Page 88 of The Hyena’s Guardian

Theron’s hand left him gently. Then his palm settled over Matt’s heart again, feeling it race beneath his touch. Matt’s hand came up and caught Theron’s wrist. Held it there.

“That,” Matt said, his voice raw and wrecked, “was not what I expected.”

Theron’s laugh came warm and surprised, his forehead dropping to rest against Matt’s shoulder. “Is that good or bad?”

Matt’s own laugh followed, breathless and real. “Good.” His thumb traced the inside of Theron’s wrist again. “Really good.”

Theron turned his head, pressed a kiss to Matt’s skin, and stayed there, a warm weight against his chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Matt’s hand moved. Not the hand holding Theron’s wrist, but the other one. His fingers traced upward from Theron’s forearm, following lines of sinew and bone until they reached the scars.

Theron went still.

The scars were old. Whitened with years, layered over one another in patterns that told a story Matt could not know. Some were thin, precise lines, the kind a blade made. Others were ragged and uneven where flesh had healed badly. The largest ran from the inside of Theron’s elbow nearly to his wrist, a pale river through darker skin.

Matt’s thumb followed it from end to end. Light. Reverent.

“Matt.” Theron’s voice came low, almost a warning. But he did not pull away.

“I know,” Matt said. His fingers continued their mapping. “You don’t have to tell me how you got them.”

Theron’s jaw tightened. His hand, still spread over Matt’s heart, fingers pressing in like he needed the anchor.

“But I want to know them,” Matt finished. He lifted his gaze from Theron’s arm to his face. “Is that okay?”

The question hung between them.

Theron’s expression flickered through something raw and quickly shuttered. Surprise, maybe, or the reflex of someone who had never been asked that before. “No one’s ever—” Theron stopped. Started again. “No one’s ever touched them like this.”

“I know.” Matt’s voice was soft, steady. “I’m asking anyway.”

Theron held his gaze for a long moment. Then, something in his shoulders loosened. A fraction of an inch. Barely visible, but enough.

“Yeah,” Theron said after a moment. “It’s okay.”

Matt’s fingers resumed their careful path. He traced the largest scar again, then moved to the smaller ones, the ladder of parallel lines near Theron’s elbow, the star-shaped mark on the meat of his forearm, the thin white line that curled around his wrist like a bracelet.

Beneath Theron’s skin stirred something older and angrier than thought or feeling, something with its own pulse.

His wolf.

For years it had existed in a state somewhere between fury and starvation, driven half-mad by the mountain’s corruption and the endless restraint required to keep it contained. Theron had grown so accustomed to holding it back that the constant pressure had become indistinguishable from silence.

But now, for the first time in longer than he could remember, the rage eased. The wolf no longer felt like something clawing at the inside of his ribs trying to escape. It felt aware. Present.

Watching Matt with the same impossible certainty Theron himself was beginning to fear.

Him, the wolf seemed to say, with the kind of certainty instinct rarely questioned.

Him.

Theron’s eyes opened fully. Matt was watching him with that steady, patient gaze, his hand still resting over the scars, his body still pressed warm along Theron’s side.

“You feel it too,” Matt said. Not a question.

Theron nodded. His voice came rough. “Yeah.”