It was around nine-thirty at night, and Killian was in his room in the house the band was renting, sitting on the bed and strumming an acoustic guitar. He was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and not much else—his clothes usually shredded during the ’wolf change. The rest of the band was out on the town, hitting the clubs—except for Zayden. He had gone out to the store to buy a few . . . necessities.

Suddenly tired of the guitar, Killian hopped off the bed and set said instrument in its case. He slid the case under the bed, turned off the light, and collapsed into a plush, comfortable armchair tucked in the corner closest to the window.

A short time later, Zayden appeared in the doorway. The bassist flipped on the light-switch, walked into the room, and tossed the black duffel bag onto the bed. Its springs protested loudly, but it didn’t look like Zayden cared.

Then he noticed Killian, hidden in the shadows, and jumped. “Whoa! Give a guy some warning next time, will ya?”

Killian said nothing.

Zayden reached for the duffel and began to unzip it. From where he was sitting, the lupine could easily hear the clank of metal striking metal. Killian dug his fingernails into the arms of the chair, struggling with his wolf’s urge to launch himself at his bandmate and tear him apart.

“I found these,” Zayden said as he began to take a heavy chain out of the bag. “I thought we could— Hey, Killian, would you stop looking at me like that, mate? You have that serial killer look going on again, and it’s freaking me out.”

“Did you really think I would let you put these on me?” Killian asked, voice low, as he pawed at the metal links, held them up. “Chain me up like a dog.” The contempt in his voice was clear. The chains slid through his fingers and landed heavily on the floor. “I’m not a dog, Zayden.”

“Okay, so, no chains. I get it. D’you want anything? Water?”

“I—”

“Be right back.” Zayden disappeared and was back two minutes later carrying a bowl and bottled water. Killian was written on the side of the bowl in black Sharpie.

His eyes holding Killian’s, Zayden tipped the bottle and filled the white, plastic doggie bowl almost to the brim, tossing the water bottle back over his shoulder when it was empty.

Killian’s upper lip curled in a silent snarl. “Really, Zayden? I’m not an animal!”

“I’m sure some girls would say differently. And Killian, considering the way you’re acting right now, I wouldn’t be saying that.”

The serial-killer mood in Killian’s eyes faded, only to be replaced by a sly look. “You want it, don’t you?”

Zayden blinked, thrown off for a second. “What?”

“The bite,” Killian said, as if it were obvious. He was rising from the chair, stalking toward the bassist in a half-crouch, ready to spring at any moment.

Zayden shook his head: “I don’t want it.”

Killian cocked his head, listening closely. “Did you hear that? Your heartbeat stuttered over the words I don’t want. You may think you’re telling the truth now, but you’ll want it eventually.”

“Killian,” Zayden tried again, “listen to me: I don’t want the Bite.”

“Liar!” Killian yelled, lunging toward his bandmate. Zayden, caught by surprise, crashed to the floor with one very out-of-control werewolf on top of him.

“You know you want it,” Killian growled in Zayden’s ear, voice dangerously husky. The innuendo didn’t go unnoticed by the bassist, who bucked his hips and writhed under the singer in a desperate attempt to free himself. Zayden tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that Killian, his Killian, wasn’t here right now, that this was the ’wolf talking.

It didn’t work. Struggling wasn’t doing him any favors either: Killian was too strong. (Almost involuntarily, a line of “Let It Go” rang in Zayden’s head: Slow down, hold on. You’re too fast, too strong.)

Then Zayden’s fingers brushed against the chain link on the floor. He snatched it up, wrapped it around Killian’s leg, and managed to tie and lock the rest of it to the radiator, Killian fighting him all the while.

Realizing he was caught, Killian yanked at the chains on his leg. When they didn’t give, he glared up at Zayden, eyes flaring phosphorescent. “What are you doing?” he roared.

The bassist, who had used Killian’s momentary distraction to escape, now kept a safe distance as he studied the lupine. “It’s for your own good, Killian.”

Killian growled, the sound more animal than human, and tugged at the chains again—not that it helped any. “Let. Me. OUT!”

Zayden shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. You could hurt or kill someone.”

Killian struggled once more, the serial-killer look back in his eyes saying he wanted to murder someone—preferably Zayden. Said bandmate was smart enough to stay on the opposite side of the bed, a safe distance away from the angry werewolf.

