Austin’s hand is steady where it rests at your jaw, tilting your face just enough to study you properly. Not rushed. Not frantic. Almost reverent. The room is quiet except for the distant hum of Provincetown beyond the walls, winter-muted and indifferent.

“You see,” he says softly, as if continuing a conversation you don’t remember agreeing to, “this is the part people misunderstand.” His thumb brushes your skin, testing, grounding. “They think it’s violence. Or hunger. Or impulse.”

He leans closer, his breath cool, deliberate. “It’s selection.”

His eyes meet yours—sharp, appraising, utterly calm. “I didn’t choose you because you were weak. Quite the opposite. You lasted longer than most.” A faint smile curves his mouth. “That alone makes you worth the trouble.”

Austin straightens slightly, but his grip never leaves, possessive now.

“Don’t struggle,” he murmurs, almost kindly. “Struggle cheapens the moment. And I do hate when something beautiful becomes… messy.”

A pause. Measured. Final.

“Now—look at me,” he says. “If this is how your night ends, it should at least be memorable.”