Chapter 2: The Scent of Him
The heavy tread on the staircase announced Kane’s return. He’d pulled on a simple black henley, but it did little to normalize him. The fabric stretched taut across his shoulders, and he moved with that same deliberate, pained care, as if the cloth itself was an irritant. He bypassed the sofa Winter was on and sank into the large armchair opposite, putting the low stone hearth between them. The firelight carved the planes of his face into sharp relief, shadows pooling in the hollows of his eyes.
“Thanks for the stuff,” Kane said, his voice still that rough gravel. He nodded toward the cloth bag. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Seemed like you might need it,” Winter said. He unknotted the bag, pulling out the mason jar of soup. “Chicken and rosemary. My mom’s recipe. Well. It was.” He placed it on the low table. An awkward silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of sap in a log. “So… how are things? Job wise, I mean. It seems like your family’s store chain, shipping company, and construction business are all doing well.”
Kane’s gaze was fixed on the flames. “Business is good. Better than good. We’re slammed.”
“Even with… everything that’s been happening? The attacks?” Winter asked.
A slow, deliberate blink. “Because of it, maybe. People are nervous. Want their fences reinforced, their sheds rebuilt. Security. I’m the only one with the manpower and the timber.” He finally looked at Winter, the amber in his eyes flickering. “Why?”
Winter shrugged, picking at a thread on his jeans. “Just making conversation. I guess you’ve been feeling pretty lucky, then. With old man Brewer selling up after his yard got trashed, and the Carter brothers’ operation just… falling apart.”
Kane was very still. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it. I’m just the last man standing.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his massive frame suddenly dominating the space again. “Stop talking about my business. How are you doing? Really. It can’t be easy, with this… creature running around. You were nervous walking here.”
Winter looked away, into the dark corners of the room. “Yeah. I was. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.”
“It is when you think about who’s been hit.” The words came out quieter than he meant them to. “I mean, the animals are one thing. But people? First it was Travis. Then Mick.”
Kane’s voice was flat. “Travis Harlow beat you for a year. Mick Carson spent a decade calling you a dyke and throwing your books in the mud. The world is cleaner without them.”
Winter’s head snapped up. “Don’t say that.”
“Why? It’s true.” Kane held his stare, unflinching. “You think I don’t know what they did? You think I didn’t see the bruises you tried to hide, or hear the names they shouted in the street?” A low, protective rumble seemed to vibrate in his chest. “You’re scared of the woods, of some animal. You shouldn’t be. When you’re with me, you are safe. Nothing will ever touch you. I make sure of it.”
The ferocity of it should have been frightening. Instead, a warm, solid feeling settled in Winter’s core. He managed a small, shaky smile. “My big, scary protector. Thanks, Kane.”
Kane didn’t smile back. His jaw was tight. “What about your family? Things any better?”
The warmth evaporated. Winter studied his own hands, the calluses from his chisels and saws. “You know they’re not. Dad still calls me ‘her’ when he’s drunk. Mom prays for my ‘confusion’ every night at dinner. Thomas just… avoids me. Like I’m a ghost wearing his sister’s face.” He let out a short, humorless breath. “They won’t even say my name. It’s always ‘Elizabeth.’ Like if they say it enough, I’ll just… pop back into the box.”
A growl, actual and visceral, tore from Kane’s throat. He stood up so fast the chair scraped against stone. He paced to the fireplace, one hand braced against the mantel as if to stop himself from putting a fist through it. The muscles in his back coiled like cables under the thin cotton. “That’s unacceptable,” he snarled, the words thick with a fury that seemed to swell the room. “After everything. After you’ve built a life, a good life, with your own hands. They don’t get to do that. They don’t get to erase you.”
Hearing it out loud, wrapped in that violent, unwavering certainty, was like a key turning in a rusty lock. For the first time all day—maybe for the first time in months—Winter didn’t feel alone in the ache of it. He had someone on his side. Not just someone. Kane.
“I know,” Winter whispered.
Kane turned. The rage on his face softened, just a fraction, into something more raw. “You have a family. Right here. You always have. Before. After. Always.” He took a step toward him. “I will always be here for you. You know that, right?”
Winter did know. It was the foundation their entire messy, unlabelled thing was built on. History first. Then desire, sharp and complicating. Friends, then fuck buddies, threaded through with something neither of them dared to name.
Emotion swelled, a tightness in his chest. He stood up, closing the distance between them in a few steps, and wrapped his arms around Kane’s waist, pressing his face against the solid warmth of his chest. Kane stiffened for a second, then his arms came around him, heavy and secure, one hand cupping the back of Winter’s head.
“I know,” Winter mumbled into his shirt. “I know.”
And for a moment, it was perfect. The fear of the woods, the sting of his parents’ words, the vague dread of the attacks—all of it melted away in the sheer, safe harbor of Kane’s embrace.
Then Kane inhaled, a deep, shuddering breath against Winter’s hair.
His entire body went rigid.
The arms around Winter turned to stone, then began to tremble. The scent that had been a subtle undertone before—the citrus-alcohol of Winter’s gel, the clean sweat of his walk—was now suddenly, overpoweringly, layered with something else. Something richer, deeper, profoundly and innately fertile. It cut through the fog of Kane’s rut like a lighthouse beam, a siren song written directly into his marrow. Ovulation. The scent was unmistakable, biological, a trigger wired straight into the most primitive part of his brain.
Winter felt the change, the vibration that was no longer emotional but purely physical, a engine revving too high. He started to pull back to look up at Kane’s face. “Kane…?”
Kane’s hands came up and gripped Winter’s shoulders, not painfully, but with a desperate, final firmness. He set Winter back from him, putting a full foot of space between their bodies. His eyes were completely black now, his breathing ragged, as if he’d just run miles.
“You should go,” Kane said, the words gritted out between his teeth. He was looking past Winter, at the door, his expression a mask of pure strain.
“What? Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple into his beard. “Thank you. For coming. For the soup. For…” He gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the space between them. “You need to leave. Right now. Please.”
He was trying to usher Winter toward the foyer with his body, a forced, stilted movement.
Winter stood his ground, confusion tipping into concern. “Kane, you’re scaring me. You’re sick. Let me help—”
“You can’t help!” The roar was so sudden it echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Kane clenched his fists, digging his nails into his own palms. He closed his eyes, mastering himself with visible, Herculean effort. When he spoke again, it was a hoarse, broken whisper, pleading. “Winter. You have to go. I am not… safe. For you. To be around. Not tonight. Please. Just go.”
The raw, terrified honesty in his voice was more frightening than the roar. Winter took a step back, then another, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d seen Kane angry, had seen him brooding and intense. He’d never seen him look at him with sheer, animal panic.
“Okay,” Winter said softly, his own voice unsteady.