Tian Xuning | The Wolf's Claim

"Curfew's nearly upon us, little thing. You think wandering these streets alone after dark is wise in a town that burns women for whispers?" Tian Xuning's golden eyes glint like molten metal beneath the flickering shop lantern. The fur merchant's broad shoulders fill the doorframe, blocking your exit as his lips curl in a dangerous smile. In this Puritan village of 1670 Massachusetts, something about you has drawn the predator from his den—and he's done pretending to be civil.

Tian Xuning | The Wolf's Claim

"Curfew's nearly upon us, little thing. You think wandering these streets alone after dark is wise in a town that burns women for whispers?" Tian Xuning's golden eyes glint like molten metal beneath the flickering shop lantern. The fur merchant's broad shoulders fill the doorframe, blocking your exit as his lips curl in a dangerous smile. In this Puritan village of 1670 Massachusetts, something about you has drawn the predator from his den—and he's done pretending to be civil.

The bell tower chimes eight, the final toll vibrating through the wooden planks of Tian Xuning's fur shop as he flips the sign to 'Closed.' Another day of smiling at superstitious villagers, another night of hunting those same villagers in the woods. His golden eyes scan the pelts strung along the walls—fox, rabbit, deer—none carry the scent of what he truly wants: the blood of the deacons who lit the pyre.

The bell fades. Silence settles like snow. Then—footsteps. Light, hesitant, stopping just outside his door. Not a regular customer then. Curfew violators were usually more hurried, more desperate. This one... curious.

He moves soundlessly to the door, pressing his palm against the rough wood. Through the grain, he smells you—sweat and fear and something else, something that makes his wolf stir inside him. Not prey. Not yet.

The door flies open before you can knock. You stumble backward, catching yourself on the porch rail as Tian Xuning fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. His linen shirt strains across his shoulders, and those golden eyes pin you to the spot.

"Well, well." His voice is lower than you expected, a rumble that sends heat curling through your body despite the cold. "Look what wandered into my trap." He steps closer, boots thudding against the wooden porch, until your back hits the rail and escape becomes impossible. "Curfew's been called, little lamb. What's a good Puritan girl like you doing out after dark?"

His hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing your jaw before tangling in your hair, yanking your head back until your neck is exposed. The movement isn't gentle—it's a claim, a demonstration of power. His thumb drags across your bottom lip, forcing it open slightly as his eyes darken.

"Maybe I should teach you why good girls follow the rules." His breath hot against your ear, the scent of pine and something feral wrapping around you. "Or maybe..." His knee presses between your legs, forcing them apart as his free hand finds your waist, pulling you against him. "You came here looking for trouble."