Page 75 of Marked By Alphas 2: Claimed

“Need help?” Caleb asked innocently, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I growled, determined to maintain what little dignity I had left. I leaned forward carefully, trying to eat without making a complete mess of myself. It was like trying to eat soup without handsor a spoon—technically possible but guaranteed to end in disaster.

Three bites in, I had food on my muzzle, on the books beneath me, and somehow on my ear. The wolves in the room were doing a poor job of hiding their amusement, though Maria at least tried to look sympathetic.

“Perhaps this would be easier,” Marcus said, picking up a fork and offering me a bite from his hand.

Being hand-fed by Marcus Stone was somehow both mortifying and intimate. His fingers brushed my muzzle with each bite, his eyes never leaving mine. Caleb soon joined in, alternating bites with Marcus, while Derek cut the meat into smaller pieces for them.

“Look at him,” Jorge beamed, as if watching a toddler take its first steps. “He eats so well!”

I wanted to crawl under the table and die. Or at least hide until I had opposable thumbs again. But my traitorous stomach growled, reminding me how hungry shifting had made me.

When I turned my head away after a few bites, more from embarrassment than fullness, Maria frowned.

“You must eat,” she insisted. “No food, no strength. No strength, no shifting back.”

Put that way, I didn’t have much choice. So I endured the indignity of being fed like a toddler, trying to ignore the way my wolf preened at being cared for by my mates.

“Don’t worry,” Caleb whispered, sneaking me an extra piece of meat. “We’ve all been stuck in wolf form before. Derek once got so angry at a training exercise he couldn’t shift back for three days.”

Derek’s growl suggested this was not a story he wanted shared.

“He had to attend a board meeting as a wolf,” Caleb continued, grinning. “Marcus had to explain he had laryngitis.”

Despite my predicament, I huffed a sound that was the wolf equivalent of laughter. The mental image of Derek, massive and intimidating, sitting at a corporate table while executives pretended not to notice he was a wolf, was too absurd not to appreciate.

“That’s better,” Marcus murmured, his fingers lingering on my fur. “I was beginning to worry we’d lost your sense of humor along with your thumbs.”

After dinner came the next challenge: bathing a wolf who was covered in food debris and forest dirt.

“He’ll use my bathroom,” Marcus declared, already scooping me up before his brothers could protest. “It has the largest tub.”

“Hogging him already?” Caleb accused, but there was no real heat in it. “Fine, but I get to dry him off.”

“We’ll see,” Marcus replied cryptically, carrying me upstairs to his suite.

Marcus’ bathroom was, like everything else in the manor, ridiculously oversized. The tub could have comfortably fit all three brothers—a thought that sent heat flooding through me despite my furry predicament.

“Temperature check,” Marcus murmured, testing the water with his hand before gently lowering me into the shallow bath.

The warm water felt heavenly against my dirt-encrusted fur. I hadn’t realized how many leaves, twigs, and unidentifiable forest bits I’d collected during my woodland adventure.

“Hold still,” Marcus instructed, squeezing a dollop of what smelled like ridiculously expensive shampoo into his palm. “This is specially formulated for wolf fur.”

Of course it was. Why wouldn’t they have wolf-specific toiletries? These guys probably had separate conditioners for each phase of the moon.

His hands were gentle as they worked the shampoo into my fur, strong fingers massaging down to the skin. It felt so good I nearly melted into the water, a contented sound escaping before I could stop it.

“Like that, do you?” Marcus chuckled, his voice deeper than usual. “Good to know.”

The embarrassment of being bathed like a pet was offset by how incredible it felt to have Marcus’ hands on me. Each stroke sent pleasure rippling through my small body, and I leaned leaning into his touch shamelessly.

As he rinsed the suds away, I couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming emotions of the day—the fear of being stuck, the frustration of not being able to communicate, the vulnerability of being so small and dependent.

Marcus seemed to understand immediately. He lifted me from the water and cradled me against his chest, not caring that his shirt was getting soaked.

“I know, little one,” he murmured, holding me close as I trembled against him. “I know it’s overwhelming.”

---