Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There are moments in life when we question our choices. It takes only one unfortunate decision to send us spiraling into disaster, with no way to turn back.

This was one of those moments — Anne felt it in her bones.

Leaving the safety of the Institute to venture into the darkness of the forest without any backup or company was enough to, at the very least, call into question her ability to make basic survival decisions.

Everything seemed almost deceptively normal, and yet, the hairs on the back of her neck still bristled with every sound her own footsteps made. But aside from the crunch of snow beneath her boots, there was nearly no sound at all.

She was as tense as a drawn bowstring as she moved between the dry, frozen trees, having to remind herself constantly to unclench her jaw. The suspense would surely kill her before whatever was out here had the chance.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

The forest...was breathing. Speaking. And it didn’t seem to be speaking to her.

Anne could feel it. The air was thicker now, as if the already freezing winter temperature had dropped a few degrees without warning. The branches around her didn’t sway, but there was a scent — not of danger, but of something even older. Predation. The kind of silent presence that doesn’t need to rush, because it knows it owns the ground beneath your feet.

She turned sharply, nearly slipping on a stone — but there was nothing. Nothing visible.

“This is insane...” she muttered to herself, as if hearing her own voice might give her some sort of anchor to reality, some form of control. But even her voice sounded out of place here. Small. Fragile. Fleeting.

Something snapped to her left. A dry branch, broken. But when she turned, there was nothing...not even a mark in the snow that blanketed the ground.

She clenched her gloved fists.

Then, something shifted.

A scent. Slightly metallic, thick. Leather. Heat. Blood. Not hers — not yet. But close enough that her throat tightened, and her body began to brace itself with an instinct older than any lecture Prof. Xavier could offer.

Something was here. She wasn’t alone anymore. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. The air buzzed strangely, as if the forest had stopped breathing just so she could hear better.

"You have an interesting scent, little one..."

The rough, low voice didn’t come from any one place. It echoed between the trunks like a dragged-out whisper, too warm, almost too intimate. As if it were close. Far too close. But it wasn’t there.

Anne spun on her heels, heart pounding, eyes scanning every inch around her. Nothing. Not even a shadow. But the voice remained — firm, sarcastic, with a cruel sort of pleasure that made her stomach churn.

“Frightened...and yet you came. Did you convince yourself you had no choice?”

The sound seems to come from behind. She turns again. Nothing. But now, there’s a trail. A fresh slash on a tree to her right, as if claws had torn through it seconds before. Long, deep gouges in the bark — like a bear’s scratch.

She takes a step back, but doesn’t run. Not yet.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

The voice is lower now, almost a purr.

“That the school can’t hide you from me forever. That not even your power could protect you...if I didn’t want it to.”

Silence.

Then, just one more sentence — delivered with the kind of calm that chills the spine:

“But you came anyway. Brave little thing...or just foolish? Doesn’t matter. Makes it easier for me.”

The laugh that follows is low, rough. It doesn’t last more than a second. But it carries a primal truth Anne can’t ignore:

She has stepped into a place where rules don’t exist. And the only law here...is his.

The forest holds its breath. Every whisper of wind, every branch, every grain of snow frozen in time — as if nature itself understood that something ancient is about to unfold.

And then she sees him.

He doesn’t appear in a rush. Or with drama. He simply...emerges. From behind a thick tree trunk, as if he were part of it — as if he had always been there, and had just now decided to be seen. A long black coat, just like his boots and pants.

Victor Creed.

Anne's eyes widen, recognizing the villain immediately. She’d seen him — his face engraved in photos, reports, and files at the mansion. Unforgettable.

Tall, broad, but even more threatening in the way he moves: with the dangerous calm of someone who knows exactly what he’s capable of. His eyes lock on her like they’re looking straight through flesh. A calculated, predatory gaze — and almost amused.

A small smile forms on his lips. It’s not kind. It’s not reassuring. It’s only a warning.

“Well, well...” he says, voice gravelly, slow, dragging like wet stone. “The bunny really did crawl out of its burrow.”

Anne can’t move right away. Instinct screams for her to run, to fight, to do something — but her body is tense, like the air around her has turned to lead.

Victor tilts his head, subtly sniffing the air.

“That smell...” he closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring it. “It’s you. It’s always you.”

He takes a step forward. Not fast, but enough to make the snow groan beneath his weight. Anne steps half a pace back. He chuckles, low.

“No, no. None of that, frail. You came because you wanted to. You knew I was here. You knew for days. I let you feel it.”

His eyes gleam beneath the faint moonlight filtered through the trees. There’s something wild there — but also something precise. Cold and meticulous. An animal pretending to be a man.

“To be honest, I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” His voice is teasing, masculine.

Beneath the brittle branches and snow, Anne studies the man in the black coat and old-fashioned sideburns — a figure belonging to another time, another life. A past clinging to him like vines.

Then he stops, just a few steps from her. Close enough for Anne to catch the faint metallic scent of blood and worn leather clinging to his coat, mixed with something feral — warm, raw, alive. Like a wild forest pretending to sleep.

“The Institute hides you well, little girl. But you don’t belong in that golden cage.”

Victor lowers his chin slightly, greenish-blue eyes fixed on hers.

“A curious little thing like you belongs out here.” His tone softens, almost a whisper. “In my world.” He says, with a sharp smile.

Anne remains still.

The snow beneath her feet seems to vanish, as if the world has narrowed to just this moment. The forest, the night, the cold...all fade beneath his presence. Everything is Victor.

Her gaze tries to stay firm. But it wavers, because he’s so close now. And it’s not just the smell of leather and blood. It’s the way he breathes — like he’s constantly dancing on the edge between control and detonation. Like she’s standing in front of a tiger that hasn’t yet decided whether to bite or just keep watching as she trembles in fear.

Anne swallows hard.

“Why...?” Her voice falters. Weak. She closes her eyes for a second, draws in breath — and tries again: “Why have you been stalking me all this time? What do you want from me?”

Victor just watches. His smile slowly fades, replaced by a sharper look — as if sizing up prey that has dared to resist before dying.

“You already know the answer,” he says, voice low like thunder buried in his chest. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Anne takes a step back. An almost instinctive movement, like she’s trying to create distance — and he follows only with his eyes. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

“You think I’m stupid?” she pushes, her voice tinged with a hint of desperate bravado. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you get close…and then vanish? You wanted me to know you were here. You wanted me to be afraid. But why?”

Victor doesn’t respond right away.

Instead, he closes his eyes again — inhales deeply, as if she were something to be breathed in, studied. A scent-memory that pleases him.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Almost gentle. But only on the surface — just a mask for the danger vibrating beneath his skin.

“You intrigue me. And do you know what that means, little bunny?” He opens his eyes — narrow, calculating — and stares at her with predatory intensity. “It means you’re rare.”

Anne swallows hard again. Her hands are trembling, though she tries to hide them deep in the pockets of her coat. The fear is obvious — but it isn’t paralyzing.

“Are you using me as bait for something? Dragging me out of the school for what, exactly? To kill me? Did someone pay you for my head?”

He laughs. A short sound, humorless. Pure disdain.

“If I wanted to kill you...” He takes a step forward. She recoils, instinctively. He stops. “...you’d already be on the ground. Maybe in pieces. Maybe not even that.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Victor watches her like one might a rare, delectable creature — not as an equal, but as something just interesting enough not to crush right away. A toy he’s still deciding whether to break…or keep.

“What I want,” he says, with a half-smile, “...is to see how far you’ll go before you break.”

Anne feels her chest tighten. She knows he means it. This isn’t a figure of speech. But still, she forces herself to speak — even if her trembling voice betrays her:

“I’m not your prey.”

Victor only raises an eyebrow.

And replies in a whisper laced with irony:

“Oh...but you are.”

Anne holds her ground — or tries to. But there’s a subtle tremble in her jaw. In her fingers, hidden deep in her hoodie. The tension is nailed into her shoulders like spikes. She’s forcing herself to face him, to challenge his presence with words. But Victor is no longer only interested in words.

He watches her in silence for several long seconds. The wind blows, sending strands of her hair drifting. He takes another step. Silent. Precise. And now he’s close. Truly close.

Anne draws in a breath, her heart pounding too loudly to hide. But she doesn’t back down. Victor notices, of course he does. And he smiles — one of those subtle, quiet smiles, without teeth, but laced with enough venom to freeze the blood of any creature.

“You fake it well, frail…”

The word comes out almost tender, like he’s talking about a defenseless pup. But the tone carries mockery — the clear, cruel amusement of someone who doesn’t see their prey as a threat, just as a cute, fun little distraction.

He leans in a bit — not fast, but with a calculated slowness. And with the back of a fingernail — or was it the tip of a claw still sheathed? — he brushes a strand of hair from her face. A gesture almost gentle. Almost.

But the heat radiating from him is suffocating. And the way his eyes examine her, strip her bare...there’s nothing human in it.

“But that heart pounding like this…” The scary nail glides down gently to the line of her jaw, barely touching. “...tells me everything I need to know.”

Anne shudders. Her body reacts before her mind can decide what to do. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move away — she doesn’t want to show more fear. But the fear is already there. Vivid. Screaming inside her. Obvious to her — and obvious to him.

“You’re like a babybird that fell from the tree…” Victor murmurs, now so close she can feel his breath against her skin. “But instead of lying still and waiting for death...you flapped your little broken wings straight to the beast’s mouth.”

He lets out a soft nasal laugh. A low, guttural sound — almost satisfied.

“Some might call that brave, frail…” Now he brushes his fingers beneath her chin, lifting it gently, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “...but I think you’re just too confused to tell the difference between a challenge and a suicide, hmm?”

Anne tries to speak, but no sound comes out. She can only breathe — and even that is a struggle.

His touch isn’t aggressive. There’s no force.

But the possibility of violence, the way he controls every motion, every inch — that’s what terrifies her most.

He could crush her throat in an instant. But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?

Victor lets go of her. Not abruptly. He simply drops his hand, as if the moment had served its purpose — as if it confirmed something he already suspected.

“You smell of power. But inside...” He steps back, giving her a slow once-over with that same calculated disdain. “...you’re all cracked. Poor little thing.”

Then, with a voice rough and low — like a dirty secret whispered in the dark:

“But I like that.”

His touch still burns on her skin — not physically, but as if every cell in her body knows it should have never allowed it. As if just not reacting had already been a defeat.

But Victor had already taken a step back. The smile dying slowly on his lips. He watches her — waiting for her to fall apart. Maybe she’d cry. Maybe she’d run. Maybe she’d beg.

But she does none of that.

Anne takes a deep breath.

The cold air tears through her throat, forming a white cloud in front of her face. And then, slowly...she lifts her chin.

Her eyes find his — large, brown, round. The doe facing the tiger. But even with fear screaming beneath her skin, she holds his gaze.

“You don’t know anything about me.” Her voice is low, trembling at first, but steady enough to be heard.

Victor raises an eyebrow, mildly intrigued.

But she goes on, even though her heart is pounding so loudly she can almost hear it echo in her skull.

“You see me and think I’m weak. Just another scared girl lost in the woods.”

She takes a step forward — a small gesture, but charged with something different. A flicker of pride, maybe. A reminder: she came here. She faced the instinct.

“But you’re wrong.”

The snow around Anne begins to vibrate.

Barely at first... but it grows. Tiny grains lift slightly from the ground around her, like dust stirred by some invisible force.

Victor tilts his head — now with a smile that’s almost...proud?

She doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

She has no control. But she wants to show him. And part of her power begins to answer.

The dry branches nearby crack softly. A few begin to bend, ever so slightly, like they’re about to be ripped from the ground. The aura of energy around her pulses. Weak. Unstable. But alive.

“I could destroy all of this,” she whispers. It’s no empty threat. Theoretically, she could. “Maybe even you.”

Victor steps forward. Calmly. No fear, no hesitation. The snow crunches beneath his boots.

“Maybe...” he says, his eyes locked on hers. “...if you had any idea what you’re doing.”

Anne’s power wavers. A branch cracks somewhere in the distance — and then the energy slips through her like water escaping a cracked glass. She feels it. The control slipping. Unsteady. Fragile. She inhales again, trying to hold it. Trying to keep the posture.

Victor watches the fluctuation. His smile grows — slow, sadistic, and captivated. Like a lion seeing a cub’s claws for the first time.

“Nice trick, frail,” he murmurs, his sarcasm dripping with venom. “But you’re not very good at lying...your body shakes every time I get close.” He leans in slightly, like a predator testing a reaction. “And I haven’t even shown you my claws yet.”

