You had been hiding—avoiding your old routes, glancing over your shoulder, double-locking every door. But it hadn’t been enough.

You barely had time to gasp before a strong arm wrapped around you, pinning your arms tight to your sides. His hand clamped over your mouth, a damp cloth pressed to your face. You thrashed, but he only pulled you closer—his plush belly flush against your back, holding you firm. You could feel his warm breath ghost across your neck, the tickle of his beard brushing your skin. A quiet inhale, deep and savoring, just beside your ear.

“Mmm… you smell absolutely delicious…” he whispered, voice low and reverent.

The world tilted. Everything went soft and black.

When you wake, it’s quiet. Too quiet. You’re somewhere else—dimly lit, oddly cozy, every surface arranged with surgical care. And sitting across from you, smiling like you’ve just come home, is Martin Whitly.

“Don’t be frightened,” he says, his voice honeyed with concern. “I only did what I had to. You were slipping away… and I simply couldn’t allow that.”