plunging into the dark. I yanked the covers up, squeezed my eyes shut, and shoved my face hard into the pillow.
The door creaked open. I didn't need to look to know he was there. I could still perceive the musky heat of the sex he’d just had with my mother. It was a suffocating mash of testosterones and pheromones that made my heart race in my chest.
My pussy squelching and squeezing in the same vein.
I felt the mattress dip. He was sitting on the edge of my bed.
"I know you're awake, Miya," he whispered.
I didn't move.
I couldn't. I stayed frozen, my breath hitched in my throat, praying he couldn't hear the way my heart was drumming.
A second later, I felt the duvet being pulled up. He did it slowly, hands on my supple skin, gliding over shoulders with keen tenderness. Then, his hand lingered. His knuckles brushed against the shell of my ear, a touch so light it was barely there, yet it sent a jolt of pure electricity through my system.
He leaned down. I could feel the hotness of his breath against my temple.
"Goodnight, baby," he breathed.
He stayed like that for a long moment, watching me. I struggled to reconcile this gentlemanly, protective side of him with the sex god I had seen through the door crack—the man who had commanded my mother with such primal, shattering force.
Only when I heard the door click shut did I finally let out the breath I’d been holding.
The following morning, I was in the bathroom, staring at the milk stains on my chest.
"Miya! Are you planning on living in there?" My mother’s authoritative voice breezed through the door. I jumped, nearly dropping the flannel. I shoved the milk-soaked tank top into the bottom of the laundry basket, burying it under towels.
"Coming, Mom!"
I rushed into my room and grabbed an oversized black hoodie. I threw it on and hurried into the kitchen.
Marcus was already there, leaning against the kitchen island.
He was dressed for training in grey joggers that hung loosely low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his waist.
He looked so composed; again, I am reminded that his present demeanor was nothing like the man I’d seen through the door crack last night.
"There she is," my mother said. "I’m heading to the Pack Council. Marcus has an intensive training session with the Enforcers. He needs his protein intake."
Marcus looked up. His golden-brown eyes locked onto mine. "Morning, Miya," he said with a straight face.
"Morning," I whispered, heading straight for the fridge.
"Did you manage to find that specific brand of goat milk, Miya?" my mother prompted, glancing over her tablet. "I know you insisted on handling the shopping yesterday to give me a break, but Marcus really needs those three glasses before the gym. High fat, high protein—it’s the only way he recovers properly from a heavy shift."
I opened the fridge door, my confidence evaporating instantly.
The shelf where the organic bottles usually sat was bare.
I’d been so distracted filming for King_M and managing my subscribers that I’d walked right out the door without the list.
I’d shopped from memory, feeling so proud of myself for being "responsible," only to realize I had forgotten the one thing that actually mattered.
"Oh... Mom, I’m so sorry," I stammered, my back to them as I stared at the empty shelf. "I must have missed it. I can run to the store right now. I’ll be back in ten minutes, I promise."
"Miya, we discussed this," my mother said, her tone more disappointed than angry. "If you volunteer for a task, you have to follow through. Taking responsibility means double-checking the list." She checked her watch and sighed. "I can’t wait, and Marcus is already behind schedule."
Marcus stepped away from the island, his movements fluid and relaxed. He didn't sound angry; if anything, his voice carried a mussel of amused curiosity. "Ten minutes is a bit of a stretch with the morning traffic, little bird. And the Enforcers don't like to be kept waiting on the field."
"I’m sorry, Dad," I whispered, still unable to look at him. "I really thought I had everything."
My mother kissed Marcus’s cheek and grabbed her keys. "Well, you offered to help, so you’ll have to find a solution. I have a Council meeting to attend. Marcus, don't let her off too easy—make her figure it out."
The front door slammed, leaving a heavy, expectant silence in the kitchen.
"So," Marcus said. I could hear the faint rustle of his joggers as he leaned against the counter, barely two feet behind me. "The fridge is dry."
"I'll... I'll make a concentrate," I choked out. My chest was already starting to ache, the internal pressure building as a direct reaction to his sheer closeness. "I can use the espresso machine to steam some heavy cream and oats. It’ll be even more protein-dense than the goat milk. Better for your recovery."
Marcus tilted his head, his bright eyes scanning the back of my neck. "A custom blend?" he mused, his voice dropping to a low, appreciative rumble. "That sounds interesting. Show me what you can do, then. I’m in no rush to leave if the treat is worth the wait."
I turned my back to him, reaching for the espresso machine.
My hands were shaking. The Luna's Fever was surging; I could feel the dampness starting to spread against the lining of my hoodie.
I turned the steam wand on high, letting the white cloud of vapor billow up, masking the counter and my silhouette.
"The steam... it needs to get hot," I whispered, my voice lost in the hiss of the machine.
Under the cover of that white, smoky veil, I stood at the counter.
I stayed right there, inches from him, while he fiddled with his phone, hidden only by the mist.
I reached under my hoodie with one hand, pulling my breasts out. I used a tall, frosted pitcher, holding it hidden against my chest while the machine loudly frogged a small amount of oat base to mask the sound.
I closed my eyes, picturing Marcus drinking my milk.
I expressed directly into the pitcher, the milk warm and rich, merging with the frothed foam. It was a frantic, quick move while he stood close enough to touch my hair.
"What's taking so long, little bird?" his voice rumbled through the steam.
"It’s... thickening," I gasped.
I finished, wiped my hands on a paper towel, and turned the steam off. I poured the mixture into a tall glass, the foam sitting thick and creamy on top. I stepped out of the mist, setting the glass in front of him.
It was steaming.
It was fresh.
Marcus didn't drink it immediately. He picked up the glass, swirled the liquid, and brought it to his nose. He took a long, deep draw of the scent.
"This doesn't smell like oats, Miya," he whispered.
"It's the... steam. It changes the profile."
He raised the glass and took a long, slow gulp. His throat moved rhythmically. His eyes never leaving mine. "Fuck," he rasped, pulling away. A small white drop clung to his lip. He licked it away with a slow flick of his tongue. "That is the sweetest thing I have ever tasted. Better than any store-bought brand."
"Is it... okay?"
"It’s perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a growl. "In fact, I think I’m going to need you to make this for me every morning. You are so creative."
Thank you, Moon Goddess! I squealed in my mind.
I fled the kitchen, my legs shaking. I reached my room and collapsed, my phone buzzing.
I needed some time to catch my breath until a few minutes later.
It was King_M.
King_M: I just had the most delicious milkshake for breakfast, and all I could think about was you, my little milkmaid. I think I’m addicted.
I stared at the screen. A warm smile coiled on my face.
“I wish I could feed you directly from the source,” I typed back, smiling.
I replayed the scenario in the kitchen; watching my stepdad drink my milk meant I wasn't just his stepdaughter anymore; I was his provider. And he was already coming back for more.