The music pounded through The Den, a deep, pulsing bass that synced with the slow, primal thrum in Tank’s chest.
The whiskey burned smooth down his throat, but he barely noticed it anymore. The heat in the room—the press of bodies, the scent of sweat and lust—it was fuel.
Something inside him had been waiting.
Waiting for the right moment.
Waiting for permission.
And here, now, surrounded by men already on the edge of surrender, that thing inside him stretched, unfurling its limbs, whispering in a voice that was both his and not his.
Take them.
Tank exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. His skin felt tight, hot, too small to contain the power surging through him.
Jason was still watching him, a flicker of something between concern and fascination in his eyes.
“You sure you’re good, man?”
Tank grinned, sharp and hungry.
“I’m fucking perfect.”
And then the first man touched him.
It was subtle at first—a hand brushing his arm, a fleeting moment of contact. But the second it happened, the man shuddered, eyes going wide, lips parting on a sharp gasp.
It was like he had been hit with something physical.
Tank turned to him, curious.
The man—tall, broad, thickly muscled with a trimmed ginger beard—was panting, eyes dark with something desperate.
“I—” he started, but his voice caught, like he couldn’t get the words out.
Jason noticed. “Uh, dude?”
But it was too late.
The moment of hesitation shattered as the man lunged, pressing against Tank like he needed to. His hands gripped, his breath ragged.
And once the first one broke, the rest followed.
6 – The Orgy Begins
It was contagious.
Men who had been drinking, laughing, dancing—now they were turning, drawn to Tank like moths to a wildfire.
The energy spiked, a wave of pure, undiluted hunger rolling through the crowd.
Jason took a step back. “What the fuck—”
But Tank wasn’t listening anymore.
He felt it now.
The pull. The need.
Hands grabbed him—fingers digging into his chest, arms, waist. Mouths pressed against his skin, lips fevered, desperate.
And Tank let go.
He growled low in his throat, feral, rolling his shoulders as men swarmed him.
Their restraint shattered.
Shirts were ripped away, mouths and hands everywhere, men groaning, moaning, offering themselves to him in a haze of sweat and submission.
Jason stumbled back, eyes wide. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Tank barely heard him.
Because he was in control now.
Not just of himself.
Of them.
A man fell to his knees before him, eyes wild, hands gripping Tank’s thighs. “Please,” he gasped.
Another man—latino, tatted, his breath shaking—licked the sweat from Tank’s collarbone, moaning as if tasting something sacred.
Tank grinned, flashing teeth.
His canines were longer now.
The room was nothing but heat and bodies and sound.
Moans.
Groans.
The wet, eager slick of mouths meeting skin.
It wasn’t just sex.
It was worship.
Tank growled again, dragging his fingers through the sweaty hair of the man kneeling before him, tugging him closer.
And in that moment, he finally understood what Atlas had meant.
Trust the changes.
He was becoming something else.
Something more.
And he loved it.
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