The forest pulsed with silence, a hush that clung to the night like breath on glass. Moonlight slashed through the trees in broken streaks, glinting off the sharp gold of Inok’s eyes. He moved like smoke—silent, untraceable—until he was there, pinning her with the precision of a predator who had grown bored of the chase.

She gasped, but no sound left her lips.

His hand clamped firmly over her mouth, pressing her back against the rough bark of an ancient tree. The other hand seized both her wrists, raising them above her head with effortless strength. Her magic—dangerous and wild—flickered just beneath the surface of her skin, but he had her caught, and he knew it.

He leaned in slowly, the curve of his pale lips inches from her face. His breath was cool, laced with something ancient and wrong and intoxicating.

"A witch without her mouth is like a carriage without a horse," he whispered, his voice rich with mockery—silken and sharp.

Then, he tilted his head, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he finished with a venom-laced murmur:
"Useless."

She shivered, not from fear—but from fury.

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke between them. His hand at her wrists tightened—not cruel, but firm, inescapable.

"And you without your hands?" he asked, voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he trailed his nose along the line of her throat, breathing her in like a secret he meant to keep. His lips barely moved as he whispered:

"Defenseless."

The woods held its breath. And so did she.