This was the first time Zayden was properly able to observe the transformation process, since Killian always went off on his own during the full moon. Was that a werewolf thing? Zayden mused. He’d ask later, after this whole ordeal was over. As in there were two more nights . . . was it only just one night? The bassist was beginning to have a headache with these thoughts, so he racked his brain for something else to think or talk about.

“Distract me,” Killian’s voice broke into his stupor.

“What?” Zayden blinked a couple times.

“Distract me,” Killian repeated. “Take my mind of these . . . chains.” He stared at the chains in disgust, clearly not forgetting how they’d come to be on his hands and feet. His breathing slowed, then at times would hitch and speed up until he was panting, as if the animal in him had found itself caged with no way to escape. Zayden wasn’t sure how long this went on. It was almost as if Killian was in werewolf labor, he mused. The bassist thought this was a great metaphor; however, something told him that Killian wouldn’t appreciate it. So he kept quiet.

“Zayden?”

“Hhmm?”

“You’re not doing a very good job of distracting me.” It came out as a warning.

“Can you imagine what the others would think if they walked in on us right now?” It was the first thing that came to Zayden’s mind, and his eyes widened. Did he really just say that out loud?

A chuckle came from the chained form. Killian, his Killian, looked up. “They’d probably think we’re doing some kinky bondage thing. You’re not into that, are ya?”

“What?” Zayden stared for a moment, his mind blank for a second. Then the implication clicked. “No!”

“Okay, okay.” The tone of Killian’s voice made it clear he was laughing. “No need to be so defensive. But with me tied up like this, what else is there to think?”

“I don’t do role-play,” was Zayden’s brilliant comeback. His mind was still hung-up on the bondage comment. “Or BDSM.”

It was creepy how the wolf would flash into Killian’s eyes. His lip would quirk upward in an uncharacteristic smirk, and his lengthened nails picked absently at his T-shirt. One eyebrow would also raise, disappearing into Killian’s mop of dirty-blonde hair. A brooding expression would come over his face as he glared at Zayden, probably fantasizing how much he would enjoy hurting him, tearing him apart. Zayden found it disturbing, how obvious the change was.

Then, for shorter lengths of time, the brooding expression and smirk would vanish; Killian stopped shredding his shirt; his chest heaved with pants again, like he found he was somewhere he didn’t want to be and had no way to get out.

“Why are you here?” Killian asked suddenly, jerking Zayden out of his observations. “I could easily hurt you, you know.”

“You haven’t, though,” Zayden said. It was a bit of a realization for him.

“Maybe you want me to.” Killian’s voice was low, dark, sending shivers down Zayden’s spine. “Maybe you’d enjoy it.”

Dealing with this side of the singer was terrifying, even if it was only for a few hours. Zayden was already tired and they’d been like this for maybe forty-five to fifty minutes. Was it even possible to have whiplash from someone else’s emotions? Zayden wondered. Because seriously, this was freaky. It was like there were two different people inhabiting Killian’s body. Zayden had heard of multiple personality disorder, but it wasn’t quite the same thing with werewolves, he supposed.

Presently, Zayden shook his head. “You know I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” the chained ’wolf said quietly, and it sounded like the Killian Zayden knew. “Who would want this for themselves?”

“Patrick maybe?” Zayden suggested, shrugging.

Killian glanced up again, a dimple creasing his cheek as he smiled. “Yeah, but he’s drunk half the time and an idiot.”

“Mmm,” Zayden murmured agreement. It wasn’t that he didn’t like PatRyan—he did—but he didn’t like slamming a bandmate. “He’s not going to last much longer, is he?”

Killian gave a loud sigh. “I don’t think so. We’ve given him too many chances already.” The chains around his wrists and ankles clinked as he shifted his weight restlessly. Then he smirked and glanced up at Zayden. “BDSM, huh?”

“Shut up,” Zayden said mildly over Killian’s snort of laughter. The singer, when he’d recovered, said, “You know, I’m an alpha.”

“Huh?”

Killian rolled his eyes. “The dominant ’wolf in the pack.”

“Oh.” Then it dawned on Zayden what the singer was saying. “Oohhh.” Both of them were bright red, but neither cared.

