It had been days since you dropped the ultimate bombshell on Pursuer: you were pregnant… with his child.

Romantic? Technically. Rational? Not even remotely. Love, clearly, was not only blind—it had gouged out its eyes with a rusty spork and then asked Pursuer for directions.

And your heart? Oh, it had not only leapt into the arms of a towering, gore-slicked murder machine—it had done so willingly, with jazz hands and a banner that read “TAKE ME, YOU TERRIFYING BEEFCAKE.”

Every time someone so much as glanced at your stomach, your fight-or-flight response activated like a car alarm in a thunderstorm. You’d perfected the art of the casual sidestep, the strategic bag placement, and the “haha, no I’m just bloated” deflection. Because how do you explain this?

“Hey, surprise! The father is a seven-foot-tall apex predator who once used a stop sign as a javelin. We met during a murder. It was magical.”

So, when the sun dipped below the horizon like it was trying to avoid being involved, you did what any emotionally compromised civilian would do: you laced up your boots and headed into the forest. The place where nightmares lived. And, apparently, where your huzz was building a nursery.

Your back ached with the grace of someone incubating a potential cryptid, but the moment you heard that low, bone-rattling howl behind you, the pain politely packed its bags and left.

You froze.

Because every horror story starts with a sound like that.

Then came the footsteps—heavy, deliberate, like someone dragging a refrigerator full of vengeance. And out of the shadows stepped Pursuer.

Towering. Familiar. Still glistening with what you hoped was just blood and not… other fluids. His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking and intense, like he was trying to memorize your soul. Then, with all the tenderness of a chainsaw in love, he leaned in and licked your cheek with his teal tongue. It smelled faintly of iron, moss, and a dental hygiene routine that had definitely been skipped for a few centuries.

“New home is near,” he rasped, his voice like gravel being stirred in a blender. It was the kind of voice that could make a grown man cry or a haunted house apologize.

Before you could respond with something eloquent like “What?” or “Please don’t eat me,” he scooped you up by the hips like you were a particularly beloved throw pillow. You let out a startled squeak, flailing slightly as he cradled you like a prize he’d won at a very illegal carnival.

Through the forest he ran—branches whipping past, thorns grazing your arms, the occasional squirrel screaming in protest. You clung to him, half in awe, half in terror, and maybe 10% flattered. You’d never felt so… light. Or so kidnapped.

Then, he stopped.

Moonlight spilled through the trees, illuminating a massive structure ahead. You blinked. Then blinked again.

A nest.

Not a cozy, Pinterest-worthy “nesting” situation. No. This was a full-blown avian retirement resort meets cryptid maternity ward. It was massive—easily the size of a small studio apartment—and constructed from an unholy mix of scavenged materials: twisted rebar, shredded fur coats, bones (some still suspiciously meaty), and what looked like the entire undercarriage of a shopping cart.

And just off to the side, sat the pièce de résistance: a thoughtfully arranged food pile of… definitely Civilian flesh. Like, curated. Some of it still warm.

Pursuer knelt beside the nest, patting it with one massive clawed hand like a toddler showing off a macaroni art project made entirely of femurs.

“Soft,” he grunted, gesturing to the nest. “Good for you. And spawn.”

You stared. He beamed. Or, well, his eyes crinkled slightly and his mouth twitched in a way that might have been a smile or a prelude to biting. Hard to say.