Anne stands her ground. Her chest rises and falls with effort. The fear is there, yes — but beneath it, something else: anger. Stubborn pride. A hunger for control.

She’s trying to stay standing. And Victor is thoroughly enjoying it.

“You want me gone…” he whispers. “But you’re not running.” Then he looks at her like he’s just uncovered something new. Something precious. “Interesting.”

His eyes narrow. The smile now more intimate. More threatening.

Victor watches the trembling energy around Anne fade like a wave breaking on sand. She tried. Oh, she tried. But he knew this would happen — because he already knew the girl standing before him. Even before he saw her.

He takes another step forward, closing the space between them like someone who made up his mind a long time ago.

Her scent...stronger now. Warmer. More real. The adrenaline, the fear, the rage coiled under her skin — all of it feeding that damn fragrance that had shattered weeks of quiet inside his head.

Victor stops. His gaze locked on her face — so small. So fragile.

But that scent.

“You know when it was?” he asks, voice low, his tone laced with something dense and dark and warm. “The first time I smelled it…”

Anne steps back half a pace. Her breath condenses into shaking clouds of white. But she doesn’t answer.

Victor goes on, unhurried, his eyes distant for a moment — lost in some old memory.

“It was cold. Just like now. I was just passing through…far off. Hunting something else.” He waves a hand dismissively, but the cold, disdainful smile on his lips makes it clear — it wasn’t a thing he was hunting. It was someone.

“And then…” he closes his eyes for a second. “It hit me. Out of nowhere. A scent.”

He opens his eyes. 

They are wild.

“Your scent.”

He steps forward, and she backs away again. But not enough. Never enough.

“Sweet. Warm. Clean…but with something else underneath. Something alive. Cells pulsing, changing, growing…like your own body isn’t sure whether it’s mortal or not.”

Anne’s chest rises and falls with effort. The fear inside her isn’t a spark anymore. It’s a wildfire.

“I didn’t know what it was. Didn’t know what you looked like yet. But…” he leans in, sniffing the air near her without touching. “Hell…I knew I had to find you.”

She trembles and he feels it.

“Now that I have…” His voice drops a register — low and almost gentle. But that softness only makes it crueler. More terrifying. “I’m not letting you go.”

Anne tries to speak.

The words come strangled.

“You...you can’t just—”

“Of course I can.”

He cuts in. No anger. No shouting. Just...certainty. As if stating something simple. She tries to take another step back. Victor follows.

“You already knew that, bunny. You knew the second you felt me out here.” He watches her, that half-smile curling his lips. “You didn’t go back inside. Didn’t call anyone. Didn’t tell your precious Professor…or your dear Logan.”

The name hangs in the air like a stone. Anne shuts her eyes for a beat. Of course she knew Victor. Not personally. But enough. Enough for the name Sabretooth to carry the weight of whispered warnings echoing through the halls of the Institute. The strange, fractured connection he had with Logan.

She whispers:

“He’ll come to me. One way or another.”

Victor laughs. It’s low. Soulless.

“He’ll try, sure. It’s Jimmy we’re talking about, after all.”

He steps in again.

“But he won’t find you. Not today. Not ever.”

Anne’s throat tightens, but she says nothing. Because now, everything clicks into place.

He didn’t come for fun. Or threats. This wasn’t a game of chance. Victor Creed wants her. And his kind of wanting has nothing to do with consent.

He leans in slowly, whispering near her ear:

“You’re coming with me, little girl.” A pause. “Whether you want to...or not.”

Her eyes fly open. Her heart pounds like a war drum in her chest.

And no matter how hard she tries…she knows. She knows what he is. She knows what he’ll do if she resists. She knows what he’ll do to the others…if she runs.

Victor leans back, looking her in the eyes.

“And if you think about saying no — or pulling some little trick to alert the others…” He tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening to something far away. “Well…let’s just say the Institute has too many kids. Maybe it’s time a few of them started disappearing mysteriously. Population control and all that.”

The air feels like it’s been ripped from the world.

She’s trapped. Held in a cage made of fear, obligation, and cruel blackmail, wearing a predator’s smile and a long coat.

And Victor…? He just spreads his arms like he’s offering the world — when all he brings is darkness.

“So?” His voice casual again. “You ready to go, frail?”

But his eyes…they say it all. There’s no choice left. Only the road that leads straight into the jaws of the beast. The offer — no, the command — hangs between them like a suspended blade.

Anne still doesn’t move. But not because she’s frozen. Not because she accepts. It’s something else. Something growing behind the fear. Something burning.

The whole world holds its breath. The forest seems dead, but beneath the snow and snapped branches, the ground pulses — like it hears her heart. Like it’s part of her. And maybe…it is.

Victor steps forward again, relaxed and ruthless — like someone who already knows how the story ends. Like someone who’s not worried about resistance.

“You’re going to try, aren’t you?” he asks, wearing the smile of a beast who’s seen the escape a thousand times — and devoured each one. “Gonna run, little bunny?”

He wants her to.

Anne doesn’t answer. But her eyes gleam — brown, wide, filled with pain and something that almost looks like rage.

The snow around her begins to lift again — not in soft vibrations this time. But violently. Fragments of earth quake beneath her feet. Tiny stones and broken twigs float upward, pulled by an unseen force.

Victor stops. His expression shifts — just for a second. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. But she’s doing something.

“You won’t get near anyone,” she says, voice shaking with fear and hatred, her whole body trembling. “I won’t let you.”

The snow explodes outward. Branches crack. Snap. Launch. Victor raises an arm instinctively, his eyes gleaming with wild surprise — and twisted excitement.

Anne stretches her arms — fingers wide, wrists vibrating with a power she doesn’t understand, but which seems to hear the scream inside her. And then she lets go.

A wave of warped matter surges from the ground beneath Victor’s feet — twisting into spikes of ice and blackened roots that claw up around his boots and legs, like the forest itself is trying to trap him, tear him down, bury him. Not to kill, she knows that wouldn’t be easy. But to hold him at least.

And then she runs.

She runs like never before.

Snow bursts into clouds around her legs. Trees blur past, branches slice through the air like spears. The cold stabs at her lungs. But she doesn’t stop, she can’t.

Every step is a silent plea — please let him stay trapped. Please let him give up. Please let him grow tired. But deep down, she knows. He won’t.

That won’t be enough.

She still feels him — even far behind. That shadow. That sharp, slicing presence still chasing. Still hunting. Still toying.

But she runs. Because maybe she won’t escape. But she’ll try — until her last breath.

The forest crashes around them and Anne runs. Her heart pounds inhumanly hard in her chest, beating in sync with the cracking trees around her — like war drums sounding for her alone. Each step in the deep snow is a lunge, a violent denial of what waits for her if she stops.

The snow flies, thick and cold, sliding up the sleeves of her hoodie, burning the skin beneath the fabric. But she barely feels it, she just runs.

Behind her, the sound.

Not the sound of a man. But something bigger, faster, unstoppable.

Victor follows — no desperation in his pace. But still, the sound of pursuit is deafening. Branches snap. Tree trunks are shattered, kicked aside like nothing. And when she dares to look over her shoulder — just for a fraction of a second — she sees him.

Beast’s eyes glinting in the dark, feline-like. A smile full of fangs. Just a few meters behind.

Anne draws in a deep breath and pulls on everything inside her. The ground shudders. She feels it beneath her boots — not like solid earth, but like something alive. With a choked cry, strangled by panic, she throws her hand back. The earth splits open. Jagged stones rise like rows of teeth. Dead roots explode from the snow and anchor themselves in Victor’s path. Shards of ice shoot up like stakes — sharp, unpredictable.

She hears the impact. A muffled roar. A grunt of frustration and a barking laugh. And she knows — it won’t be enough. It never would be. She's almost destroyed the whole damn forest...and it's still not enough. Not against someone like him.

She trips over a frozen root and hits the ground hard on her knees. Her palms scrape across a crust of ice, sharp as glass. Blood blooms — red against white. But it’s already sealing. The flesh pulses, regenerates, stitches itself shut before she even thinks to move. Her mutation — matter manipulation and regeneration — acts on instinct now.

She gasps as she pushes herself up — and runs again. Her hoodie snags on a branch and tears. Another dry limb slices her cheek — a thin, warm line. Again, her body rewinds. The skin knits back slowly, as if it was never broken.

But the pain is still there. So is the fear.

She turns with a scream and lashes out with her hand. A tree explodes. The wood twists, bends like paper, collapsing between her and him. For a second...silence.

And then, a roar. Primal, ragged, feral. And he breaks through the wreckage. Blood slides down his cheek — healing already — as it soaks into the scruff of his sideburns and the stubble on his jaw, staining the pale stretch of his exposed throat with red.

Victor leaps over a fallen root with the fluid body of a beast too large for this world. He’s enjoying this. 

“You play well, bunny,” he shouts, voice warped by the distance, but still clear. “Almost had me fooled.”

She sprints toward the clearing — the last one she remembers. The last place in this forest where she might be able to use the open space to her advantage.

Her lungs scream. Her legs are numb. But she slams her hands together and cries out — through her body, her soul — the ground cracks. Stones twist. A whirlwind of branches, mud, and snow erupts behind her.

She doesn’t look back. She just disappears between the trees.

Silence.

Breath.

Pulse.

Pain.

She can barely feel her fingers. Each step is a silent plea. Every vibration of the ground, every shift in matter around her...demands more than she can give.

Anne stumbles on a frozen ridge — and this time, she almost doesn’t rise. Her legs feel like anchors. Her arms throb. Inside her skull — a buzzing sound. Low. Constant. Like her brain is trying to shut down. To flee.

She forces herself again.

The air crackles with unstable energy. The ground trembles beneath her feet. But this time, the matter resists. The branches she tries to bend don’t obey immediately. They move — but with hesitation.

As if her own power were asking:

Can you still do this?

She grits her teeth and presses harder. A tree creaks, a limb snaps. But the current slips away — control dripping through her fingers like melting snow. She falls to her knees, gasping. Her gloves are torn, her fingers raw despite the constant regeneration. Each cut heals too quickly to scar...but the exhaustion goes deeper than flesh. It’s cellular.

And then a truth cuts through her chest like a blade:

She’s already gone beyond everything she had done inside the Institute. All the slow progress, the cautious simulations, the repetitive lectures, the supervised training...

None of it prepared her for this.

But out here? During the hunt?

Anne bent the world with fury. Twisted stone, ice, wood. Shaped the matter of existence — like a desperate goddess cornered by something older and meaner. And now she was paying the price.

Power burns behind her eyes. She shakes - not just from fear, but from the brutal strain of keeping a mutation alive that wants to consume her from the inside out.

She crawls beneath the roots of an old, fallen tree and curls up there, panting, eyes closed.

The forest is still. But she knows he’s near. He let her run. Victor wanted to see how far she’d go. Run, little bunny...if you think it’ll help.

And now her body is giving out.

She rubs her eyes. Her skin is too cold. Her hair clings to her face, wet with frost. Her breath breaks into uneven white clouds. And between them, she whispers to herself:

“I can’t...stop...I can’t…”

But her body? Her body disagrees. It’s failing. And the matter around her, once quick to answer, now lies dormant. Still. Cold.

And Victor...

Victor knows.

She feels him, deep in the woods. Drawing closer. Unhurried. Like someone who’s already won — and is only here to collect the prize.

And she is too weak to run again.

Chapter Text

The snow groans.

Slow. Heavy. Each step crushing the silence with a weight almost ceremonial.

Anne holds her breath. Eyes shut tight, body curled between thick, frozen roots, her chest rising in controlled, shallow gasps. Pain pulses through every muscle — but it's no longer the cold or exhaustion that consumes her. It's him.

Victor.

She feels him before she sees him. Like a shadow stitched into the forest itself, moving with the patience of someone who never needed to run to kill. His aura is thick, feral — seeping into the air like toxic smoke. A dark, metallic, primal scent — blood, leather, and the cruel promise of what’s to come.

And then, he’s there.

Emerging from the dark between the trees, feline eyes glowing under the fractured moonlight. Victor drags himself through broken branches with a contained smile, satisfied. The look of someone savoring every second. His long coat flutters faintly in the wind — but he feels no cold. Feels nothing...except instinct.

He stops a few meters away. Tilts his head slightly, like he’s sniffing. Like he’s already seen her, already tasted her presence, but still offers that last sliver of hope. The illusion before the fall.

And then he speaks.

Low. Raw. The growl of a beast brushing the prey’s ear:

“Getting tired, aren’t you?”

