Mated To The Possessive White Tiger Marshal

, I can't-I can't

s voice breaking

as all heat

ears, and molten gold eyes pressed him down into somewher

ssively around Ansel's waist, whil

tiger rumbled, fangs grazing just unde

rough Ansel's chest. "So sensitiv

d to soft pads, traced

sly into thick white fur. He meant to push aw

ing Ansel's chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. "Good

eavy and overwhelming, until ther

heat, and that deep possessive gr

ot stripe over his pulse, tail tightenin

binding. A deep, intimate anchoring that

, heart hammering,

en eyes. Just the familiar ache of loneliness a

is hands hard against his

Completely, bor

ever been into any weird play, never e

why a mal

tkin pinning him down and m

ress? Lon

ld by anyone, so his brain just in

y, his heart still racing for all the wrong reasons. After a

w. Birthday first. Cake first. P

s phone. The screen lit up: 12:00 midnight.

a mundane notification popped into view.

s was the only birth

a greasy paper bag. It was a cheap treat from the c

fe, casting dancing shadows across the cramped apartment. The room was a testament to a life on hold. A lumpy mattress lay

from the dark window pane: a thi

He picked it up. It was a text from Martha Foster, the elderly w

e. Don't forget to

l's lips, a rare warmth in the cold

ha. Thanks fo

ing the familiar ache of loneliness in its place. He turned back to

posed to m

ut, hands pressed together, faces solemn enough to negotiate with God. Ansel, however, never remembered a si

im, a slightly squashed cupcake, and a si

s eyes, and let one corner of his mouth curl up-half self-mockery,

w year, I could get r

and still com

to my mouth and clothe

sowing. Profit

, as if he were l

a one-step ascensi

e lean

hed, plunging the room i

ding. The windows rattled violently in their frames, a sound so l

slamming against his ribs fro

oom, pouring through the window. It wasn't like any lightning he had ever seen. It seeme

es, a purely instinctual ge

rn or a shock, but something deeper, as if every atom in h

s felt like they had turned to a

d back to the tiger's heat in the dream-no, not

rom the forgotten cupcake filled his

ousness were a balloon cut from its string, floating up to

d of shitty luck is this? On my twenty-first birthday? First that bizarre, embarrassing ti

o to work tomorrow. And... one way to f

ught di

dark scorch mark where Ansel Hayes had been moments before. The cupcak

ged on, as if nothing