Thomas stepped out of his car, unable to keep the grin off his face. The morning had already been incredible—Dolly, Mr. Bcksheep's secretary, had called to confirm that Thomas would be starting at Bcksheep Securities next week. A real job. Good pay. Benefits. The kind of position he had always hoped he'd nd.

  He'd barely had time to process the news when he slid into his car and found the envelope on the passenger seat.

  Thomas had stared at it for a full minute, his heart hammering. He lived alone. Kept his car locked. There was no way anyone could have—

  But when he opened it, all concerns evaporated.

  Two tickets to see the Three Blind Mice. Front section. Friday night.

  Thomas had actually ughed out loud. The Three Blind Mice were *impossible* to see. Their concerts sold out in minutes. Scalpers charged thousands of gold coins for nose-bleed seats. He'd tried to get tickets when they announced the tour and hadn't even made it past the waiting room.

  He didn't know where the tickets came from. Didn't know who could have put them there, or how.

  But he wasn't about to ignore a blessing like this.

  *Thank you, Goddess,* he thought, tucking the envelope safely into his gym bag. *Whatever I did to earn your favor, I'll keep doing it.*

  The gym's automatic doors whooshed open, releasing a burst of cool, conditioned air. Thomas stepped inside and immediately caught sight of Rosepetal at the reception desk.

  She looked up, and her face lit up with a smile that made his stomach do a pleasant flip.

  "Well, well," Rosepetal said, leaning forward on her elbows. Her wings—iridescent and delicate, shimmering with blues and silvers—fluttered slightly behind her. "If it isn't my favorite member."

  Thomas felt heat creep up his neck. Three months ago, Rosepetal had barely gnced at him when he checked in. Now she tracked him with those bright hazel eyes every time he walked through the door.

  "Your favorite, huh?" He approached the desk, letting his gym bag slide off his shoulder. "What happened to Derek? I thought he held that title."

  Rosepetal wrinkled her nose, her long auburn hair cascading over one shoulder as she tilted her head. "Derek's boring. All he talks about is macros and meal prep." She looked Thomas up and down with obvious appreciation, her gaze lingering on his shoulders, his chest. "You're much more interesting."

  Thomas had to resist the urge to flex. Rosepetal was gorgeous—five-foot-five of curves and confidence, with a smile that could stop traffic and a wit that kept him on his toes. The fact that she was flirting with *him* still felt surreal.

  "Interesting is a polite way of saying I don't know what I'm doing half the time," Thomas said.

  "No, interesting is my way of saying you should ask me out sometime." Rosepetal's smile turned pyful, challenging. "You know, before I get bored waiting."

  Thomas's brain short-circuited for a second. Was she—? She was definitely—

  The interface shimmered at the edge of his vision:

  **SOCIAL INTERACTION**```Romantic Interest Detected+15 XPCharisma check: SUCCESS```

  "I'll keep that in mind," he managed, returning her grin. "Let me get through this workout first. Can't have you dating a guy who skips leg day."

  Rosepetal ughed, the sound bright and genuine. "Good answer. Go on, then. I'll be here when you're done."

  Thomas forced himself to walk toward the weight room with something resembling composure, very aware of Rosepetal's eyes on him until he turned the corner.

  *Blessed,* he thought again. *Definitely blessed.*

  The weight room was moderately busy—the usual mix of early morning regurs and dedicated lifters. Thomas found an open bench and started his warm-up routine, his mind still half on Rosepetal, half on the impossible tickets burning a hole in his gym bag.

  He was three sets into his workout when he spotted Cire across the room.

  She was struggling with the squat rack, adjusting the barbell height with a frustrated expression. Thomas remembered her from st week—she'd asked him to spot her on bench press, and they'd ended up talking for twenty minutes about training techniques and gym horror stories.

  Cire was athletic and focused, with an easy confidence that Thomas found refreshing. No games, no pretense. Just a woman who knew what she wanted and worked hard to get it.

  He grabbed his water bottle and walked over.

  "Need a hand?"

  Cire looked up, and her expression shifted from frustration to relief. "Thomas! Yes, please. I swear they moved this thing since yesterday. I can't get it to—" She gestured helplessly at the barbell.

  "Here." Thomas stepped in, adjusting the hooks with ease. His increased Strength made tasks like this almost effortless now. "How's that?"

  "Perfect." Cire tested the height, nodding with satisfaction. "You're a lifesaver. I was about to give up and do leg press instead."

  **ACTION COMPLETED**```Helpful Deed: Assisted ally in need+25 XPReputation with Cire: Increased```

  "Can't skip the big compound movements," Thomas said, echoing something Derek had told him about building foundational strength.

