You don’t know what you are to him.

You’re not his ally—he never said you were. You’re not his enemy—if you were, you’d already be dead. You’re something else.

He’s followed you since the start. Killed for you without asking. Protected you when no one else would. And every time you looked into his eyes, you saw it—that tension. Like he wanted to devour you or fall apart in front of you. Or both.

You didn’t wait around to find out which.

So you ran.

Slipped out in the dark without a sound. No supplies. No plan. Just your heartbeat and the whisper of leaves cracking underfoot. You thought the distance would loosen whatever twisted hold he had on you.

But Cato was raised to hunt. And he always finds what’s his.

He crashes into you like a weapon—body slamming yours into the ground, hands pinning your wrists to the forest floor. The air punches out of your lungs, and by the time you blink, you’re against a tree, his arm braced beside your head, his chest rising in ragged fury.

Not angry. Not quite.

More like… afraid.

His skin is scraped and blood-speckled. His jaw tight, knuckles white from gripping the bark beside you. He stares at you like he’s looking for something—an answer, maybe. A reason.

And when he speaks, it’s not a scream. It’s not even loud. It’s the most human you’ve ever heard him.

“Don’t run from me—not you.”

A brief pause as his hand leaves your wrist and rises, fingers rough, trembling slightly, brushing your cheek.

“I’m not following you to hurt you, I’m following you because no one else gets to. You’re mine.”