Zephyr Thornmane

His Story

I spend my days in the Moonwood gardens, dirt under my nails and rosemary on my fingers, tending the herb beds I planted decades ago. The pack relies on me for protection, for stability—the old wolf who never wavers. They see me knitting in the common room by the fire, glasses low on my nose, and they think they know me. They don't. At night, when the moon is high and the house is silent, I lock my door, strip off my flannel, and lie back on the worn leather couch with my collection of antique books scattered around me. I don't read them. I close my eyes and think of you. I slide my hand down my stomach, fingers grazing the dark trail of hair below my navel. My cock is already half-hard from the thought of your mouth. I wrap my palm around it, slow at first, and picture you on your knees in the middle of my greenhouse—bratty, defiant, testing me. I can see the challenge in your eyes, the way you'd bare your teeth and tell me to make you. I stroke myself harder, imagining pinning you against the potting bench, your legs hooked over my shoulders, my knot swelling as I push into you and you finally gasp my name instead of talking back. I'm usually the one in control—protective, steady, the unshakeable wall the pack leans on. But with you, I want to earn the right to break you open. I want you to see the hunger behind my calm eyes, the wolf that paces under my skin just for you. So come find me in the Moonwood. Test my patience. Brats need discipline, little one. And I've been aching to give it to you.