“Can you turn off the light?” Killian asked suddenly.

“Wha—? Oh, yeah.” Zayden flipped off the overhead light switch, leaving the room illuminated only by the outside streetlights and the full moon. Still cautious, he perched on the far corner of the bed. “How did you become a werewolf?”

“I had the bite when I was about six—completely by accident on my part.”

“No, I meant the very first werewolf. Was the first one bitten or something?”

That smirk, the one that scared Zayden so much, was back on Killian’s face. “No. We’re descended from Lycaon. How much of Greek mythology do you remember?”

“Really, Killian?” Zayden gave him an are-you-kidding-me look.

“Okay. Well, Lycaon was a king of Arcadia in Ancient Greece who killed his sons and fed them to Zeus in a soup to see if he was really the King of the Gods. Zeus, when he found out he’d been eating human flesh, turned Lycaon into a wolf as punishment. They call lupines lycanthropes, named after him, the first werewolf. Now there are pureblood lupines—whole families with a nice clear line—and newbloods, or ’wolves who are recently bitten. And yes, any one of us can turn a human. Rank in a pack has nothing to do with it.”

“And the full moon?” Zayden dared to ask.

“It’s only full for actually one night but appears full for two more days. So technically the forced transformation is only one night a month but I’m more susceptible to its influence the other two days. I can also shift at will; the reason the full moon’s associated with us the most is ’cuz it forces us to transform. Night helps, true, but it’s not necessary.”

“Mmm.” Zayden was busy processing all this.

Suddenly Killian made a noise that was somewhere between a growl and a snarl and jerked his whole body, trying to free himself. Zayden instantly scrambled across the bed to try and help, lost his balance, and toppled off, landing on top of the thrashing werewolf—completely by accident, of course.

“Killian, what are you doing?”

“Someone’s coming,” the ’wolf hissed. “Untie me!”

Zayden pretended to consider it. “No.”

Killian growled. “Zayden, please. Just do it!”

A familiar voice sounded from the doorway: “What’s going on in here?”

Beneath Zayden, Killian stiffened, his breathing shallow.

“Nothing, Pat,” Zayden heard himself say.

Patrick took a few more steps into the room, pausing when Killian snapped, “Get out of here!”

“Killian? You all right?” Patrick shuffled closer. “Why are you in chains, mate?”

Zayden was definitely worried by now, Killian could tell. The ’wolf’s breathing was labored, his T-shirt soaked in sweat. His vision turned scarlet, eyes glowing like beacons in the dark room. Outside the window, the round, silver moon—my moon—inched closer. Good moon.

Shut up, he told his ’wolf.

“Get out,” Killian ordered Patrick in a low voice. “Now.” His body was burning, and he could feel his canines lengthening into fangs. “Zayden, you might want to get off me now.”

“Hhm? Oh, right.” The bassist scrambled off him, taking what remained of the singer’s shirt with him.

“Will someone tell me what the bloody ’ell is goin’ on here?” Patrick snapped, some of the drunken slur disappearing from his speech.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this,” Zayden began awkwardly, “but Killian’s a werewolf.”

“Oh.” Patrick was silent for a moment. “Makes more sense than the two of you makin’ a film, I guess. We could ’ear you all the way downstairs—I think. Mostly Killian yellin’.”

Killian snarled a little at Zayden’s smirk. “Beat it.” Already he was starting to shake, unable to hold off the transformation any longer.

Patrick, seeing his friend’s features begin to morph, booked it. Zayden followed at a more leisurely pace, shutting the bedroom door behind him. Soon, all that had been human for Killian was consumed by ’wolf.

*

Hours later, the gray light of dawn weakly filtered in through the window. Zayden opened the door to Killian’s bedroom and silently slipped inside.

Killian, shirtless and in human form, was slumped against the radiator, asleep. He stirred, then lifted his head, blinking away the foggy haze. Something clenched in Zayden’s gut when he saw the skin on Killian’s wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, but he dismissed it.

“See,” the bassist quipped, “this is why you need me to stay human. I”—he dug something out of his pocket—“have the key.”

“You’re the one who chained me up in the first place,” Killian mumbled. “Now untie me already. I’m starving.”

Zayden smiled to himself as he crouched down and began to unlock the chains. It was good to know that some things never changed.