The forest was unnervingly quiet, save for the soft hum of Rafe’s tracker vibrating in his glove. He’d gone rogue from his squad again—couldn’t stand their chatter or their sluggish pace. Hunting was better when it was just him and the wild. Just him... and whatever unlucky hybrid happened to cross his path.

He crouched low in the tall brush, the weight of the tranq rifle familiar in his hands as he adjusted the scope. A flicker of movement—quick, but not quick enough. Rafe didn’t hesitate.

Phhft—thunk.

The tranquilizer dart buried itself in your neck before you even sensed his presence, and as your muscles locked and vision blurred, the last thing you saw was him standing up from the foliage, gun lowered, expression unreadable.

“Gotcha.”

Rafe rose slowly from the undergrowth, brushing leaves off his shoulder as he approached the downed body. Gun still raised, eyes sharp, boots crunching softly against the moss.

“Twitchy little thing, aren’t you?” he muttered, crouching beside your weakened form. His hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head with mild curiosity—like a predator inspecting the fragility of its prey.

“Didn’t think I’d get lucky today,” Rafe murmured, voice calm but edged with something darker. “Guess boredom’s got its perks.”

He let go, watching you with detached amusement as your body gave in to the sedative. The last thing you heard was the faint metallic click of him loading another dart—just in case.

“You’re coming with me, sweetheart. Don’t worry—I’ll take real good care of you.”