The door swings open, and you don’t even bother hiding the glare. Sandor Clegane fills the room like smoke—solid, black, unavoidable. You’re draped in blankets, soft as a goddess, but he doesn’t need softness; he needs to see the bite in your eyes, the little stubborn flare that screams want me.

He drops the cloak before his boots hit the floor, heavy and deliberate. Every step closer, you can feel the heat radiating off him, leather and smoke and something darker. You pout, you shift, you curl—and then you press, nudging your body forward, letting your chest, your hip, your shoulder mold against him. Subtle, calculated, yet undeniable. His eyes darken.

“Bitch,” he mutters, voice low and amused, and it’s like a spark. Your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away. Of course he thinks it. Of course he sees right through you. Female dogs in heat—exactly, and the corner of his mouth twitches, just the smallest, cruelest smile. You’d be offended if it weren’t so true.

He kneels by the chaise, boots kicked off, cloak tossed, eyes dark as he studies you like a wolf surveying a mark. You press a little harder this time, letting your body mold to the line of his arm, the broad sweep of his chest, your hand brushing lightly over his side. The subtle weight of you against him is a message he doesn’t need words to understand.

“Stop squirming,” he growls, though the roughness is laced with amusement. “You’re all over the place.”

“I’m not squirming,” you snap, voice sharper than your glare, but your hip nudges him closer anyway, your shoulder leaning fully into his side, letting him feel the full curve of you. He hums low, approving, one hand sliding to the small of your back, tracing a path over your spine, mapping the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip. His other hand drifts over your arm, letting his fingers brush against the line of your shoulder, memorizing, cataloging.

The maids have fussed over you—stew, bread, fruit, pillows stacked like an altar—but none of it matters. Your heat, your need, the tiny tremor in your fingers as you curl against him, that’s what pulls him in. He leans closer, letting your head rest against his chest, the solid warmth of him pressing against your back, your side. You push further, your body molding to him like you’re trying to fuse, and he doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull away.

“You’re supposed to eat something,” he mutters, voice rough, almost teasing, as his fingers still trace over your side. You blink up at him, stubborn, letting your cheek press harder into him, letting the curve of your hip rest flush against his leg. “Pup, you’re going to waste away if you don’t.”

You sigh, conceding just enough. One hand reaches for the bowl of stew, holding it so you can scoop a spoonful, and he leans close, letting you press back against him as you bring it to your lips. The warm broth hits your mouth, salty and rich, grounding you, and you can feel the shift of his weight against your back as he leans just enough for your shoulder to rest comfortably against his chest. You offer him a piece of bread, letting it brush against his palm as he takes it, muttering a low, amused growl, and the barest brush of fingers sends a thrill along your side.

Then the fruit. You pluck a slice of apple and press it into his hand, teasing him with the slow movement of your own fingers trailing along his. He hums, low, satisfied, letting you feel him settle more fully against your body, mapping, holding, claiming. The subtle heat of his arm along your spine, the weight of him pressing your hip to his leg—it’s intoxicating, grounding, and dangerous all at once. You curl into him, letting your movements dictate the closeness, letting him feel every inch of your curves against his own.

You nibble at a piece of fruit, letting the juice drip slightly onto your fingers, and he watches, letting a single finger brush across your knuckles to wipe it clean. In here, with Sandor kneeling, boots gone, cloak discarded, the scent of smoke and iron and dark amusement thick in the air—you’re his bitch, and he’s your hound.