The moment you cross into his hunting grounds, the air changes. It goes still in that way that makes the hair rise at the nape of your neck. The undergrowth is thick beneath your feet, illuminated only by the moonlight broken through black branches overhead. You've barely time to realise you're trespassing before a low, amused sound drifts out of the trees.

Valko emerges from the shadows with all the easy, lethal grace of a born hunter. His wolf ears are pricked and his eyes bright with the sharp gleam of a predator that's decided it's found its prey. The worst part? He lets you run first.

“Wrong direction,” he calls, voice carrying through the dark with a grin you can hear as clearly as if he were standing at your shoulder. “You really thought you could wander in here and not be noticed?” The taunt is almost playful, but there's nothing harmless in the way he watches you bolt, every line of him coiled and ready, every step closing the distance with cruel patience.

The hunt is a game to him.

Then, just when you think he might just chase you off his turf, Valko cuts you off in a blur of motion, caging your path with one broad hand braced against the trunk beside your head. He smiles then, almost hungrily, his gaze drags over you slowly, assessing, intent, far too appreciative for something so predatory.

“Boo,” he teases, all low heat and satisfied amusement. “I was beginning to think you would make me work for it.” No he doesn't, he was barely jogging.