MADENNING NEED

DAMON

I was more than certain that my hair was a mess, given how many times I had run my hand through it. I couldn't help the swell of frustration building from the depths of my belly, to my brain, and coming back down to my legs. 

The irritation, like termites under my skin, pulled at me in every direction that even sitting felt uncomfortable. 

My steps echoed through the room as I walked back and forth, clenching and unclenching my fists.

Why?

Why the fuck was I feeling this way!? It made no sense. Ever since she came, everything became a mess. I was restless, sleep felt far away, and nothing seemed to make me focus. 

My mind circled back to the way my hand felt on her ass, the way she had reacted, even loved the pain. The way her lips parted and how she screamed when I fucked her against the fence, when I bound her to the bed and the way she reacted was nothing short of perfection. She was forbidden, so sensuous, so alluring, and I…

"No." I shook my head. I had things to do. I had plans to be made. I was busy and I needed to start working today, not getting trapped by my thoughts. Ava was nothing but a prisoner, a means to an end to help me achieve my goals. I nodded to myself when the words finally had some effect, or I bullied myself into believing it did.

With a more solid resolve, I made my way to my office.

Anything. I needed anything but to think of her face. Those eyes that were laced with fear, but underneath it, I saw the desire. I saw the want, the unexpected thrill. I could practically smell her scent, engraved into my mind. The way our bodies threatened to merge, so perfect, so…

fuck, I wanted. 

"Stop it. Stop it!" That would never happen. I inhaled a long and sharp breath through my nose to stop my thoughts from spiraling. I had a million things to do, and for now, she wasn't a part of them. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

I stepped into my office, and shadows clung to the walls, thrown by the flickering light of a single, low-hanging chandelier made of blackened antlers, each one taken from prey. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather, blood, and smoke, tinged faintly with pine and something far more feral. I took in the sight, the smell. I had to work, not think about some girl.

A massive desk sat like a throne in the center of the room, carved from dark wood that bore deep claw marks—not from wear, but from rage. Papers were scattered in chaotic piles, interspersed with maps marked in red, and lists of names violently crossed out.

On one wall hung weapons, blades, guns, crude iron implements—all lovingly maintained, their edges sharp enough to reflect the firelight like hungry teeth. My collection. 

The bookshelf was a twisted thing, filled not with stories or strategy, but medical journals, psychology texts, and obscure tomes on primal instincts and ancient lycanthropy. In a corner sat an armchair that looked more like a hunter's perch, the leather torn from clawing hands—or paws. A bottle of something dark and probably illegal rested beside it, half-empty.

This was not a room for peace or reflection. It was a command center built for obsession, rage, and control. I didn't just work here. I brooded. I unraveled. I schemed and suffered and let the beast inside of me breathe freely. And the wall, scarred and echoing with old howls, remembered every manic second of it.

No matter how much I tried, even with piles of paperwork, the promise of never-ending meetings before, everything went back to her. To her pretty little cunt. To her voice, her defiance. The way her pussy welcomed me, how wet she always was and those moans. Those unholy moans. If she were temptation, then I would have fallen just to taste her again. 

No, I scolded myself.

My eyes zeroed in on the report before me about something. The pack? But the words kept swimming, dancing around the pages. 

Each passing moment was torture. I felt hungry, starved, and something, something hot and fiery was crawling from my belly, to my throat, to every part of my being. 

My wolf. The call. The Howling from within made my head hurt. It wanted something. It wanted her. 

Ugh!

There was no way in hell I would go to her. I would give in to this unwanted desire, a need that threatened to unravel my very being. No. I was stronger.

I was Damon Ryder. I had had many women, and Ava wasn't special. I told my wolf, bit back when it snarled. She means nothing to us. Nothing. Just a pawn. A tool. In the grand scheme of things, the girl with brown eyes like sunset meant so little, yet her importance was inflated because of what she could do. The damage is yet to be caused. 

"I am not going to her!" Something in me cracked with my Wolf fighting with me over some girl. If I was horny, I'd get anyone else to satiate him. "Stop this! You know what she is. Who she is. You know why she is here in the first place." 

I didn't know what I was trying to convince, but whoever it was, it wasn't working.

After several hours of getting nothing, I gave up, running a hand over my face.

Sleep. That was what I needed. It would do some good. The conflict would die, and tomorrow I would wake up and get things done. 

---

I couldn't sleep.

I lay in the dark, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling like it might split open and swallow me whole. My skin was burning from the inside out. Sweat slicked down my temples, soaked into the sheets, and glued my shirt to my chest. Every breath was a fight—too shallow, too loud, like I was suffocating under the weight of something I couldn't name but felt in every damn bone.

Inside me, my wolf was in a frenzy. Pacing. Scratching. Howling. He was yanking at the tether I'd bound him with, screaming through my veins, a storm trapped in flesh. I could feel him trying to twist my limbs, trying to force me to move. 

I clenched my fists so tightly my knuckles cracked. My jaw locked. My teeth ached. I was shaking with restraint. Every instinct screamed toward her—her scent, her heat, her maddening presence—and I had to dig my nails into my palms to remind myself who was in control.

I didn't want her. I couldn't want her. She was a threat. A manipulation. A weapon wrapped in temptation. My hatred for her mate should have been enough to steel my spine, but it barely held me together. My thoughts spun like leaves in a hurricane, all leading back to her, always her.

The wolf growled again, deep and guttural. My chest clenched in response, tight enough to steal the air. I rolled over, curled into myself, muscles taut and aching.

I wasn't losing sleep—I was being ripped apart.

Every minute I resisted made my body feel more foreign, more wrong. And under it all, like a quiet heartbeat in a war zone, her scent lingered.

Pulling.

Tearing me back toward her.

I couldn't do this. My teeth clenched as I fought. She was here because of how much I loathed her mate. The despicable excuse of a man. My hatred for him was greater than most things. I focused on that. Focused on the pounding of my rage against my body.

It should be enough because what I felt for him was racing, a storm, crashing waves, a current pulling people to drown, and yet it was rendered useless when copper hair flashed in my mind. Hair like blood but much brighter. Fuck, she made me want. Starve, depraved, and devastated. 

I could do this. I could. I had gone through worse, and I would lose my grip on reality or be thrown over the edge for a girl. I had better self-control. Fuck. I shut my eyes with force. 

A growl escaped my lips, my wolf taking over, and I shot up from my bed. The pain was too much, the craving powerful as I went to her. Went to the warehouse. My cock hardening in my underwear, the only thing I was wearing given it was midnight, as the thought of having her-hearing her scream, sending blood down there. 

I stood up, my limbs moving against my will, my eyes barely open, but the urgency was there: My breaths were uneven, loud, and desperate as I got closer. Her scent. So sweet yet so stormy. Vanilla. Cherry. I wanted. I licked my lips as I got to the guest room. 

Primal need driving me, I broke down the door to see her sleeping. So unsuspecting. Innocent. Fuck. My cock throbbed harder. I rushed to her, and she jolted awake.

She parted her lips to say something as her eyes widened with fear and confusion, and her full scent hit me. 

Before she could speak, I lifted her in my arms, removing my cock from my underwear and whatever protest, noise, she wanted to make died as I unceremoniously plunged into her. It was rough, hard, and feverish. 

No one had made me lose control before, and here I was, acting all deranged and mad for her. So sick for her. To feel her and to be in her. "Fuck! Who the fuck are you?" it sounded almost helpless as I kept thrusting, "and what have you done to me?"