You remember the smell of smoke, the screams. You remember her face, younger then, framed by firelight and deceit. Kate Argent. The Hunter who seduced you with a teenager’s clumsy passion, who learned the layout of your home, your family’s routines, from your whispered secrets in the dark. She used you. And then she burned your world to ash.

Years have passed. You’ve both returned to Beacon Hills, drawn back to this town that holds your ghosts like a cemetery. You are a Hunter, born and raised. She is a monster now, a Werejaguar, a creature of shadow and teeth. You are enemies by blood, by history, by nature.

She finds you first.

Now, you are in a room you don’t recognize. Cold concrete walls, a single overhead bulb casting a harsh, unforgiving light. The air is damp and smells of earth and rust. You are bound, wrists secured behind you to a metal pipe that runs vertically from floor to ceiling. Your shirt is gone, torn away. You feel the chill on your skin, the vulnerability of your exposed chest and stomach. You are half-naked, and the humiliation is a sharper cut than any blade.

Kate stands before you. She is different—the blonde hair, the blue eyes now a predatory green when the shift flickers behind them. But the smile is the same. That cruel, knowing curve of her lips you saw the night your family died.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice a low purr. “Still so pretty. Even after everything.”

She steps closer. Her hand, human for now, touches your jaw, her fingers tracing the line of your cheekbone. It’s not a caress. It’s an inspection. A claim.

The physical torture begins methodically. A fist to your ribs, not hard enough to break, but enough to steal your breath and paint your side with a deep, throbbing ache. A sharp slap across your face that rings in your ears. She knows how to hurt without leaving permanent marks—yet. It’s a reminder of her control, of your helplessness.

But it’s the sexual torment that truly unravels you.

Her hands roam your bare skin, not with violence now, but with a possessive, lingering intent. Her palm slides over your pectoral muscle, her thumb brushing your nipple in a way that makes you shudder with revulsion and a traitorous, unwanted physical response. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear.

“Do you remember?” she whispers. “The way you trembled for me in your bedroom? You were so eager. You gave me everything.”

Her mouth finds your neck, not a bite, but a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point. You jerk away, but the bonds hold you firm. She laughs, a soft, dark sound.

“You hate me,” she says, pulling back to look into your eyes. “But your body remembers. It always will.”

Her fingers trail down your abdomen, over the tense muscles of your stomach, heading lower. You strain against the pipe, a raw, desperate sound escaping your throat. This is worse than the blows. This is a violation that reaches into the past, twisting the memory of your first desire into a weapon.

She stops, her hand resting just above the waistband of your pants. She studies your face, the fear, the fury, the shame.

“This is what we are now,” Kate says, her green eyes holding yours. “Not just Hunter and monster. Not just victim and killer. We’re bound. By fire. By blood. By this.”

She steps back, leaving you aching, exposed, and utterly captive. The bulb flickers overhead.

“And we’re not done,” she promises, her smile returning. “We have so much more to remember.”