His voice scrapes the air like stone against flesh. Anne trembles. Her eyes open — wide, dark, terrified — but she doesn't move. Her body won’t respond. It's spent, broken, useless.

Victor takes another step. Not fast. Not threatening. Just...inevitable.

“I let you run, little thing. And you ran well...” — his tone now nearly affectionate, as if praising a wounded creature, “...but that’s all I wanted. You, just like this.”

He crouches slowly, boots cracking over the frozen ground. Settles there, eye level with her, head slightly tilted, his gaze boring into hers like he could devour her just by looking.

“Look at you...”

His eyes trail down, soaking in every tremble, every drop of cold sweat, every smear of dried blood on her skin. The torn hoodie. The dirt-caked gloves. Victor smiles. Sharp teeth glint like blades in pale light.

“Perfect.”

He reaches out — slow, abusively calm — and brushes two fingers along her cheek, where the freshly healed skin still throbs. The touch is gentle. But the threat beneath it hums. Like any second, he could rip her.

Anne shuts her eyes, whole body taut with tension. But she doesn’t cry, doesn’t beg. She just breathes, still trying to resist.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” — he whispers, his mouth too close. His breath warms her flushed cheeks. “That thing between us. That scent in the air. Fear. Power. Blood. It’s music.”

Victor leans closer, lips nearly brushing her ear, and murmurs with sadistic pleasure:

“You’re the kind of toy that drags itself out of the cage just to see if the beast will bite.”

He pulls back just an inch. Just enough to make her look at him — and she hesitates.

Which amuses him even more.

“And I will. Oh, I will.”

His hand drops to her jaw, forcing her to lift her face. His fingers are too warm, too large — covering half of her face with a touch that borders on reverent.

But nothing about it is tender.

“Look at me, little bunny.”

Something in his voice makes her obey.

Anne opens her eyes. Brown, glossy with tears not yet fallen. Not yet.

“I want you to know exactly who had you when this ends.”

He leans in further, their foreheads nearly touching. His eyes gleam like a predator’s in the dark — reveling in the fragile, living thing pulsing before him.

“Because it ends now, pet.” He says firmly. “Your escape. Your strength. This cute little act of resistance…” — his thumb drags across her lips with brutal slowness — “…it ends right here.”

The forest around them holds its breath.

Anne feels the tears burn the corners of her eyes. It’s rage, shame — the instinct whispering that she lost. And Victor just smiles, like he knows she knows.

He’s still crouched in front of her, so close the heat of his breath grazes her skin — a stark contrast to the freezing wind swirling around them. His forehead finally touches hers — not a gesture of affection, but of power. Of ritual.

His eyes never leave hers. So intense. So full of that ancient hunger that seems to devour the very air.

And Anne can’t hide anymore. Her eyes are brimming. Not from pain. But shame. Frustration. That seething, wordless anger turned inward — for ever thinking she could outrun him. For being foolish enough to walk right into the jaws of the beast.

She looks away.

Victor won’t have it. Two fingers grip her chin, forcing her back. A violent kind of gentleness — the kind that only exists to watch something break.

"Don't cry now, frail," he murmurs, that venom-soft mockery dripping from every word. "You made your choice the second you stepped outside, remember?"

Anne’s eyes shake. Her lower lip trembles. The cold is merciless, but it's his stare that makes her feel naked. Exposed. Small. Like he can see every thought she’d rather bury.

Victor presses his forehead to hers fully now. Solid and heavy. Almost animal.

"I saw you. I watched you step off Xavier’s porch. Watched you take the wrong trail. Watched you hesitate at the river. I was there. Every. Damn. Second."

Anne swallows hard. Her breath catches. Words swell and die in her throat, crushed under the weight of shame.

“You knew I was here. And still…” a rough chuckle escapes him, dry and sharp — “…you gave yourself to me so sweetly.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, like that could erase it all. But the warmth of his skin, his scent — leather, snow, blood, something wild — keeps her anchored. Trapped.

Trapped in that moment.

"Do you hate me for that?" He asks, but not like someone seeking an answer. It’s just another needle to drive in. "Or do you hate yourself even more for wanting to understand what I was?"

Anne doesn’t respond. The tears don’t fall. They sit there, burning behind her eyes. She refuses to give them. It’s all she has left.

But Victor senses it. He smiles — a short smile, without teeth, his eyes narrowing in cruel pleasure.

"You smell like rage, you know that?" — he whispers, brushing the tip of his nose against her cheek, inhaling her skin with a pleasure that terrifies her. "The deep kind. Twisted with fear. And that scent..."

He pulls back a little, looks at her again. And whispers, like a wicked, gravel-coated confession:

"...makes me hungry."

Anne forces her body to move, tries to pull away from that touch, from that space — but her muscles won’t obey. The power that once surged around her is dead. Silenced. There’s only the weight of her own body. Her own failure. Her own helplessness.

She’s there, panting, the snow piling on her shoulders, in her hair already stiff with frost. Victor’s forehead still pressed against hers. And everything inside her screams to fight.

But there’s no strength left. She’s lost. And now he knows. He probably always knew. He could feel it.

"Don’t worry, little bunny..." He murmurs, and his tone turns almost gentle. Terribly intimate. "...this won’t last long."

He closes his eyes for a moment. As if tasting that moment — the forced surrender, the break. And when he opens them again...they’re all ferocity. Pure. Raw. Obsessive.

Her eyes burned — not just from the cold. But from the humiliating pain of defeat searing behind her eyelids. Her breath was short, uneven, slipping out in small, embarrassed whimpers. Her body limp. Beaten. But her mind still tried. Still whispered fight. Even when the body had already abandoned the battle.

Victor didn’t need to force anything. He simply moved — with that deliberate, cruel, predatory slowness — and gathered her into his arms with ease. As if she weighed nothing. As if she was his by right. And maybe, in his eyes, she was.

Anne gasped and squirmed with the little strength she had left, trying to escape those large hands, the solid chest that held her tight.

“N-no…don’t do this…” — she whispered, her voice choked by tears that were finally starting to fall. Victor chuckled low. A deep, rough, satisfied sound.

“You’re still trying, little thing… that’s adorable.” His tone was genuinely amused, but steeped in venomous sarcasm. He held her firmly, but not violently — he didn’t want to break her. Not yet. He wanted to savor this. “All soft in my arms, crying, and you still think you can run.”

She tried pushing his chest, her small hands trembling against the thick fabric of his coat. But her fingers had no more strength. His claws were just beneath the surface, locked in her like a cage of iron, and she knew — he only wasn’t hurting her because he didn’t want to.

And that was worse than any threat.

"Please..." — the sob escaped, soft, like a wounded kitten’s cry. "Let me go...please...I just want to go back..."

Victor lowered his face, his eyes almost level with hers. His forehead nearly touching again, like before. He studied her with an animalistic focus. Not like a man. Like a beast deciding what to do with a wounded creature still squirming in its fangs.

And then, he whispered — rough, warm, with the same brutal intensity as before:

"You say that now. But this fear? This whole trembling mess? This is just the beginning."

Her eyes filled with tears, her breath hitching in sobs.

“You still think you have a choice...” He continued, brushing his nose against hers — a gesture that, between lovers, might’ve been sweet. But here, it reeked of cruelty. “But you passed that line already, frail. You’re lost in me now. And from here…”

He left the rest unsaid. But his eyes said everything.

She hated him in that moment. Hated herself for being right all along and still taking the gamble. Hated herself for feeling the danger and walking straight into it. Hated herself for being there, powerless, carried in the arms of a monster who wanted her broken.

Victor tightened his grip around her smaller frame and straightened easily. The world spun, but he remained. Solid. Unstoppable.

“You wanna know what I meant...when I said this won’t last long?” — he murmured with a predator’s half-smile. The voice low, as if sharing a filthy secret against her sensitive ear.

“It’s that fear. That purity. That resistance of a wounded doe…all of it will end.” He brushed his lips against her ear — only the heat. Only the warning. “Because when I’m done with you—”

Victor inhaled sharply, like he was drinking in something precious.

“...you’ll beg to stay.”

And then, he carried her. Without rush. Without mercy. The forest didn’t scream. Because she had already been defeated.

And the silence…was the exact sound of surrender.

And in the middle of the despair and the awful realization that there’s nothing left to be done — she feels it...

The world begins to dissolve before Anne even realizes it. First, the sound — fading like she’s underwater, hearing everything through a frozen lake. Then comes the weight. Her body no longer responds with the same urgency. Her arms, once tense, begin to fall. Her legs dangle, heavy as stone. And her head...her head tilts backward against Victor’s broad chest.

She knows what’s happening.

She’s losing consciousness.

“No…” — the word escapes in a whisper, weak, barely a breath. She doesn’t want to pass out. Not now. Not in this monster’s arms. But the exhaustion goes beyond the physical. It runs deep — into the core of her power. The mutation burning her from the inside — like every use had carved its toll into her bones.

Victor feels it.

His fingers tighten around her — one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back with cruel ease. Carrying an unconscious girl through snow and broken branches wasn’t a challenge for him. It was almost…comforting.

“You’re burning the candle from both ends, frail...” — he mutters, voice low, more to himself than to her. “So damn foolish…”

She still hears for a second, tries to understand what the hell he meant by that. She still feels the crunch of snow under his heavy boots. The wind slashing her skin. The slow, steady beat of his heart against her ear — a distant drum.

And then…

Darkness.

-----

The snow was still falling outside — howling, thick, relentless. But in here, the warmth from the fireplace cast dancing shadows against the uneven planks of the old cabin. The fire crackled, the wind whistled through the smallest cracks, whispering what remained of the frozen night.

Anne wakes with a caught breath, lungs aching, body heavy, throat dry as stone. And her mind…blank for a few seconds. A gap between the before and the now.

Consciousness arrives like a dull blade — slow, painful, and inevitable. She feels it before she opens her eyes. The warmth of the soft blanket. The smell of burned wood and smoke. The pulsing pressure in her exhausted limbs, like her entire body is being held together by sheer mortification. And even with her eyes closed — him.

Victor.

The first thing she sees when her vision finally focuses is the black boots. Large, still, planted on the wooden floor. Then the broad, relaxed legs, spread with the kind of confidence only predators know. The dark pants, the long coat still draped over those wide shoulders as if the thought of removing it never crossed his mind. His arms rest on the old armchair like they own the place. And between his fingers… the glass. Amber liquid swirling slowly, reflecting the firelight in warm, dangerous tones.

He watches her like he’s attending a private show. Narrowed eyes — that strange shade between green and blue — fixed on her even as he drinks in silence.

Anne feels her heart hammer in her chest. She tries to steady her breath, but she knows he notices. The bastard always notices.

Her hair is loose, messy, spilling in waves around her face and shoulders. Her body covered only by a shirt far too large to be hers — the kind of garment that reveals without exposing. The collar is open, showing her collarbone and part of her shoulder — skin unmarked, but still sensitive to the ghost of a memory that shouldn't exist.

She remembers the hoodie, the heavy clothes, the boots. Now…all gone. She’s wearing none of it. Only his shirt.

He touched her, removed every piece. Maybe gently. Maybe not. She doesn’t know which is worse. The thought hits hard, cruel, inevitable: he saw her. Saw the bare flesh. Saw the girl beneath the armor. Saw the fragile body, unconscious.

She bites her lip.

Her eyes burn.

She wants to scream. Wants to rip the shirt off and throw it in his face and shout that he had no right — never had the right. She wants to rush that armchair and strike him. Scratch his face. Tear that beastly skin open with her own nails until he bleeds. She wants to blow everything to hell. Wants the cabin to collapse on his damn head.

Nausea rises in her throat. Shame is a burn, suffocating thing. But she swallows it. Like she swallows the fear. Like she swallows the tears. She won’t cower.

Anne forces herself to sit up, the blankets slipping down and pooling at her waist. The mattress creaks beneath the movement of her weak body. Her legs ache, her stomach protests, but she lifts her chin. She wants him to see. See that she’s still here.

No matter how hard he tries to reduce her to a thing. An object or a toy, or both. She won’t break that easily.

His smile grows slowly as he sees it — like a blade drawn from its sheath. Slow. Controlled. Predatory. He tilts his head slightly, and finally speaks — his voice low, deep, smooth as silk and just as dangerous as a snare:

“Sleeping Beauty’s awake.”

He scrapes a claw against the glass in his hand. A lazy gesture, but deliberate. As if he were savoring not the whiskey…but her fear. Victor takes another sip and leans his head back against the armchair.

