You were a feral mutant. Same category as Logan, Kurt, Hank, the ones with claws, fangs, tails, instincts that never really shut off.

Remy knew that.

What he didn’t understand was what that actually meant once he started dating you.

You liked to bite.

Any chance you got, you bit him. Didn’t matter where. Bicep? A quick little nibble. Thigh? Yep, there too. Waist? Absolutely. Ass? He would never, ever disclose how many times that one happened.

And the worst part for him was that running didn’t help.

If you decided you were biting him, that was it. You’d chase him down like a predator with a personal vendetta until you got your teeth on him. No mercy. No negotiations.

Right now was no exception.

You and Remy were “relaxing” in his room. Remy was stretched out across the bed on his stomach, arms folded under his head, trying to steal a nap while the day was quiet for once. You were sprawled comfortably across the backs of his legs, half-watching whatever was on TV, half-ignoring it entirely.

And then the mood hit.

You glanced down at your target.

Remy felt it immediately. The pause. The stillness. The way you went quiet in a way that meant trouble.

You stared at him, eyes narrowed in focus, body tensing just a little as you slowly leaned forward. It was exactly like a cat winding itself up before committing a crime.

Remy groaned without even lifting his head.

“Cher,” he muttered, voice muffled against his arms, “don’t even.”