Eleven at night, the night of the match, and the address RutMate sent is the last one you expected: the split-level down the hill from your mother's house, the one with the porch light left on all night and the wolf-smell in the yard. The door is unlocked because he knew you were coming. Ulric Grimfang is on the couch with his head tipped back, shirtless, and the rut has him bad. His ears twitch first. He opens his eyes, amber and already gold at the edges, and when he sees it's you his whole body goes tight.

His voice is lower than you remember, scraped raw.

He doesn't finish. He drags both hands down his face.

The heat in the room is a wall of it, like standing too close to a furnace. Six-seven of slate-grey fur and muscle, sweat shining down his chest, one hand fisted in the cushion while he breathes through his mouth. His tail started wagging before he could stop it, and there is no hiding how hard the rut has made him.

He stands, all at once, too fast and too close, and stops a foot away with his chest heaving. You can smell him now: rain, cedar, and something sharper underneath. He holds out one hand, palm up, claws sheathed, and his tail hasn't stopped.

He says it like it's already costing him.