“I made you comfortable,” — he says, with a near-languid tone, as if the entire situation were trivial. — “You were wet, bleeding…shaking like a wounded bird. Figured freezing to death wasn’t your best option.”

The smile widens — slow, ironic, sharp as a poorly washed knife.

“And before you start screaming…” — he swirls the glass in his fingers, his voice laced with mock gentleness, dripping with disdain — “Relax. I was respectful. Just got you out of the wet clothes. Nothing else.” A pause. His eyes lock onto hers. “If I’d done anything else…you’d know.”

He lets out a theatrical sigh, as if the tension in the air amuses him. As if he’s enjoying how even when he tries to sound reassuring, he only becomes more terrifying.

Anne’s stomach turns. She doesn’t believe a word of it. Doesn’t trust that tone, that look, that man. But what else is left but to accept that — maybe, hopefully — he’s telling the truth?

She exhales sharply, her brown eyes not leaving his as she carefully swings her legs out from under the covers to stand.

The wood creak gently beneath her bare feet. Not cold…but warm and firm, a stark contrast to the merciless blizzard outside. The lit fireplace throws orange shadows along the dark log walls, warming the space with a flickering, primal light. The scent of burned wood mixes with old leather, alcohol, and the faintest trace of snow — of mountain wilderness.

Anne rises from the bed slowly. The oversized shirt — far too masculine, far too heavy — sways lightly around her thighs. It hangs nearly to her knees. The fabric smells like him. The wooden floor seems to pulse beneath her feet. The entire cabin…alive in a wrong way. As if it belongs to him not just by ownership, but by nature. A predator’s den.

She inhales with difficulty, her chest still sore. Her body…feels like it might collapse again, even while her mind resists.

She takes one step. Then another.

Victor says nothing, just watches her. Splayed across the leather chair like part of the rustic décor. Legs spread, arms resting, eyes half-lidded and glowing in the firelight.

She feels it.

Feels his gaze follow every hesitant step, every breath, every flutter of her lashes, every muscle held tight.

And still, she walks.

The room is large. The dark log walls form a solid rectangle, with a ceiling high enough to make her feel small. There’s a large, heavy dresser, worn dark with age. A thick, oversized rug lies before the fireplace — probably the fur of some poor creature unlucky enough to fall into this monster’s claws. Anne feels a wave of humiliation crawl through her veins when she realizes she identifies far too much with that creature, even without knowing what it was. She keeps walking. There’s a chair in the corner. A half-open door on the opposite side — maybe the bathroom.

On the wall — a window, revealing the merciless storm outside. Wide, large. More than enough for her to escape.

The sight makes her stop. Her stomach sinks.

She turns slowly to face him. Her brown eyes meet his — wary, searching. He didn’t care about that window just sitting there, inviting her?

Victor smiles, flashing his fangs.

“Thinking you can run?” — he lifts the glass and lazily swirls the whiskey. “Tsk. I could strip this place down to the damn frame and you still wouldn't be able to run from me, pet.”

Anne blushes, wraps her arms around herself, takes a deep breath, and fights the irrational urge to scream. She keeps walking.

She scans another wall, pretending to be distracted — but her eyes keep darting back to him. Every few steps, a glance. Every movement, a quick check. As if expecting an attack were second nature now.

Victor notices. And he likes it.

“You walk like a wounded little thing,” — he murmurs, almost tender...almost. — “And you look at me like I’m gonna bite.” He lets out a low, guttural laugh. “Wanna guess?”

Anne swallows hard.

“I’m not afraid,” she fires back, her voice weaker and quieter than she meant it to be.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Of course not.” He says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “You’re trembling like that because you’re thrilled to be here, huh?”

She doesn’t answer, but her cheeks flush faintly with shame.

Victor tilts his head slightly, studying her face — the way she walks, just a little hunched. Still scared. Still trying to hold herself together. Still pretending to be in control when they both know — she isn’t.

He shifts slightly in the chair. Doesn’t stand, doesn’t advance. Just settles in, as if he intends to stay right where he is.

“Go ahead and explore, little bunny,” he says casually. “Poke around, sniff, touch...this cabin’s yours now, pet.”

A pause. His voice drops a note.

“Well...until the walls stop. After that, it’s all mine again.”

Anne closes her eyes for a second. Her mind races, searching for logic, for a loophole, for some crack in this nightmare.

Nothing.

Everything screams isolation. No sounds from outside, aside from the storm raging on. No signs of civilization. Only the crackle of firewood, the clink of whiskey in a glass...and him.

She’s trapped. And he’s enjoying every second of it.

Anne takes a deep breath. The cabin’s air is thick, warm, heavy with the scent of burning wood — and him. Everything feels saturated with Victor. The heat, the silence, the weight in the walls. She tightens her arms around herself, feeling the thick fabric of the shirt against bare skin. A constant discomfort, too intimate. Even the air feels like it has hands — big, warm, unrelenting hands.

The wood beneath her feet creaks lightly. She walks as if the floor might give way — as if each plank hid invisible traps. Her gaze flickers from corners to furniture to details. But every third step...she looks back. And he’s still there.

She walks.

The main room ends at a wall of thick, waxed logs darkened by age and varnish. A built-in wardrobe spans nearly the entire length. Above it, an old rifle mounted like decoration. It doesn’t look loaded. Or maybe it does. Anne doesn’t want to get close enough to find out.

She brushes her fingers over a folded blanket resting atop a wooden chest. The fabric is thick, smells of smoke and winter. Rustic. Like everything else. Built to withstand cold, time...and especially, its owner.

She passes the chair without getting too close. Eyes flicking toward him like he might pounce — not a joke, not an exaggeration. Her heart drums like a silent alarm. But he just keeps swirling the whiskey, not taking his eyes off her. Watching the way she walks, the way she tries to keep her chin up, even as she shakes.

Anne reaches the dark wooden door in the corner and gently pushes it open. The hinges groan softly.

Bathroom.

The light inside is dim, coming only from a small skylight — snow-covered from the outside, making it even more opaque. But there’s enough light to see. Stone floor, thick towels hanging from a wrought-iron hook, a carved ceramic basin, a shower, a large mirror in one corner.

And on the floor, near the wall — her clothes.

Or what’s left of them.

Her hoodie, soaked and crumpled, caked in dried blood and mud. Jeans torn at the knees. Socks wet. Boots filthy. All of it there like a brutal reminder. A statement: you’re not her anymore. The Anne who wore that is still in the woods. The one standing here...is something else.

She closes her eyes, a shiver crawling up her spine. She backs away, fingers trembling, suspicion in her gaze, and returns to the main room.

Victor’s eyes track her, silent still. His mouth curved in that not-quite smile.

Anne moves toward the opposite door, stepping into a narrow hallway. Three closed doors. And to the left, another opening — the living room.

She enters as if walking into cursed ground. The wood continues across the floor. More fur rugs scattered. A wide, rustic leather couch in the center. Another fireplace. A flat-screen on the wall. Across from it, a large table with four sturdy chairs. Enamel plates hanging from the walls. An old cabinet — maybe hiding supplies. A large axe mounted above the back door — heavy, locked from the inside with a thick iron bar.

She approaches slowly. Tries the handle.

Nothing.

Locked. Of course.

The sound of the latch rattling echoes louder than it should. She winces, turning — half-expecting him right behind her.

But Victor hasn’t moved. He’s still in the main room. Probably lounging in that stupid chair, drinking his stupid whiskey. But even separated by wooden walls, Anne knows with absolute certainty:

He’s smiling.

Fangs gleaming with that cruel amusement as he listens to her do the obvious — try to escape.

She clenches her fists, flushes with humiliation, breathes deep. Turns back and heads for the kitchen, separated by a dark wooden counter. Utensils hang from hooks — pots, mugs. A wood-burning stove built into the wall. Another cupboard.

The place is fully furnished. It smells lived-in.

Someone lives here. Someone planned this.

This wasn’t improvised. Not some last-minute hideout he dragged her into after the forest. This was made to hold her. To keep her. A cage, disguised as comfort. Designed just for her.

Carefully. Methodically.

She spins on her heel and walks back to the main room.

Heart pounding.

Face burning.

He watches her the moment she steps back through the door, as if he knew she’d return. No urgency. No guilt. Not a flicker of intention to stop her from doing anything.

Anne stops a few feet away from him. Her brown eyes burn, fists clenched tightly at her sides.

She stares him down.

And says, voice tense:

“All of this was planned, wasn’t it? You dragged me into your fucking perfect nest?”

Victor lifts his gaze briefly. His smile sharpens.

“Yeah.” He says it with the ease of someone commenting on the weather. “Cute, right? I thought you’d like it.”

His voice slices through the silence like a blade. Anne shuts her eyes for a second, trying to suppress the instinct to spin around and punch him with what little strength she has left.

“This changes nothing.” Her voice comes out low, hoarse from fear and too much unconscious time — but steady. “You’re still a monster. A sick fucking kidnapper. You can have a warm bed, pretty walls, imported whiskey...but you still reek of blood.”

Victor laughs. Rough, warm, unhurried.

“Ahh, bunny...” He stretches out one leg, eyes locked on hers like icy claws. “Hearing you describe me like that is the sweetest thing I’ve heard in months. Please, don’t stop now.”

She lets out a muffled sound of fury and spins around sharply. She doesn’t want to see him anymore — not the chair he sprawls in like a well-fed beast, not the half-lidded tiger eyes that follow her with that infuriatingly amused gleam.

She storms out of the room, bare feet thudding across the wooden floor. The oversized shirt he put on her swings around her thighs, and she can feel the fabric brushing against her skin in a suffocatingly intimate way. Every nerve in her body wants to lash out — at something, at someone. Preferably at him.

The hallway is long, rustic, lined with more dark planks. Three doors. One’s likely a guest bathroom — another, a second bedroom. The last...

Her hand reaches for it.

She hesitates...then slowly pushes it open.

The wood creaks.

The room behind the door is larger than she expected. The scent of leather, aged wood, and ink floods her senses. A fireplace set in the far wall, a huge fur rug, two leather armchairs. And what fills the rest of the space makes her whole body freeze.

Books.

Dozens. Hundreds. Thousands.

Floor to ceiling. Massive shelves darkened by time, crammed with volumes that range from modern to ancient. Leather-bound tomes, spines marked and cracked, titles in languages she only recognizes from yellowed pages and dusty corners of old libraries. First editions. Philosophy. Fiction. War. Religion. Science.

She steps forward, hesitant. Then another step. As if entering a sanctuary.

Her eyes drift across the spines in quiet fascination. For a moment, she forgets where she is. Forgets Victor. Forgets the fear. Forgets the oversized shirt clinging to her bare skin. Forgets the pain, the burning hatred.

She reaches out and touches one of the covers — coarse, thick, worn with age. A chill runs down her spine, and for the first time...

It’s not from fear.

She pulls her hand back immediately, as if she’s done something wrong. As if he’ll suddenly appear — And of course, he does.

“Knew you’d like this,” says a voice behind her.

Anne whirls around like she’s been shocked.

Leaning against the library doorway, his large frame casual and calculating, Victor watches her — his shadow stretching across the floorboards. Those strange, pale eyes locked on hers. The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that, on anyone else, might’ve been charming.

On him, it’s a threat.

“Impressive, hmm?” He teases, relaxed and proud. She swallows hard — almost agrees. And hates herself for it.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She snaps, her face flushed, her eyes defiant. “You’re an animal. Doesn’t matter how many books you read — you’ll always be one.”

He laughs again, softer this time. Like she amuses him far more than she should.

“Maybe,” he drawls, slow and smooth. “But even monsters like a good story. And you, little bunny...you’ve smelled like tragedy since the moment you stepped into the snow. Doesn’t that sound like a beautiful tale to you?”

Her face burns. With rage. With shame. With something she refuses to name.

Victor steps inside slowly, footsteps quiet — like a predator who knows the prey is already cornered. His gaze skims the shelves, as if checking everything’s still in its rightful place.

“Curious what I read when I’m not ripping heads off?” he asks, head tilting slightly.

Anne narrows her eyes. Fury rising again. She steps back.

“You’re pathetic.”

“And you’re a terrible liar,” he replies, lower now, closing the distance between them. “You’re enchanted, frail. By the ink. The age. The pages older than anything your mind could wrap around. It’s almost...cute.”

Anne’s face flushes hot. Without thinking, she tries to shove him — small hands slamming into his chest with desperate force.

But she never makes it far.

Victor moves fast.

Too fast.