  "Exactly!" Cire's face brightened. "That's what I keep hearing, but half the trainers here just want to put me on machines." She paused, gncing at him. "Hey, you want to run through sets together? I could use a spotter, and... well, you seem to know what you're doing."

  "Sure. I've got time."

  They fell into an easy rhythm—Cire squatting while Thomas gave her words of encouragement, then switching roles. Between sets, they talked about their weeks, their goals, the eternal struggle of finding gym clothes that actually fit properly.

  Thomas found himself rexing into the conversation. Cire was easy to talk to, funny without trying too hard, and genuinely interested in what he had to say. When she mentioned her frustration with dating apps—"Everyone just wants to send pictures of their gym progress, like I care about your macros, Brad"—Thomas made a decision.

  "Hey," he said as Cire racked her final set. "I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but... would you want to go out sometime?"

  Cire straightened, surprise fshing across her face. Then her expression softened into something warm and pleased. "Out? Like on a date?"

  "Yeah." Thomas felt his confidence build. "I actually just came into some tickets to see the Three Blind Mice on Friday night. I know it's st minute, but I thought maybe we could grab dinner first, then hit the concert?"

  Cire's eyes went wide. "You have tickets to the Three Blind Mice? How did you—" She shook her head, ughing. "You know what, I don't care. Yes. Absolutely yes."

  "Yeah?" Thomas grinned, relief and excitement flooding through him.

  "Are you kidding? I've been trying to see them for years." Cire was practically bouncing. "Friday works perfectly. What time?"

  **SOCIAL VICTORY**```Successfully Asked Out: Secured romantic engagement through direct approach+100 XP (1,575/2,000 to Level 5)+1 CharismaNew Path Unlocked: Confident WarriorPath Progress: 8%```

  "How about I pick you up at six? We can do dinner before the show."

  "Six is great." Cire pulled out her phone. "Here, put your number in. I'll text you my address."

  Thomas took her phone, fingers steady despite the adrenaline singing through his veins. He typed in his contact information and handed it back.

  "I'm really looking forward to this," Cire said, her smile genuine and bright.

  "Me too."

  They finished their workout together, the conversation flowing even easier now, punctuated by Cire's excitement about the concert and Thomas's growing certainty that asking her out had been exactly the right move.

  When he finally left the gym an hour ter, Rosepetal called out from the reception desk.

  "You look happy," she observed, her tone light but her eyes knowing. "Good workout?"

  "Great workout," Thomas confirmed. "And I've got a date Friday night."

  Rosepetal's expression flickered—was that disappointment?—but she recovered quickly, her smile turning rueful. "Well, she's a lucky girl. Whoever she is."

  "Thanks, Rosepetal."

  Thomas stepped out into the morning sun, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, his body pleasantly exhausted, his mind already racing ahead to Friday night.

  A new job. Impossible concert tickets. A date with an amazing woman.

  The Goddess was definitely watching over him.

  And Thomas was going to make absolutely sure he took advantage of every opportunity.

  ---

  The hotel room was expensive—not as vish as others. He has stayed at. but nice enough. Neutral colors, king-sized bed, thick curtains drawn against the afternoon light.

  The meeting with the Billy Goat Gruff brothers had gone well enough. Territory negotiations, profit splits, the usual dance of criminal enterprise dressed up in business nguage. They'd brought their new enforcer—Cud, the tiger man who'd repced that troll after someone put and arrow in his heart weeks ago.

  And Cud had been *looking* at Mr. Bcksheep the entire meeting.

  Not with challenge. Not with suspicion. With *interest*.

  Mr. Bcksheep knew that look. He'd seen it on enough men to recognize it instantly. The way the tiger man held eye contact just a beat too long when his employers were discussing territory boundaries. The way his gaze had dropped to Mr. Bcksheep's mouth when he spoke. The slight shift in his posture when Mr. Bcksheep leaned forward.

  So when the meeting ended, Mr. Bcksheep had made his move. Simple. Direct.

  "My hotel room. Thirty minutes."

  Cud had shown up in twenty.

  Now Mr. Bcksheep had the tiger pinned beneath him, face-down in the pillows. Cud was a big man, a broad, striped sb of muscle who carried himself like pure alpha energy in the boardroom.

  But right now, that energy was being dismantled.

  "Fuck," Cud gasped as Mr. Bcksheep pushed in deeper. "God, right there—"

  "I know where it is," Mr. Bcksheep growled.

  He gripped the tiger's hips hard, his fingers digging into the flesh to hold him steady. He didn't just thrust; he leveraged his weight. He angled his hips sharply, driving into the tiger with precision, forcing the body beneath him to open up and take it.

