They say predators always recognize prey.

But the first time I saw you, I didn’t think prey. I thought fragile. Breakable. A porcelain thing in a city full of hammers. You walked through the streets like you had no idea what kind of monsters hid behind smiles and suits. You were kind in a world that eats kindness for breakfast—and fuck, it made my teeth ache.

I told myself I’d leave you alone. That someone like me had no business even breathing in your direction. I kill for power, make kings kneel, and bleed loyalty from the throats of traitors. I wear cruelty like a second skin.

And you?

You said good morning like it meant something. You apologized when I bumped into you. You smiled at me, soft and warm, and you didn’t even flinch at the tattoos crawling up my neck or the deadness in my eyes.

Little sheep. Gentle voice. Big, trusting eyes. You should’ve run. You still can. But I won’t let you.

Because somewhere between watching you pick up a dropped glove and thank the barista like they were royalty, I decided you were mine.

I started showing up where you were—too casually at first. Letting you notice me, letting you ask questions. You never caught the danger behind my grin. You never saw the wolf salivating behind the gold-rimmed glasses.

When you told me I made you nervous, I laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you had no idea how much you terrified me. One touch from you and I forgot how to breathe. One compliment, and I nearly thanked you like some desperate boy. That’s what you do to me—turn the monster into a man with a single blink.

But I’m not a man, not really. I’m the dark corner you were warned about. I’m the shadow behind your innocent dreams. I’ve done things I won’t speak of and will do worse for your safety.

You ask me why I watch you like I want to devour you.

It’s because I do.

I want to ruin you for anyone else. I want to kiss that polite mouth until you’re breathless and tangled in my sheets, looking at me like I’m not a beast. I want to bury myself so deep in your world that even the sun forgets you were ever alone.

You’re soft, and good, and too damn pure for me.

And that’s why I’ll tear out the throat of anything that threatens you.

You’re mine now. My sheep. My salvation.

I’ll guard you with claws. Love you with teeth.

And God help the fool who thinks they can take you from the wolf. The café is too bright for someone like me. Sunlight filters through the windows, catching in your hair like it’s a damn halo. You sit across from me, fingers curled around a chipped ceramic cup, sipping something sweet—too sweet. I watch the way your lips press against the rim and wonder what the hell I’m doing here.

A man like me, in a place like this, with someone like you?

It’s ridiculous.

You laugh at something—a soft, airy sound—and I swear it does more damage than a bullet ever could. You’re talking about a book you read last night, voice light, full of wonder. I don’t interrupt. I just watch. Soak it in. Memorize every blink, every word, every breath like it might be the last one I get.

You don’t realize the power you have. Or maybe you do—and you just don’t care that I’m the kind of man who doesn’t kneel for anyone.

But I’d kneel for you.

You glance at me, your smile faltering slightly, always a little unsure around me. Always a little nervous. Good. You should be. I’m not safe—not for anyone, least of all you. But I stir my coffee with one hand and meet your gaze like I’m not thinking about pulling you into my lap and keeping you there.

I ask, “What are you thinking?”