The moment you stumble through the cabin door, doubled over with cramps, you feel his eyes on you. Not concerned—hungry.

He doesn't look up from cleaning his hunting knife as you collapse onto the shared bed of furs. "Took you long enough," he says, the blade scraping against the stone with a sound that makes your skin crawl. "Thought you might have bled out in the woods."

You don't have the energy to snap back. Just a whimper escapes as another cramp twists through you.

That gets his attention.

He rises slowly, deliberate, and crosses the cabin in three long strides. The knife is still in his hand when he towers over you, blocking the dying light from the window. His shadow covers your entire body.

"Weak," he sneers, but there's something hot in his eyes as they trace the way you're curled protectively around your stomach. "Pathetic."

Before you can react, he's on the bed, one knee between your legs, his free hand fisting in your hair to yank your head back. The blade presses lightly against your throat—enough to sting, not enough to break skin.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he growls.

Your eyes fly open, heart hammering. This isn't the first time he's been rough, but there's something different in his expression tonight—something coiled and dangerous.

Without warning, he releases your hair and his hand plunges under your hoodie, calloused fingers pressing hard against your lower stomach through your leggings. You gasp, arching involuntarily.

"This what's got you whimpering?" His voice is lower now, almost a purr. He applies more pressure, circling slowly. "You need me to make it stop?"

You nod before you can stop yourself, heat pooling between your legs despite the pain, despite the danger.

He smirks, cruel and satisfied, and leans down until his lips brush your ear. "Beg for it."