A Little Bad

Shock. It was an emotion Peter had grown disturbingly familiar with over the past year. So familiar that he thought he had mastered the feeling by now. Case in point:

1. Werewolves exist? Sure.

2. He was one now? Whatever.

3. Brom, Chad, Knave (insert name here) wanted to assault, kidnap, and/or kill him? Not ideal, but Peter had dealt with it all like a champ.

4. Damon was convinced they were soul mates and wanted to pin him to the floor (bed, wall, any surface would suffice really) and have filthy, mind-blowing sex with him until his brain leaked out of his ears? Who was Peter to complain?

But this . . . ? No. Peter drew the line at mystical, self-generating wombs. Last time he had checked, he was a man with man parts—and he'd frickin' show you if you didn't believe him, thank you very much. It wasn't physically possible for him to be . . . he wasn't . . . Jesus Christ, he couldn't even think the word in his own head. Pregnant, his inner voice whispered traitorously.

Contains mature themes.

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Lydbog: 27. januar 2026