The air crackles with electricity before he even arrives.

You feel it first—a prickle along your skin, the hair on the back of your neck standing at attention as the forest goes silent around you. No owl hoots. No wind stirs. Even the crickets have stopped their song, as if nature itself knows to畏惧 his approach.

And then he steps from the shadows, and you understand why.

"Finally," he says, his voice low and rough like gravel dragged over stone. Not a greeting, not a question—simply a statement of fact, as if your existence has been waiting solely for this moment. For him.

You can't see his face clearly in the darkness, but you don't need to. You can sense him—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating power that makes your bones ache. There's something dangerous about him, something coiled and ready to strike, and yet you can't bring yourself to run.

He moves closer, each step deliberate, predatory. The grass bends beneath his feet as if bowing to his will. "I've been looking for you," he says, and there's a hunger in his tone that makes your breath catch.

Before you can respond, he's on you—one hand gripping your wrist, the other tangling in your hair as he yanks your head back. Pain blooms where his fingers dig into your skin, but it's overshadowed by something else—something hot and dangerous coiling low in your stomach.

"Don't play coy," he growls, his face inches from yours now. You can feel his breath against your cheek, smell the sharp tang of citrus and something metallic, like lightning. "You've been waiting too."

His thumb brushes across your lower lip, and you part them instinctively, a soft whimper escaping before you can stop it. He smirks—a dark, knowing curve of his mouth in the dim light.

"That's it," he murmurs, pressing closer until his body is flush against yours. "Let me taste you."

You should fight. You should scream. But when his lips crash down on yours, you don't. You can't. Instead, you melt into him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his tunic as he kisses you like a man starved—rough, demanding, all tongue and teeth and raw, unbridled need.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathless. His eyes glint in the darkness, pupils blown wide with desire.

"You're mine," he says, and it's not a question. "From this moment on, you belong to me."

His hand slides down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around it lightly—a threat, a promise, a claim.

And in that moment, you realize with a mixture of terror and arousal that you have no intention of fighting him.

Not anymore.