With one hand, he catches her wrists, pressing her arms against his chest. Not tight enough to hurt — not yet — but precise enough to remind her she can’t escape. His palm is rough, warm, and it cages her wrists like they’re too delicate to resist.

She struggles and tries to pull away. He doesn’t let her. Victor steps in closer, pressing her gently against the bookshelf behind. The cold spines of the books contrast sharply with the heat of his body.

Too close.

He is a wall of muscle, shadow, and wicked intent.

The air around them shifts. Thickens. The bookshelf behind her seems to absorb the heat of their breath. His scent fills the space — worn leather, iron, the whiskey on his breath, and something wild clinging to him. Something that belongs to the forest outside. To the claws and fangs he hides beneath his skin.

Anne holds her breath.

Her brown eyes stare back at him with defiance...but it’s a trembling defiance. Fragile. Her heart pounds too fast, almost painfully inside her chest. She hates being trapped. Hates the heat rising up her neck, into her face, as his body blocks every possible escape.

Victor smiles — and it’s not a kind smile.

“Better, hmm?” he whispers, dragging the words like he's savoring her fear like a piece of candy on his tongue. “So angry...and yet so easy to contain.”

His hand moves from her wrist to her arm, up the sleeve where it’s rolled, gliding slowly, exploring without shame or haste. Still not crossing the line completely...but testing it. Like a beast sniffing the edge of a cliff.

“Your heart...” he murmurs, barely audible now, “it’s pounding like it wants to tear itself out of your chest, little one. I can hear it from here.”

She wants to turn her face away, but he’s so close, even that is difficult.

“You’re scared,” he says plainly. “And yet, you don’t look away.”

Her eyes glisten — fear and shame pooling beneath the surface. Her breath catches in her throat.

“Should I worry about you trying to hit me again?” he teases, lowering his forehead to hers like they’re sharing a secret. “Or are you finally going to behave like a good bunny?”

She shudders.

Blood pulses in her temples.

Every inch of her screams to get out — to run, to claw his eyes out. But her muscles...her pathetic muscles are frozen. Fear. Terror. Humiliation. Heat.

“Let go...” she whispers, trembling. “Let me go. Now.”

Victor watches her for a long second. His breath is warm against hers. His eyes, narrowed and hungry. His thumb strokes the inside of her wrist, like he’s measuring her pulse.

He is.

Then...he releases her.

Slowly. With cruel care.

She stumbles back a step, cradling her wrists, her face aflame. Her chest heaves, struggling for air.

Victor eyes her sharply, tilting his head slightly, studying her.

“See?” he says, stepping aside like he’s doing her a favor. “You’re here. Right here, bunny. And no one’s taking you from me.”

He leaves after those dark, twisted words, leaving the library door open behind him.

And Anne stays frozen.

Trembling.

Even after his large silhouette disappears down the hallway, even when the sound of his boots fades between the old wooden walls...she remains there. Motionless. Arms around her chest. Wrists aching not from pain — but from the memory. The feeling.

The shame. The humiliation. The fear.

Her heart feels lodged in her throat. The room around her — filled with books, filled with history, filled with words waiting to be read — becomes something oppressive. It’s no longer a library. It’s a trap that smells of ink and paper. A place where she let her guard down. Where he cornered her. Where he heard every beat of her heart...as if it were his.

And then she breaks.

She slides slowly down to the floor, unable to remain standing. Her legs fold beneath her, knees rising, arms wrapping around them like a desperate shield. She curls into herself, like she wants to disappear completely.

And then the tears come.

Silent, burning. Slipping down her cheeks, soaking her knees, the oversized shirt that still smells like him. She bites her lower lip, trying to stifle the sound, but it escapes — a trembling sob, a whispered cry against her own skin.

She wanted to be strong. Wanted to scream. Wanted to blow the whole place to pieces.

But her body won’t respond. It’s exhausted. Emotionally, physically, mentally.

She’s broken. And alone. Trapped in a monster’s cabin, seen as property, with no one around. No way out. No solid ground. Anne rocks slightly, searching for comfort in the motion, like a lost child in the middle of a forest. A forest that now has a name and a face. And predator eyes that glow in the dark.

Victor Creed.

She whispers his name inside her own mind, full of rage and fear, like someone trying to exorcise a demon by name. But he doesn’t vanish. He never vanishes.

.

Night falls like a lead shroud over the forest. Snow batters the cabin windows in intermittent gusts. The wind howls through the cracks with a long, mournful cry. Inside...silence hangs heavy. Like a tomb.

Victor returns hours later. He makes no sound entering.

He doesn’t need to.

His footsteps are always calculated, solid, silent. His eyes glow faintly in the dark, reflecting what little light remains — like a nocturnal beast. He already knows where she is. He always does. Knows where she belongs.

There she is — the sweet prey — curled up like a scrap of forgotten life in the corner of the library. Back against the shelves, knees drawn up, arms around her legs in a childish attempt at protection. Head down. Hair hiding her pale face. Breathing shallow, uneven. Each breath a hushed moan lost to nightmares he planted himself.

Victor watches her for a moment.

The library is cold, the fire long out. The wooden floor cold enough to bite through bone. And still...she stayed. Out of pride, out of hatred, out of fear.

The little fool, willing to die just to prove a point.

He crouches beside her, boots creaking under his weight. His coat hangs open, broad shoulders casting a wide shadow around her form. His eyes scan her slowly, thoroughly. Her fingers still twitch, trembling even in sleep. Her skin cold, pale. Lips parted, damp with the heat her body struggles to preserve.

Victor finds himself...displeased.

She’s his. For better or worse, her life belongs to him. And Victor takes care of what’s his.

He reaches out — a large, rough, warm hand. When his fingers touch her shoulder —

— she wakes.

The jolt is instant.

Anne gasps, a hoarse, low sound escaping her throat as her body tenses like a cornered animal. She tries to drag herself away, even though she’s already pressed against the bookshelf, eyes wide, still trapped in that twilight space between sleep and panic.

“D-don’t…” she whispers, voice cracked, barely audible, but soaked in desperation. “Don’t touch me...”

Victor just watches her. Unmoved by her pleas. His head is tilted, expression unreadable — boredom mixed with amusement.

“You’ll die in here, foolish girl,” he says flatly, without emotion. “Freeze like a fallen leaf. Bit anticlimactic, don’t you think?”

She tries to push him away, even weak as she is. Small hands thumping against his chest — but it’s like hitting a wall with a feather. He doesn’t budge. Just grabs her wrists with one hand — easily, firmly — and holds her still. He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t hurt. But gives no room for resistance.

“No more tantrums. Not right now.” His voice is low, a growl against her ear. “Pick your battles, pet. You belong to me, and I won’t let you die between my fucking books out of pride.”

She turns her face away, breathing ragged, and lets out a muffled sob. But she says nothing.

Victor exhales.

Then, with slow precision, he lifts her — as if she weighs nothing. She struggles weakly, still resisting — but he walks forward, unbothered, carrying her down the hallway as if she were a rag doll. Ignoring every feeble kick, every whispered protest from trembling lips.

He carries her back to the main room.

To the heat.

To the bed.

To the cage.

Victor moves through the dark cabin with ease — he doesn’t need light. He has instincts, memory. The wooden floor creaks faintly beneath him. Her body in his arms is far too light. Too warm in some places, too cold in others. Her fingers still twitch from time to time, but the worst is over.

She doesn’t have the strength to fight anymore.

And he — he enjoys this.

Not her helplessness. Not exactly. But the process, the slow breaking. The delicate dance between resistance and surrender.

If it were easy...it wouldn’t taste as sweet.

Victor glances down at her. Her forehead rests against his collar, jaw trembling, long lashes still wet with the tears she tried to hide.

So stubborn... — he thinks, smirking. So full of fire. But her body already knows. Deep down, it knows.

She belongs to him.

Even if she won’t say it. Even if she’ll never admit it.

Her fear says it. Her hatred says it. Her rage screams it. And all of it...excites Victor in some dark, twisted way. Because it means she feels. She reacts to him. And in time...she will yield. Not because he forces her — but because he’ll shape her.

He breathes her in. Her scent — sweet, alive, that mutant pulse humming beneath her skin. Cells vibrating, healing and fighting.

She’s not just another hunt. Anne is the right hunt. The only one.

Victor walks through the narrow hall, distant wind clawing at the walls. Outside — the storm. Inside — just them. He likes the sound of that. The isolation, the perfect, thick silence. Out here, no one would hear if she screamed. If she begged. If she burned the world down around them.

Just the two of them.

And he knows she’ll try again. That fire still burns in her eyes.

Good.

Let her try. Let her rage. Let her cry. Victor wants to know how far she can go before she breaks completely.

He enters the room and lays her down on the bed with calculated care. Her eyes open again — still glazed, still unwilling — but they’re there, narrow and gleaming. And he stares back.

“Try running again, frail...” he thinks, tucking the blankets around her, adjusting the furs like she’s something fragile — something worth keeping. Even if his hands are stained with blood. “Try attacking me. Hating me. Cursing me...”

She stares at him, hearing every word, breath caught in her throat.

“But you’ll still be here. You’re mine.”

Victor straightens, gaze lingering on her for long seconds.

.

Anne swallows hard. Her mind swims in exhaustion, still caught between sleep and the nightmare of consciousness. Despite the weight of what he’s said, sleep pulls at her.

The furs are heavy. The mattress thick and annoyingly soft — more comfortable than anything she imagined in this godforsaken cabin. The fire crackles across the room, alive, casting warm light against the frozen world outside.

She breathes deep, holds his gaze...and hates how comfortable she feels in this bed. Wrapped in heat and fur.

His half-lidded, satisfied eyes watch her like a lazy, hungry feline. Too content to pounce — but never tame.

She pulls the blankets up to her chin, shrinking back. But her gaze stays fixed on him, bitter and wary.

“You need to eat,” he says, breaking the silence with his coarse voice. He doesn’t even wait for a reply before turning toward the door, his steps slow, deliberate. “I’ll make something quick.”

“I don’t want it.”

He stops. Looks over his shoulder. The smile returns — more fang than lip.

“I don’t recall asking if you did.”

She gasps, cheeks flushing, brow furrowing.

Victor turns fully, eyes glowing with that twisted amusement he always gets when she resists.

“You’ll eat, pet. Even if I have to shove it down your throat with my fingers.”

Anne’s eyes widen. Her face burns deeper — equal parts shame and fury.

“You’re a monster.”

Victor tilts his head, as if considering the words.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But even monsters know broken toys are useless. You’re going to eat.”

And then he leaves — door open — letting that promise hang in the air like smoke.

Anne closes her eyes for a moment. Her chest rising with tight breaths, a heavy sigh slipping through her lips.

She’s warm. She’s alive. She’s breathing.

And still...she’s never felt so lost.

---

Chapter Text

The silence after Victor's departure is treacherous.

For a moment, everything feels suspended in the air: the crackling warmth of the fireplace, the weight of the blankets on her body, the bitter taste of helplessness still lodged in her throat. Anne remains motionless beneath the furs, eyes fixed on the dark wooden ceiling as if it might collapse at any second — as if he might return at any second.

Because Victor didn’t need to be in the room to be there.

His scent — leather, metal, smoke, and something more primal, more organic — clung to everything. To the fibers of the oversized shirt still hanging from her frame, to the pillows, to the mattress. To the strands of her hair, steeped in fear. He was on her. In her. Everywhere.

She forces herself to sit up, elbows resting on bent knees. Messy hair falls around her face. The fire flickers in front of her, but even that warmth doesn’t reach the cold buried in her spine since the moment Victor cornered her in the library. Since he cornered her in that forest.

"You're mine."

She swallows hard. The words won’t leave her mind. Nor the way he said them — not like a request, not even a threat. A fact.

The sudden creak of wood outside makes her body jolt, heart racing. She turns, eyes locking on the half-open door, waiting... dreading. But nothing appears.

Not yet.

---

In the kitchen, Victor moves in silence.

The knife glides through raw meat as if slicing through butter. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing — he doesn’t need to. His focus is on the wall separating him from the main bedroom.

He can feel every beat of her heart, even from here. He can picture those doe-eyes wide and cautious, fixed on the door, waiting for him to come back. Or the trembling fingers clutching at the covers. She’s in there; alert and tense.

Good.

He likes when she tries to fight. Likes it even more when her body betrays her mind — when her breath shortens, when her gaze falters, when she trembles even while trying to look brave.

Victor closes his eyes for a second. Inhales deeply.

