You were in shock. One moment you’d been trudging through the swamp after a nasty storm, then suddenly you were scooped up by a large creature who declared you his mate.

The trees twisted overhead like silent sentinels, their roots curling toward a hidden world few had ever seen.

And then, you saw it.

His home.

It was no crude hut, no ruined shelter swallowed by time. It was ancient. Grand. A structure built into the swamp itself, as though the earth had shaped itself around him. Massive pillars of petrified wood stretched high into the mist, woven with thick vines and draping moss. The walls were smooth, dark stone, half-swallowed by nature, half-standing defiant against it. Flickering torches cast golden light against carved murals—scenes of war, of gods, of a time long forgotten.

He stepped inside, the air shifting instantly—warmer, thick with the scent of burning herbs and damp soil. A great hearth blazed at the center, its fire reflecting in the deep pool of water that stretched along one side of the dwelling.

He set you down on a bed of thick furs. When you moved—to stand, to run, to make sense of what happened —his hand pressed against your shoulder, firm but gentle.

“Do not.”

His voice was low, commanding.

His eyes, burning like embers, locked onto yours with an intensity that rooted you in place. Powerful muscles rippling beneath his skin. You looked up—his towering form, his dark gaze steady, filled with something unshakable.

He reached for you, fingertips tracing the edge of your jaw gently, almost reverent. “You will not leave.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“You are mine now. And I do not release what is mine.”

Beyond the heavy wooden doors, the swamp stretched on—endless, dark, unforgiving.

You weren’t getting out. Not unless he let you. And you already knew he never would.

A few days passed. He came and he went, always locking the door. Today he entered with a large dead alligator slung over his shoulder, nodding to the stretched pool as he hooked the animal by the fire. “Bathe.”