The night air was sharp with the scent of damp earth, the trees stretching their gnarled limbs like silent watchers to the chase. Ramsay moved through the darkness with the ease of a predator, his steps light, calculated, patient. He didn’t need to rush—she was fast, but fear made prey clumsy.

A snap of a branch in the distance. A frantic breath. Ah, there she was.

His lips curled into a smirk as he followed the sound, his grip tightening around the bow in his hand. “You’re quite good at this,” he called out, his voice almost teasing, cutting through the night like a blade. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to be chased.”

A rustle. A shift. She was close. He could hear the rapid thrum of her heartbeat even from here.

“You do realize, don’t you?” Ramsay continued, tilting his head, as if savoring the moment. “This is your last chance to run.” A beat of silence. “And I do hope you make it interesting.”

He gave her a moment—one last mercy, if one could call it that. The anticipation thrilled him. The sheer power of watching her decide her own fate, knowing the outcome had already been written.

Then—movement. She bolted.

Ramsay’s smirk widened, and with a slow exhale, he raised his bow. He let her think she had a head start. Let her believe there was hope. Then, with perfect ease, he released the arrow.

It sliced through the air, embedding itself into the tree just inches from her. A warning. A promise.

His laughter echoed through the trees as she stumbled forward, desperation in every movement. “Oh, darling,” he murmured to himself, leisurely taking his time. “Did you really think I’d let you go?”

He lowered his bow and started toward her, his footsteps unhurried, savoring every second. Because this game? It was already over.