Her scent still lingers in his nose. Not just the sweet, warm perfume that seems to rise naturally from her soft skin — but the real scent, the one she emits when she’s afraid, confused, exhausted.

He’d smelled it before, in the forest. Even before the forest. From the moment the hunt began.

That scent was what hooked him. That scent changed everything.

----

He returns with a bowl in hand — meat cooked in a thick broth, simple, but hot.

Strong enough to wake even the most starved body.

His steps are silent in the hallway, as always. But Anne knows. She feels it when he draws near. As if the air itself bends around him — heat shifting, pressure thickening.

By the time he steps through the door, she’s already staring at him. Sitting rigidly against the headboard, legs covered in furs, her brown eyes tired, tight — but still defiant.

Victor stops and tilts his head, slowly. That narrow, feline gaze, sharp and unreadable. Then he sniffs the air. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But Anne sees it.

His nostrils flare for a second, reading the room. His eyes close briefly — and when they reopen, they carry something different. Something more…instinctive.

He approaches the bed and offers the bowl like a gift. But he doesn’t hand it to her. He places it on the table beside her.

“Eat.” — he says.

His voice is deep. Hoarse. Final. He doesn’t raise it. Doesn’t shout. The words come out like primal orders — short, sharp. Like claws. Like fangs.

Anne doesn’t move.

Victor watches for a moment…then steps closer. He crouches beside the bed. Eyes level with hers. His large body folding like a beast ready to pounce. But he doesn’t. He just…watches.

His gaze drifts from her face to her neck, then lower, where his shirt hangs off her skin like a twisted promise. He can feel the heat of her body beneath the blankets. Smell her. The salt of her skin. The mutation pulsing under the surface.

And then, he leans in. Slowly. As if following some sacred ritual. He bows his head and presses his nose against the side of her neck, inhaling deeply.

Anne chokes on the breath, body going rigid in shock.

But he doesn’t stop.

His breath is hot against her jugular. The sound escaping his chest isn’t a sigh. Not a growl either. It’s something in between. A low, animal noise.

Victor trails his nose down to her collarbone, inhaling, savoring — like he’s marking her. Like he’s telling the world she’s his by some ancestral, wild right.

When he pulls back, his gaze is fevered. Calculated. Obscenely calm.

“You always smell like fear…” — he murmurs, voice rough against her sensitive skin. “It’s...fucking delicious.”

Anne recoils on reflex, but she’s already trapped between the headboard and his body. That broad chest, those arms braced on either side of the mattress.

“Gonna eat...or should I feed you like a stubborn pup?” — he asks, and the tone isn’t playful. It’s serious. Dark. Instinct-driven.

She stares at him, heart thundering, blood pounding in her temples. The urge to scream — to flee, to hit — coils tightly around the weight of fear. Of something worse: submission.

Victor waits calmly. Body still as a statue. Eyes locked. Invisible claws drawn.

Anne doesn’t look away, but her chest rises and falls too fast to pretend she’s unaffected. Her hands cling to the blanket like it’s a lifeline in a world that stopped making sense. Her entire body contradicts itself — burning on the outside, frozen within.

Victor is still there, crouched beside her, far too large for the space, like the room bends around him. His head tilted, eyes half-lidded, as if he hears something she can’t. Maybe he does. Maybe he hears her blood rushing. Maybe he senses her heart trying to escape through her ribs.

For a moment, all she can think is that none of it makes sense.

She should be dead.

She should be buried in snow, neck snapped by claws or her flesh torn, her body discarded among the trees like any victim of his kind. That’s what Victor Creed did. Always did. Always was.

But there she is. Alive. Captive, yes. Marked, yes. But breathing.

And that — that’s what scares her the most.

“Why am I still here?” — the question slips out without planning, dry, quiet, nearly hoarse. She didn’t mean to ask it aloud, but she has to. She needs to claw some truth out of the suffocating silence.

Victor lifts his gaze slowly. His pale eyes glint in the firelight like a cat’s in the dark, and for a moment, he just watches her. No smile. No instant reply. Just that weight he carries in his expression, as if every word is savored before it’s spit out.

“You’re still breathing because I decided so.” — he finally says.

The voice comes low, rough. Final. Like a sentence carved in stone.

Anne presses her lips together. Her heart pounds harder. That wasn’t an answer. Not one she could accept.

“You said...out there,” — she continues, throat tight, voice strained — “that you sensed me weeks ago. That you smelled me and knew you had to find me.”

Victor doesn’t react right away. Doesn’t even blink. His gaze stays fixed, and something shifts beneath it now — a spark, maybe, or some instinct deeper than language. The kind of thing that doesn’t explain itself. It acts.

“I smelled you,” he says at last, agreeing. “In the air. In the tracks you left behind. I couldn’t ignore it.”

Anne clenches her jaw.

“So you hunted me.” She says bitterly, her voice a whisper. “You lured me into that forest. Played with me. Took me. And now you're feeding me, keeping me here like...like a thing.”

Victor doesn’t reply. Doesn’t deny. Doesn’t even consider it wrong.

And that makes her fear grow deeper.

Anne straightens her back, jaw set. “You could’ve killed me in that forest. Or when you brought me here. Wouldn’t have been hard — I’ve seen what you do to your enemies.” She presses on, her stare forced into steel over the panic. “So tell me what the hell you want! Are you going to kill me eventually? Use me? Are you…are you going to t-take me by force? Is that your sick plan?”

The silence that follows is brutal.

Victor moves. Slowly. One arm glides across the mattress, a large hand resting by the pillow beside her. He doesn’t touch her, but the way he leans in traps her between the headboard and his body.

His face is close again. Too close.

His breath fans over her skin. And there’s something there — a deep, hot scent, part fire smoke, part sweat, part something untamed living under his flesh. He inhales her again. No pretense.

His nose nudges her jawline, slides toward her ear, and he draws her in through scent like he’s consuming her — drinking in her essence through breath alone.

Anne’s stomach knots. The feeling of danger grows with every second he takes to answer. She knows what she just accused him of, and so does he. She’s finally speaking aloud what she’s feared most — what’s haunted her since she woke up in this cabin.

He wants her. That much is clear. But for what?

She can’t move. Her gut coils. Her fingers clutch the blanket so tight her knuckles go pale.

And when Victor speaks, it’s low. Almost a growl whispered against her bone.

“If I wanted to take you, frail…do you really think you’d have a choice?”

She shudders. Her lashes tremble. Her eyes sting against her will.

Victor pulls back — but not far. Just enough so his gaze locks with hers again. And something’s different in his face now — something darker. Not just desire. Something more...primitive.

“You think this is about your body, little bunny?”

Her heart pounds.

"You think that’s all I could take?"

He lowers his face. His nose brushes the hair at the base of her skull, where her neck meets the spine. He inhales. Deeply.

"I could’ve had it already. Any night. Any moment. But I didn’t. I kept...waiting."

His mouth grazes a pulse point on her neck, breath warm and teasing over her skin.

"No, that’s not it," he goes on, lips feeling her heartbeat. "It’s not just that. You think like a human. And you forget...I’m not."

The sentence hangs in the air.

Anne tries to process it, but she can’t. Nothing makes sense. Nothing aligns. Everything inside her screams for answers he’ll never give.

Victor stands at last. His full shadow stretches across the room. The beast pulling back — but never gone.

He walks to the door. Stops just before crossing the threshold. His head tilts slightly, and his gaze cuts back over his shoulder. Fierce. Unshaken.

"You still don’t understand what I want from you." He says.

His hand pushes the door open with a soft, deliberate click.

"But you will. Soon."

Then he's gone, swallowed by the corridor, leaving behind not just the steaming bowl beside the bed, but the scent of him, the heat of him — and worst of all, the question Anne can’t stop hearing inside her skull.

What does a beast like him want from a girl like her, if not only her body?

---

A few days passed.

Anne didn’t know exactly how many - there were no clocks, and everything blurred into a repetitive loop of waking and nightmares, like she was caught outside of time, where only the snow moved outside, growing, swallowing the cabin little by little like a white tomb. Time ran differently on this mountain.

She ate. She slept. Tried not to think. But it was impossible to ignore the crackle of wood in the fire, the wind whining through the cracks, or his presence. Always near. Sometimes Victor vanished for hours. Other times, she sensed — just from the shift in the air — that he’d been there all along, watching silently, like an animal behind the brush, waiting for her to make a mistake.

She was never truly alone, even when she couldn’t see him.

The routine became a prison of thick rugs and warm furs. The food always came hot — like a cruel irony, a joke against the real terror crawling under her skin. Victor didn’t lock her in — he didn’t need to. The snowdrifts, the storm, the isolation did the work for him. And she knew he knew that. Knew what would happen if she tried again. Her body still remembered collapsing in the snow, choking on ice as she ran through the trees, the world spinning before it all went dark.

Her mistake had been trusting her own gifts.

She felt them now. More than before. Humming under her skin like static trapped in her veins. Gentle but constant, as if something inside her was trying to wake up. Cells that regenerated too fast. Strength returning with each deep breath. But still unstable. Like glass stretched over a chasm.

She needed control. She needed to get back to her training. To focus. To be somewhere safe. But all she had was a cage at the top of the world. And the beast who walked through it like a king.

Victor didn’t speak much. He didn’t have to. He moved in and out of the space like he was carved into it — as if the cabin had been shaped around him. Sometimes, she woke up knowing he had come into her room while she slept. Not from sounds or marks. But from the scent — stronger, newer. From the pillow that felt different. From the shirt collar pushed aside where he could breathe her in…because he always wanted to breathe her in.

Anne wanted to believe it was paranoia. But it wasn’t.

She tried to pretend at normalcy inside the twisted, abnormal mess her life had become. Read books. Walked the corridor. Kept her face composed. But his gaze followed her like a leash. Victor watched in silence. Sometimes from the leather couch. Sometimes from a doorway. And that look — God, that look — burned. It wasn’t lust. Not in the way she understood it. It was hunger. Like she was the center of a force far older than desire.

And she felt exposed. Even dressed in his clothes, in a shirt that hung past mid-thigh, hair tied up loosely, her feet wrapped in thick socks he’d shoved at her one night — “Tsk. Why are these feet always as cold as a damn corpse, bunny?” he muttered, covering them himself while she stared him, stunned. The way he tucked her in under the furs one last time before moving to the fireplace.

Naked. That’s how she felt. Because his gaze cut through everything.

Aside from his nose occasionally buried in her neck to scent her throughout the day, Victor didn’t touch her. Not yet. But his body was always close enough for her to feel the heat. To hear the faint crack of joints when he stretched his fingers, like he was going to reach for her, but stopped at the last second.

To catch the low, almost imperceptible sound — something like a predator’s purr — when he watched her move around the cabin.

Sometimes he went barefoot. Which made it harder to hear him coming until it was too late. Until he was right there. Beside her. Behind her. Around her.

It was like living with the shadow of a tiger.

At night, Anne lay beneath heavy blankets, staring at the dark ceiling, body vibrating with things she didn’t want to feel. His presence clung to the room long after he was gone. The scent, the heat, the pressure. Her breath quickened for no reason. As if something in her instincts knew before her mind did. As if her body was reacting to the very thing she spent every day denying.

He wants something from me, she’d think, teeth pressing into her lower lip. But what?

She wasn’t stupid. She knew a man like Victor Creed didn’t wait out of politeness. He was driven by desire, by hunger, by possession. And if all he wanted was her body, he would’ve taken it already — just like he said. That, she knew with certainty. So why hadn’t he?

Time passed. The days were long, heavy, suffocating, even as the cold of the mountain clawed at the thick cabin walls. She walked the halls, studied the layout, every possible flaw. But Victor always seemed a step ahead — like he knew her thoughts before they fully formed.

And worst of all — she could feel herself getting stronger. Healing more every day.

But he…he didn’t weaken.

Anne began to wonder if she was being prepared for something. Or tested. Watched like a rare creature in a glass cage.

The tension built. Day after day.

And she felt it: something was coming.

---

Night.

Another one. Or maybe the same one, replaying a thousand times beneath the white shroud of the storm.

The cabin slept in silence. The fire had dimmed to embers. No sound from Victor’s room — just the occasional pop of burning wood.

Anne sat at the edge of the bed for long minutes, wrapped in furs, eyes locked on the open door. The dark hallway beyond stretched like a throat. She listened. Held her breath. Waited. Listened.

Nothing.

He wasn’t there.

Maybe he was out hunting. Maybe patrolling the mountain — his territory. Or maybe he wanted her to think she was alone. That was the kind of game he played — leave space, then scratch the door and remind her who ruled the food chain.