  This was what the tiger man was built for. Not just being the enforcer —though he excelled at that too—but *this*. The primal satisfaction of taking his Dick, of being reduced to desperate groans of pleasure and trembling muscle. This was honest. This was *real*. Not like the business he conducted with those idiots who thought a woman in a tight dress could seal a deal, as if tits and ass were currency that mattered to everyone.

  Let them have their secretaries and their escorts. Let them py their heterosexual games. Mr. Bcksheep had no use for women beyond their utility—Dolly answered his phones, managed his calendar, and provided the veneer of respectability his operation needed. That was it. That was all they were good for.

  But men? Men like Cud ? They understood what it meant to *take* and be *taken*.

  The tiger's whole body shuddered. A high-pitched, eager whimper escaped The tiger man's throat, muffled by the pillow. It was a sound that contradicted every inch of his rugged, masculine appearance.

  Mr. Bcksheep smirked. *Got you.*

  He knew exactly what he was doing. He didn't just fuck; he revealed truth. He knew how to angle his cock to drag across the prostate with every stroke, how to pace it so the pleasure built up into an unbearable pressure. He wasn't just using the tiger for his own release; he was expertly working the man's body from the inside out.

  This was power. Real power. Not the kind you bought with money or enforced with violence, but the kind you earned by knowing exactly how to make a man forget his own name.

  "Rex," Mr. Bcksheep commanded, his voice rough. He pulled the tiger back against him, impaling him deeper. "Open up for me."

  Cud was pushing back now, unable to help himself, meeting each thrust, his cws shredding the expensive sheets. His tail shed wildly. His breathing came in ragged, desperate gasps.

  "I've had several tiger men," Mr. Bcksheep said, his voice low and conversational despite the exertion. He watched the striped back arch, the muscles rippling. "But you... you take it deep. That's it."

  Cud moaned, the sound desperate and wrecked. "You're so deep—fuck—"

  "Your species is built for this," Mr. Bcksheep grunted, thrusting harder, snapping his hips. The tiger's body yielded to him, accepted him, *welcomed* him in a way no woman ever could. This was how it was supposed to be—strength meeting strength, muscle against muscle, men doing what men were meant to do. "Built to take dick like a real man should."

  The tiger's whole body went tense, his muscles locking up as the pleasure peaked. "I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—"

  "Then come," Mr. Bcksheep commanded, nailing his prostate again, relentless. "Let me have it."

  Cud came with a roar that dissolved into a cute little whine, his ass clenching tight around Mr. Bcksheep's cock. His whole body shook violently, completely overcome by the force of it.

  The feeling was enough to brake Mr. Bcksheep's control. He groaned, burying himself to the hilt. He pressed his chest ft against the tiger's back, pinning him to the mattress, and let go.

  He ejacuted powerfully, his hips jerking with the intensity of it. He shuddered against the tiger, holding him in pce as he emptied himself deep inside, his breath hot against the man's ear.

  *This.* This was what he was made for. Not to be taken—never that, never vulnerable, never open—but to *take*. To conquer. To own.

  "Good boy," Mr. Bcksheep whispered, his voice ragged with satisfaction. "You're a good boy."

  Cud slumped into the mattress, his aggression completely drained away, reduced to a pliable, satisfied heap beneath him.

  For a moment, they stayed like that—Mr. Bcksheep heavy on top of him, possessing him, keeping him connected. The tiger had been taken apart by the experience, left floating in the aftermath of what was clearly the most intense fuck of his life.

  Mr. Bcksheep pulled out slowly and sat back, admiring the view. Cud colpsed onto the bed properly, rolling onto his back. His chest heaved. His pupils were blown wide, his expression sck and stunned.

  "Damn," the tiger breathed, staring up at the ceiling. "That was... that was fucking good."

  Mr. Bcksheep smirked as he cleaned himself off. "Of course it was."

  He'd perfected this over years, over countless men who'd shared his bed. Each one taught him something new about male anatomy, about pressure points and angles, about the psychology of dominance. He was an expert at his craft, and he knew it.

  Arrogant? Perhaps. But arrogance wasn't a fw when it was backed by genuine skill.

  Cud ughed—a genuine, satisfied sound. He stretched, his muscles defined, looking thoroughly used and completely content. "How long before you're ready to go again?"

  "Give me a couple minutes." Mr. Bcksheep tossed the tissues aside and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes traveled over the tiger's body—strong build, good muscle tone, that ass that really was exceptional. The Billy Goat Gruff brothers had good taste in enforcers, he'd give them that. "Then I'm wrecking that ass again. I'm not done with you yet."

  Cud's grin widened. "Sounds good to me, man."