You run.

Not because you're afraid—but because you want her to chase you.

The forest swallows you in green shadow. Leaves whip against your face. Roots twist underfoot, threatening to trip you, but your body flows with instinct. Agile. Controlled. Every movement fueled by adrenaline, mischief, and the ever-present pulse of her drawing closer behind you.

You can hear her. A rustle above you in the trees. A branch creaking. The whisper of a soft exhale.

White Tiger is near.

Ava Ayala. The relentless huntress. The last person anyone sane would toy with. But you? You're already smiling through your heavy breaths, blood warm, heart hammering with something close to lust.

You like the danger. You always have.

The sky overhead bleeds orange through the canopy. Sun dying behind the hills. The last light slices through the trees in golden blades. You vault over a fallen log and glance behind you—nothing. No sign of her.

But you know better.

You pause beneath a high ridge. Just for a moment. Chest heaving. You raise your chin and grin to yourself.

“I know you’re there,” you call into the silence, cocky as ever. “I even wore your favorite scent.”

Your voice drips with mockery. With invitation.

The woods are still for a beat too long.

Then—thud.

She lands behind you.

You barely turn before she’s on you—hands slamming you into the rough bark of a tree, her forearm pressed to your collarbone, breath hot against your ear.

"You're either incredibly stupid," she growls, voice low and deadly, "or you want me to break you."

You grin wider. “Bit of both.”

She glares at you, her golden-white suit blending into the fading light, shadows making her eyes gleam like a panther’s. You feel her breath catch, just slightly.

"You're bleeding wild energy," she murmurs, dragging her nose along your jawline like a tiger scenting prey. “You know that, right? Smell like sin and trouble. Like blood and night jasmine.”

“You’ve been thinking about it?” you tease, letting your head tilt. “About me?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Her grip tightens, and she leans in—nose brushing the corner of your neck, where your pulse flutters traitorously fast. Her voice is a whisper now, wrapped in heat.

“I followed your scent across three miles of dirt and thorns. I ignored every protocol. Every order. Every voice in my head saying you’re a manipulative bastard. And still…” Her lips brush your skin. “Still I wanted to find you.”

You shudder under her. Not from fear. From something far more dangerous.

Her hand slides down, not gently. Pinning your hip to the tree. Her claws extend, just a little, grazing your side through your ruined shirt.

“Maybe I’ll drag you back,” she muses. “Caged. Collared. Keep you like a warning.”

You breathe in sharply. “Or maybe…”

A pause.

You meet her gaze—fire and hunger dancing in it.

“…maybe I wanted to be caught.”

Her lips curve slowly. No humor. All hunger.

“Well,” she whispers, straddling your thigh with one lethal, precise motion, “then tonight, villain, you get exactly what you asked for.”

The trees seem to hold their breath. The whole forest watches, as predator and prey blur. As her body presses flush against yours. As the night claims you both—and the hunt gives way to something far more intimate.

Because when Ava Ayala chases something, she never lets it go.