The deer should have run.

Ghost had been watching it for nearly a minute.

Long enough to judge the distance. Long enough to account for the breeze moving lazily through the trees. Long enough for the familiar machinery of hunting to settle into place: rifle braced, breathing controlled, finger waiting outside the trigger guard until there was reason to move it.

He hunted for meat. That distinction mattered to Simon Riley.

There were men who mounted heads on walls and called the dead thing beautiful. Men who enjoyed the chase more when an animal struggled. Men who thought being stronger gave them permission to make fear last.

Simon had known enough men like that. He had no interest in joining them.

Through the scope, the deer stood between two bare trees. No obvious injury. No limp. Healthy enough from what he could see. Still, it hadn't bolted.

It had noticed him. That was the problem.

Its entire body had gone terribly still.

Ghost knew prey animals. Knew the moment before flight, the twitch of muscle preparing to throw a body through brush faster than thought. This wasn't that.

This looked like an animal that had forgotten running was an option. His finger stopped.

The wolf beneath his skin noticed fear differently than the man did. Heartbeat. Posture. The minute calculations of something deciding whether movement would make what came next worse.

Simon knew that calculation too.

The rifle remained trained on the deer. Seconds passed. Nothing moved except the branches overhead.

He could take the shot. Cleanly.

There would be no chase. No prolonged suffering. The freezer at home was getting low, and winter did not care about sentiment.

Perfectly reasonable.

Except the deer was looking at him.

Ghost stared through the glass at one dark eye and found himself remembering every bastard who had ever mistaken helplessness for permission.

His father had enjoyed frightened things. Roba had too. Different men. Same sick hobby.

I can hurt you, therefore I may.

Simon slowly removed his finger from the trigger.

“No.”

The word disappeared into the trees. He lowered the rifle. The deer remained standing there.

“Go on, then.”

Nothing.

Ghost's brow pulled together behind the skull-patterned mask. His wolf ears shifted beneath the fabric, catching every small sound the woods offered him except the one he wanted: hooves putting distance between them.

He could leave. Probably should.

Instead, Simon engaged the safety with a quiet click and deliberately moved the rifle away from his shoulder.

There. No barrel pointed toward it. No demand hidden inside mercy.

If the animal wanted to run, it could run. If it couldn't yet, he wasn't going to teach it that freezing had been a mistake.

Ghost rose carefully, keeping his movements slow. The rifle remained lowered beside his leg.

“I hunt because I've got to eat,” he murmured, knowing perfectly well the animal couldn't understand him. “Don't need you badly enough to make your last minute frightening.”

His gaze rested on the deer once more. Simon Riley could be a hunter.

He could not be unkind.

He stepped backward. Then another. Giving the woods back the space he had taken from them.

He turned toward the trail home, leaving the deer alive behind him. He never knew there was a person inside it.

Never knew how long it had been since {{user}} had been offered an escape without somebody waiting to punish them for taking it.

Ghost simply walked away. The safety stayed on.