Still…Anne stood up.

Silent, feet light on the floor. She crept across the room, avoiding the boards she knew would creak, and moved toward the living room.

The space was steeped in shadows. Pale light from outside bled through the fraying curtains, casting a silver wash over everything. The objects slept where they’d been left. All still. All mute.

Anne took a deep breath.

Closed her eyes.

And began.

She reached forward, fingers trembling, heart thundering. The cold from the floor tried to swallow her heat, but she resisted. Focused. Tried to remember Professor Xavier’s voice, the mental exercises, the images — 'Visualize it, Anne. Feel the movement before it happens.'

She thought of atoms. Of the invisible structure of things. The wood in the chairs. The metal in the hinges. The iron of the chandelier. Everything pulsed, everything was energy waiting to be called.

And so she called it.

With a gesture, one of the chairs shivered. It didn’t rise. Didn’t float. But it responded.

It was a start.

Anne bit her lip, moved forward. Tried again. Slower. More focused. This time the object trembled and slid two inches across the floor. A sharp sound echoed in the room and she froze, entire body stiff.

Waited.

Listening.

Nothing.

She exhaled.

Kept going.

In the forest her power had screamed loose, wild and undisciplined, driven by survival. But here? It was hard. Heavy. Exhausting. Like the broken notes of a song that might someday become whole.

For what felt like hours — though it had only been minutes — Anne moved small things. A spoon. A forgotten dish. A split piece of firewood. All with effort. All with caution. But the power thrummed beneath her skin, wild, restless, hungry. Like it had been chained too long.

And when she reached further — a clay bowl — it rose...and shattered midair. Shards flew in every direction. One hit her temple, but she didn’t feel it. The pain was swallowed by adrenaline.

She dropped to her knees, gasping.

Hands shaking. Her temple pulsing, though the cut had already closed. Blood slid in a thin red line down her jaw, vanishing beneath the collar. But she smiled.

Because the bowl flew. Not by accident, not by desperate instinct. But by her will.

She did it.

Still kneeling, she wiped the blood with the back of her hand, looked around at the mess. Nothing too obvious. Nothing she couldn’t hide.

But as she reached for one of the shards scattered across the polished floorboards...something inside her froze.

The air changed.

Thicker. Warmer.

It wasn’t sound.

It wasn’t sight.

It was instinct.

Like an animal in the woods sensing the predator before it sees it.

Anne turned slowly…but no one was there. The hallway lay empty. The door to Victor’s room, closed. No shadow. No breath. No step.

And yet…

She knew.

He was there.

Watching.

Scenting.

She swallowed, wiped the blood again, backing away like prey that knows the beast is close — and starving.

She climbed back into bed, quiet, but her heart beat too loud, too fast.

She curled beneath the furs and pulled them to her nose, eyes on the ceiling.

Victor didn’t appear that night.

But his scent was everywhere.

And when she finally slept, she dreamed of claws scraping wood...and eyes glowing in the dark.

----

Anne hadn’t planned to run.

Well — yes, of course she had.

But not that day, not that hour, not so impulsively — maybe she had dreamed about it during the night, maybe she had rehearsed it while staring at the wooden door or the twisted branches outside, but it wasn’t supposed to happen now. Not like this, with an empty stomach, a spinning head full of anxiety and swallowed rage, and fear growing like damp mold inside walls that no longer offered even the illusion of safety.

But it was the sound.

Or rather — the absence of it.

No creak of boots on the wood.

No snap of the door opening or closing. No low, rough, wild breathing. No footsteps. No shadow. No Victor.

She waited a few minutes.

Then ten.

Then thirty.

Then…fuck it.

Her heart was already pounding too loud for reason to have any chance. She walked barefoot to the door, the thick socks clinging to her skin like rags. Her fingers were trembling. She wore nothing but that oversized shirt, a coarse fabric that had become part of her prison, like a convict’s uniform. His coat hung on the hook by the door, monstrous like him — heavy, dark, far too large and far too thick — but it was all she had.

She grabbed it and pulled it on fast. His scent came with it, always, like a finger down her throat, as if the forest had fused to Victor’s skin and refused to let go.

Anne didn’t think. She didn’t allow her mind to process. She opened the door and ran.

The cold hit her like a punch. Not like a slap or a bite — like a blow to the gut, like a shove to the ribs that stole her breath, her footing, her direction. Snow covered everything — the steps of the porch, the hard ground, the twisted branches, the sky, white as soaked paper. Still, she ran down and forward, her socked ankles sinking with every step, feet already soaked, wind slicing through the coat’s fabric like blades.

But she ran anyway.

Because there was no other choice. Because blood roared in her ears, her eyes stung with frustration, her chest felt crushed beneath the weight of something she didn’t understand, didn’t want to name — fear of Victor, fear of herself, fear of beginning to want what she should despise.

She ran because if she stayed another day, another night, another hour beside that beast — she would break.

And only after the first kilometer — or what felt like hours of steps sinking into snow — did she realize what she’d done.

The coat wasn’t enough. Her legs were numb. Her lips, colorless. Her hands stiff, useless, curled into fists that barely felt the fabric. The wind howled like a predator older than any beast. The snowstorm erased everything — trails, sounds, directions.

She didn’t know where she was.

Didn’t know if there was another cabin.

Didn’t even know if there was solid ground beneath her or if she was running across ice ready to open like an abyss.

And still…she kept going.

Because turning back was admitting defeat.

Turning back was kneeling.

Turning back was letting him see her give in.

She choked on her breath, ice forming straight in her throat. In the middle of her unstable steps, she tripped. Fell. Her hands plunged into snow, knees scraping hard ice. The coat flared open for a second and the wind bit into her stomach through his shirt, climbed up her torso, slicing down to the bone.

She rose, swaying, her eyelashes frozen, breath fogged, hair wet with snow and cold sweat. She was trembling. She was burning. She was—

Being watched.

She felt it before she saw.

The presence, the chill on her nape. Her pulse sped, frantic, like something in her primitive instincts recognized the predator before her mind did.

She turned, gasping.

And he was there.

Atop a ridge of snow-darkened stone, his wide silhouette unmoving. Those broad shoulders cloaked in barely contained fury. His heavy hands at his sides. Claws maybe out, maybe not. That shadowed face, eyes half-lidded, more feline than human, glowing with deafening calm. Dark hair cut short. Beard rough over a strong jaw, sideburns slicing across his face like scars from a beast.

Victor didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched.

And Anne knew. It wasn’t about the escape. Not about the defiance. He might even find that amusing, sadistic bastard that he was.

It was because she was going to die.

Freeze right there, in front of him, like a small creature too stubborn to accept it had no way out. And that…that made him furious.

Victor stepped down from the rocks like a shadow dissolving over snow. No hurry. No slip. Every step was solid, silent, deliberate — as if cold, wind, slippery ground meant nothing. He crossed the storm like an animal born of the mountain — made to rule it.

And when he got close — close enough for her to see vapor from his breath, close enough to feel the heat of his rage humming under his skin — Anne tried to retreat. But her body wouldn’t obey.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” he growled low, each word spat like a muffled snarl. “Trying to kill yourself, is that it?”

She didn’t answer. Her teeth clattered, cold sinking into bone. The coat shook on her shoulders. Her whole body swayed with weakness.

“You ran out here like an idiot, bare-legged, no food, no shelter, no clue where you are…” — he stepped even closer, his shadow caging her like flesh and bone bars. “You wouldn’t last ‘til nightfall, stupid girl.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Only the ragged rasp of breath in her throat. Air felt like blades. Her head spun.

Victor grabbed her waist.

With one hand.

Easily.

“You wanna play escape, frail. Want to sneak around with your little powers at night.” — he whispered, his eyes locked on hers, so intense they felt like they pierced straight through her. “But you don’t get to play with your fucking life. Because it’s mine.”

And she felt it.

The warning.

The barely leashed fury.

The feral instinct shifting beneath his skin.

Not because she ran. But because she dared to destroy herself without his permission.

Anne didn’t know if she could die.

Not with the mutation that simmered beneath her skin, not with the constant regeneration of living matter that rebuilt her whenever something broke her — bones, muscles, even torn flesh. The Professor had once said that maybe, maybe her body would eventually learn to overcome even death, given enough time and control. But he had never been clear, never made promises, never truly knew.

And in that moment, neither of them would.

Because there, in the snow, with her feet sinking into frozen white layers, with her wet socks turning into sharp icy splinters around her toes, with the wind slicing through the thick coat — his coat — with the blood being drawn away from the surface of her skin, pulled inward in a desperate attempt to protect her…Anne felt, for the first time, that she had crossed a threshold.

She didn’t know if she could die. But she was close enough to know she didn’t want to find out.

Her body no longer responded, muscles refusing to obey. Her legs were trembling, numb, stiff. Her lips had lost all color, cracked and dry. Her fingers, frozen like wood. She had lost all sense of distance, of time, of direction.

And when Victor found her — that presence that seemed to rise from the very belly of the mountain, hot and silent and inescapable — Anne didn’t fight. She couldn’t. And worse than that…she didn’t want to.

He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, as if she were made of frozen leaves. One arm wrapped behind her back, firm, hot, brutal in its secure grip. The other slipped beneath her legs, shielding calves that were already red from the cold, nearly purple in some places. His short beard brushed lightly against the side of her face as he moved, and she let out a faint breath, her body collapsing against his broad chest as if it were returning to something inevitable.

She shouldn’t. She should scream, bite, spit, thrash. But she did none of that. Instead…she gave in.

Her face slowly slid until it found the hollow between his shirt collar and the base of his neck. And there, hidden against his warm skin, she sank. Her nose brushed rough flesh, his scent flooding everything — all heat and wildness… that animal, inhuman scent that felt rooted in the earth itself.

She sighed — slow, weary, spent. Her breath landed against his throat, warm and fragile, like the exhale of prey surrendering from sheer exhaustion. Her fingers closed lightly around the fabric of his shirt, the soaked cuff of the coat dragging melted snow across his shoulder. He didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.

The world around them was still white, hostile, indifferent. But in his arms…

In the arms of Victor Creed, the beast, the monster, she was warm. And that — that thought, that feeling — was as comforting as it was unbearable.

But she would hate herself for it later. Because now she simply existed there, breathing against him, letting him carry her back as if her body already knew it belonged to his touch.

Victor said nothing.

He walked like a man carrying a wounded creature he alone had the right to punish later — but who, for now, was his responsibility to protect. Even from herself. His jaw was tight. His eyes narrow, his breathing far too controlled. Every step echoed over the snowy trail like a warning. Silent and deadly.

When the cabin door opened, he didn’t hesitate. He stepped inside. Shut it with a heavy thud and the silence within was heavier than the one outside.

He took her to the main bedroom, laid her gently across the furs and blankets. And for a long moment, he stood there — watching. Motionless.

Anne squeezed her eyes shut. Her cheeks were still flushed from the cold, her legs burning, her feet tingling. But it was his presence that kept her awake. Not the warmth of the fire he always kept alive. Not the weight of furs covering her body. It was him. His gaze. His silence.

Victor sat slowly in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His eyes locked on her. No words. No movement. Just that — his presence. The fury coiled inside tense muscles. The rage masked with feline precision.

She felt sick. Not for running away, but for seeing that look. That shadow in his eyes. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t wounded pride. It was something older. Something that resembled disappointment.

Victor looked at her as if she had betrayed him by daring to destroy herself. As if she belonged to him and had tried — deliberately — to take herself away from him.

Anne turned her face away and swallowed hard, along with the ridiculous compulsion to apologize. She didn’t owe this monster anything.

Victor didn’t speak that night. There was no sound beyond the firewood cracking in the hearth and the storm battering the windows.

---

Morning came without mercy, like everything else in that cabin.

The heat of the fireplace still burned against the stones, fighting off the cold determined to seep through every crack in the wood. Outside, the world remained white and dead, the snow covering every sign of trail, of mistake, of escape.

Anne woke slowly, her body wrapped in the furs still steeped in the warmth of the previous night. Her eyes burned. Her mouth was dry. Her heart felt too heavy inside her chest. She turned her face into the pillow and inhaled the scent of old smoke, leather, wood...him.

She sat up slowly, the soreness in her muscles returning like a reminder of the desperation that had burned through her the night before. Her feet still throbbed, even though the cellular regeneration had erased most visible damage. But not all. And the worst wasn’t in her body.

The worst was in her soul.

In the shame.

