Marked by My Secondhand Delivery Wolf

I pointed at the mountain of oversized packages stacked in the corner of the station.

"Adrian, relax. See those boxes?"

He followed my finger, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"I see them."

"Your job is simple. Move all the ones marked in red onto that cargo tricycle. The ones marked in blue go all the way to the back of the warehouse."

Adrian froze.

He turned to look at me, and for the first time, something like disbelief crossed his face.

"You bought me… to carry boxes?"

I nodded as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"What else? You think I bought you to worship? I paid two thousand five hundred dollars. You're earning that back."

He fell silent.

Something complicated flickered through those deep green eyes.

Humiliation, maybe. Relief. And beneath it, something darker. Almost fervent.

He didn't argue. He turned and walked toward the pile.

A double-door refrigerator, still mounted on its wooden shipping frame, weighed at least six hundred pounds.

Normally I needed two workers to lift it, plus a tip to keep them from complaining.

Adrian stepped up, gripped the edge of the wooden frame with one hand, braced his back and hoisted the entire thing onto his shoulder.

Effortless. Like lifting a sack of cotton.

My jaw nearly dropped.

Jackpot.

This wasn't a vicious werewolf. This was my personal money-printing machine.

He carried the refrigerator to the tricycle and set it down gently.

Then he looked back at me.

Like he was waiting. For orders. Or praise.

I walked over and patted his dust-covered shoulder.

"Nice work. Keep going. There are a hundred more."

The slight lift to his chin stiffened.

He stared at me in disbelief.

"A hundred?"

"Yes. Hurry. The truck leaves at six."

I was already turning away to check invoices.

Behind me, heavy footsteps and the thud of boxes hitting metal echoed through the station.

Adrian worked nonstop.

All afternoon, in the sweltering warehouse without air conditioning, he did the labor of three men by himself.

Sweat traced down the sharp line of his jaw, soaking through his worn tank top.

The scent of heat and sweat filled the air.

Every so often I looked up. He would be hauling another crate—while staring at me.

That look was intense.

Hot enough to burn.

And the grinding never stopped.

The sound made my own teeth ache.

By the time we closed for the night, I handed him a boxed dinner with two extra chicken legs inside.

"Eat. You did well today."

Adrian took the food but didn't open it.

Instead, he stepped closer. His tall frame cast a shadow over me.

He lowered his head until his nose was almost brushing the side of my neck.

His breath was hot against my skin.

"Jade."

He said my name, voice hoarse and strained.

"I feel terrible."

My heart jumped. I thought he'd overworked himself or gotten heatstroke.

"What hurts? Did you strain your back?"

I reached toward his lower back.

The moment my hand touched his muscle, his entire body jolted.

He grabbed my wrist—hard enough to make my pulse spike.

But he quickly reined himself in, his grip loosening to something almost careful.

The green in his eyes darkened. His breathing turned uneven.

"My teeth itch. I want to bite something."

I exhaled in relief.

"You scared me. I thought it was a workplace injury. It's normal. You're a wolf. Grinding your teeth is instinct."

I pulled a stick of dried beef jerky from my drawer—the one I'd meant to snack on myself—and pushed it into his mouth.

"Bite this. It'll keep you busy."

Adrian held the jerky between his teeth.

For a split second, his expression went blank.

Then the grinding grew even more intense.