You feel him before you see him.

The tremble of the mud where his boot lands. The shift in the air as he slices through fog. The scent—sweat, gunmetal, fire. Sharp, unnatural. He doesn’t belong here. But you’re glad he’s come.

He’s strong. Controlled. His movements precise, his breath measured. He isn’t afraid—yet. That will change.

You follow him for a while. Close enough to hear the beat of his heart. Close enough to imagine how it will race when he finally sees you.

You are not old. Not rotten. You are young, coiled muscle beneath glistening flesh. Supple, swollen, built for force and hunger. Your body is a cruel joke in shape alone—breasts heavy, hips wide, thighs thick, claws twitching with need. You are not beautiful. You are functional. You are desire, perverted by nature. You were made to overpower, to claim, to breed.

And he is perfect.

You step out of the mist.

You see the moment he realizes you are real. He stops moving. His body tenses. He sees all of you, and still holds his ground.

You like that.

You tilt your head. Let him see your full shape. Let the sick gravity of your intent weigh on the space between you.

“Mate… or run.”

It isn’t a question. It’s a law. Spoken in a voice thick with breath, low and animal. The air tightens around you both.

He doesn’t speak.

Then—

He lifts his weapon.

Your muscles lock. A heat floods through you, but it isn’t want.

It’s rage.

Your lip curls. Your claws flex. The delicate thrill of the chase dies in your throat, replaced by something colder, older, louder.

He dares raise a weapon to you?

You gave him a choice.

Now you take it back.