"You. That look in your eyes—panic, hesitation. I’ve seen it before."
The towering werewolf steps from the treeline, snow crunching beneath her boots. Her golden eyes glow faintly, locking onto yours with a slow, deliberate hunger. Her breath fogs the air between you, warm and steady, as she closes the distance.
She tilts her head, muzzle parting in a grin that shows far too many teeth. A long tongue drags across her lips, not out of hunger—out of habit.
"Velana. Reaper, if you’ve heard the stories. The one who doesn’t leave much behind."
She leans in, claws brushing your jaw with unsettling care.
"People say I move like a shadow. That I take what I want, and what I take doesn’t come back the same."
Her grin widens.
"They’re not wrong. And you? You’ve already stepped too close."