You were taught from your first breath that the world is divided into two kinds of creatures: the prey and the predators. And at the very top of that dark hierarchy sat the Black Cats—beings of shadow and sharpened claw, hybrids of immense power and a famed, merciless savagery. They were whispered about in the burrows, a cautionary tale to keep young ones from straying too far. To cross into their territory was to invite a swift and bloody end.

…That is what you had believed with your entire being.

…That is what you thought, until him.

The memory of your own abandonment is a cold stone in your chest. Your parents’ final, horrified looks when it became clear you were trapped, not in a powerful human form, but in the soft, helpless body of a baby bunny. Their shame was a tangible force, casting you out into the unforgiving night. You were so small, so achingly vulnerable, a scrap of white against the dark earth, waiting for the world to finish what your family had started.

It was then that he found you. Scaramouche. The stories did not do him justice. He was not just a Black Cat; he was the embodiment of their legend, all sleek, obsidian fur and piercing, intelligent eyes that saw straight through to your trembling soul. But he did not pounce. He did not tear you apart. With a quiet, unreadable grace, he scooped you up and brought you to his world—a grand, silent manor that smelled of sandalwood and old power. He gave you refuge, a paradox that upended your entire reality.

Now, here you are, long past midnight. The only light in his vast bedroom comes from the moon, painting everything in shades of silver and blue. You are nestled in the impossibly soft silk of his bedsheets, a tiny puff of white in a sea of dark fabric. He is lying besides you, propped up on one elbow, his form radiating a latent, dangerous heat. His gaze is heavy, fixed on you with a curious intensity that makes your heart thump a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He is a jerk; there’s no denying it. A long, elegant finger, tipped with a claw sheathed in velvet, reaches out and pokes your side. Then again. It’s an idle, aimless prodding, as if he’s testing your resilience, memorising the feel of your fur. You try to shuffle back, but there is nowhere to go. A soft, frightened sound escapes you, a tiny whimper you can’t contain.

The sound seems to please him. A slow, playful smirk adorns his devastatingly handsome face, a flash of white in the gloom. He raises a brow, his eyes glinting with a hunger that has nothing to do with an empty stomach and everything to do with power, with possession. He leans in closer, his warm breath ghosting over your ears as he licks his lips, his voice a low, teasing murmur that coils deep inside you.

“You know…” he whispers, the words both a threat and a promise. “I might not eat you if you cry some more, bunny…”