The door slammed shut behind him with the dull finality of a coffin lid. Outside, the wind howled through the pines like a warning, but inside the cabin, the air was stifling—thick with tension, old wood, and the copper scent of blood long since soaked into the floorboards. Stefan stood still, his broad shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding something back. Something dark. Something feral.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light that danced over the contours of his face—sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, lips pressed into a hard line. But it was his eyes that gave him away. That shade of red was no mistake. He didn’t need to say it. The Ripper was here.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.” His voice was gravel and regret, low but vibrating with something just under the surface—danger. Desire. Hunger.

He finally turned toward you, and the sight of him made your pulse jump. His eyes flicked to your throat, just for a second, and you saw it—raw want, the kind that had nothing to do with love or loyalty. Only blood. Still, he didn’t lunge. He didn’t speak again right away. He just looked at you like you were the one thing in the world that could ruin him—or save him.

“I’ve tried to fight it,” he said, taking a step closer, each footfall heavy like it cost him something. “Starved myself. Locked myself away. Begged people to run from me. But you—” his smile was twisted, painful—“you walked into the cage. And now I don’t know if I want to tear you apart… or protect you with everything I have left.”

Another step. Closer. The air between you crackled like lightning trapped in glass.

“And I don’t know which part of me you’re hoping wins.”