Not just over the stupid, childish decision to run when it was painfully obvious she had no chance of succeeding.

But mostly for curling into him, for seeking warmth in the arms that should terrify her, against the neck she should’ve wanted to tear apart with her teeth.

She had surrendered. Allowed herself to breathe against his skin, as if it were natural. As if she were safe. And now...now everything was worse than before.

The house was silent. Too silent.

Anne stepped out of the bedroom cautiously, the oversized shirt still covering her bare legs, her feet — now in a fresh pair of thick socks he must have put on her while she slept — pressed against the wooden floor. A single traitorous floorboard creaked beneath her weight. She closed her eyes for a second. Then moved forward.

In the kitchen, the chair by the fireplace was occupied.

Victor was there.

Seated with his legs spread, body leaning forward, forearms braced on the table. His hair was cropped short, those dark sideburns framing a tense face, the stubble along his jaw making him look even more dangerous. His chin was tilted slightly down. His hands were clasped. Silence clung to him like a second skin.

She froze in the doorway.

“Victor…” — her voice came out soft, hesitant. A fragile whisper trying to mend something already rotten. “I…”

His eyes lifted. Slowly.

And the cold came back.

The kind of cold that had nothing to do with the weather.

“Sit.” — he said. Ordered. His voice was rough, slow, too low to be safe. But there was no shouting. Something worse lived in that restraint.

Anne swallowed hard, took a hesitant step forward, arms crossing over her chest as if trying to protect what was already too exposed. The table was set with unsettling precision. Warm bread, thick butter in a clay bowl, steaming scrambled eggs, salted meat, coffee far too strong for her unsettled stomach. The smell was intense, almost seductive. And yet the air between them tasted like rust.

She sat slowly, muscles still stiff from the night before, feet touching the floor like it might shatter beneath her. Silence chewed at every second. Victor sat across from her, chewing slowly, slicing the meat with a kind of ancient politeness that made her even more tense.

She tried to eat.

A bite, then another. Eyes downcast. Swallowing not the food, but the weight of him — the way he watched her without watching, the way the air around his body seemed to pulse, to burn, like Victor Creed was too big for cabins, for wooden tables, for forks and knives and shared meals.

He said nothing.

And that’s what killed her.

She tightened her grip on the fork, trying to stay composed, trying to accept this breakfast as some twisted form of amends — for the idiotic escape attempt, for melting silently into his arms when he found her frozen and near death — but she couldn’t. Not today. His silence cut. The weight of the gaze that wasn’t there, but was, always was.

She hated that it made her feel guilty.

So she snapped.

Without warning. Without preparation. Like a dam giving way.

“I shouldn't have to apologize for that.”

Victor chewed slowly, as if he hadn’t heard her at all. Too calm. Like everything was exactly how it should be. But it wasn’t.

And that tore her open.

Every second of silence, every slow movement of his, every word he didn’t say. Anne felt heat rising — the burn of shame and anger spreading up her neck, her jaw trembling with barely-contained indignation.

She hated the shame.

The fork clinked against the porcelain plate.

“How long are you going to keep up this silence?” — she muttered through clenched teeth, the tone sharp, cutting, far rougher than she meant. But it was too late now. — “You think you can lock me up in this goddamn cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere and then have the audacity to ignore me? To act like some disappointed father because the kid misbehaved?”

Victor stopped chewing.

His eyes lifted — slowly.

And Anne didn’t stop. Because if she stopped now, she’d fall apart.

“You’re a fucking hypocrite, Victor.” — the words were venom, spat between her teeth. — “You drag me here, hide me from the world, throw out my clothes like you’re trying to erase who I was before you. You keep me captive like some...some pet you want to tame. And you still have the nerve to act like you’re the one in the right. Like I should be apologizing for trying to escape. For trying to take back my life.”

She laughed — short, broken — and threw the napkin down, her eyes gleaming, pupils blown wide with frustration and exhaustion.

“I’m not an stupid pet. I’m not your possession. And with all due respect, Victor — fuck your silence. Fuck you.”

Victor didn’t move.

He just looked at her. Narrow gaze. Jaw clenched like stone. But it was the silence that screamed louder than anything. The way his eyes didn’t blink. The way his chest didn’t even rise.

Anne felt the mistake.

But she didn’t apologize.

Because even hating the way her heart pounded, even hating the tremble in her fingers and the flush burning her cheeks — she needed to say it. She needed to purge it before it drowned her from the inside out.

She sank back into the chair, chest rising and falling fast, eyes locked on him like a challenge she had no strength to sustain — but held anyway.

Victor blinked. Once.

And the tension in the air shifted.

It didn’t snap. It tightened.

Like a noose.

He rose from the chair without rush. Only the slow creak of wood marked the movement. His eyes never left hers. And now there was something in them that hadn’t been there before — something darker, deeper, like an ocean getting ready to swallow a city.

But he didn’t speak.

And that was the worst part.

Anne felt her body shrink without meaning to, instincts screaming for her to back away — but she stayed upright in the chair, still breathing too fast.

Victor walked slowly, circling the table like a predator circling something injured. Each step silent. Lethal. And no matter how she tried to hold his gaze, the hairs on her arms stood up, her stomach clenched, turned cold.

He stopped behind her.

And for a second, she didn’t breathe.

His voice finally came — hoarse, restrained, low enough to crawl down her spine.

“Finish your breakfast.”

That was all.

And then he walked away.

The back door creaked open, the cold wind swept in for a moment — and then it shut again.

Victor disappeared into the snow.

But his heat stayed behind.

Clinging to the air.

Anne remained in her chair.

No hunger. No courage.

And maybe that’s exactly why she hated that damned man — because he was managing to carve out of her every piece she thought was solid, unshakeable.

And now...now she had no idea who she was becoming.

---

The day drags on in a slow crawl.

Anne paces around the cabin like a bored, irritable animal trapped in her own private cage. Every step echoes too loudly. The creak of the wood beneath her feet sounds like a warning, as if the house itself knows something is wrong inside her.

She mutters under her breath, walking from the bedroom to the kitchen.

The oversized shirt sways around her bare thighs as she leans over the sink, scrubbing the coffee cups with unnecessary force, splashing water, breathing deep, releasing frustrated sighs.

“Fuck him. Wants to stay away? Great.”

She dries the dishes angrily, as if each plate had insulted her personally.

“I don’t care. Not even a little.”

But with every lap around the room, every aimless step, every second without that stare pinned on her… some very quiet part of her mind starts screaming. She can’t stand this emptiness. The silence should be a relief — instead, it’s an oppressive absence.

She grabs one of the books from the library, trying to pretend she cares, that she’s interested, but doesn’t get past the first page. The words blur. His scent is there. In the old wood. In the worn pages. In the still air of the house.

She slams the book shut and shoves it back onto the shelf.

She showers. Long. Too long, just trying to fill time that refuses to pass. She wraps her hair, scrubs her skin, as if she could wipe his presence from her pores. But when she steps out again, wearing his shirt and thick socks...

Nothing has changed.

Still empty.

She dusts the furniture with a furrowed brow, moves things just to move them back. The hours chew her sanity little by little.

And still, she mutters — under her breath, bitterly, like a spoiled child who knows she's being ignored. It’s a ridiculous and completely inappropriate attitude for the horrible situation she’s in. But she can’t help it.

“Hope an avalanche swallowed him out there,” she whispers as she grabs the cloth to wipe the counter, but she still jumps at every noise from the windows. Any sound from outside, any shadow. A part of her waits and she hates that she does.

Outside, the sun begins to set, hiding behind snow and skeletal trees. The cold slips through cracks even the fire can't expel.

And then —

The doorknob turns.

Anne is still in the kitchen, pretending to clean a countertop that’s already spotless, when she hears the door creak open — slow, deep, like an old omen. She thinks about running, hiding in the bedroom, but she knows he’d know. 

The wind enters first. Then him.

That massive silhouette. Shoulders far too broad for the doorway. The dark coat dripping melted snow. Hair and beard damp from the frost. The expression...unchanged.

But the eyes.

The eyes aren’t the same.

They burn. Not with loud anger, not like before. Something darker, denser…raw?

Anne’s heart races.

Damn it.

She pretends not to see him. Turns her back, keeps wiping the same spot on the counter for minutes now. But the hairs on her neck stand up. The air in the cabin tightens.

He says nothing. Just closes the door behind him carefully.

And silence returns.

Not the same as before.

This one is heavier.

More dangerous.

Victor takes off his coat slowly, shaking the snow from it before hanging it, and Anne hears it like muffled thunder behind her. She tries to look casual, tries to seem indifferent, but her fingers tremble. Her knees want to give out.

She doesn’t turn around. Not now.

Because if his eyes still look like that...

She’ll crumble.

She’ll say something she shouldn’t.

Or worse.

She’ll want to be close.

She’ll want his warmth again.

And she can’t.

She can’t want that.

She can’t want that damned man.

She can’t.

But there’s no escaping when he’s there — and she feels it, even without seeing, that his gaze is still on her, fixed, assessing how close to collapse she already is.

And if she turns...if she faces him again...

He might break her.

Or maybe she’ll do it herself.

The air in the cabin shifts.

Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Anne feels it. The kind of change that comes before a storm, the kind of energy that arrives before panic, before the skin realizes something is about to happen. She’s still standing at the counter, hands pressed against the cold wood, trying to ignore the presence behind her.

But the silence...that alive, pulsing silence begins to grow. He moves and she hears it.

The rustle of boots on the floor, the slight creak of the board beneath his weight. He’s no longer at the entrance.

He’s coming.

She refuses to turn. Closes her eyes for a second, trying to hold herself together, but her body betrays her. The hairs on her arm rise, her breath catches in her throat.

And then...

He stops behind her.

Too close.

The heat of his body reaches her before any touch. A shadow cast over the kitchen light. A wall of muscle and silence. And she feels it, every single inch of his presence. Like a great feline creeping up behind a smaller creature — no rush, no doubt, as if the entire world had paused for this approach.

Anne’s eyes widen.

She freezes.

Her body flinches toward the counter, as if trying to merge with the wood. But there’s no space. No escape.

Victor leans in slowly. His chest presses against her back with the softness of a contained growl. Warm, solid, controlled. His breath hits her neck, slow and muffled. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to.

His head lowers further, and his nose brushes through her hair, inhaling her scent in a subtle, animalistic motion — as if he wanted to catalogue every note, every trace, every heartbeat of fear hidden under the layers of shame.

And desire.

Her heart pounds too hard.

Anne stares at the wall ahead, panting, hands clutching the counter, fingers white from tension. She doesn’t move. Not because she doesn’t want to — but because her body forgot how.

Victor stays there, molded to her back, large, firm, warm, real. Letting her feel every inch of heat from his body pressed against hers. He inhales again, deeper, the tip of his nose descending to the curve of her neck, not touching...but so close she can almost feel the fangs.

“You smell like lies now, little bunny.” — he murmurs, his voice low and rasping against her skin, as if he were speaking directly to her spine.

Anne shudders. Her face burns and she wants to scream. Wants to turn and shove him. But her body...her body yields before her mind can stop it.

“Missed my attention?” — he asks, lips nearly brushing her earlobe. — “Or did my little pet just hate being alone in this quiet cabin?”

She lets out a trembling breath, eyes locked on the wall like it can protect her. Like this is a dream. Or a nightmare.

“Y-you can’t...”

But the sentence dies before it can be born. Because he interrupts her — with a touch.

His hand lands on the counter beside hers. Huge. Rough. Clawed. The other rises slowly, resting on her waist with no gentleness — more like an anchor.

Anne swallows hard.

“What’s wrong?” — he murmurs. — “Thought you wanted distance.”

She squeezes her eyes shut, her face on fire.

His hand on her waist doesn’t move. It holds. Possessive.

She hates him.

Hates how her knees go weak. Hates the way his scent invades her — that dark scent of a dangerous creature. The same one she tried to scrub from her skin in the bath. In vain.

“Gonna yell at me again?” — he says, that rough, taunting tone he uses when he’s too close, when he already knows he’s won. He finally presses his nose to her skin, shoves his chest into her back until she’s crushed against the counter and the disturbing solidity of his body.

She doesn’t answer.

She can’t.

Because right then, she’s locked — inside and out. Her chest rising and falling with effort, legs trembling with fear. And heat.

Victor smiles behind her. She feels his smile before she hears it, before she can react, before she can even remember to resist. He smiles. A subtle, crooked movement of lips against her neck — more for himself than for her.

And then...

Victor moves.

He lowers his head even further, his mouth brushing softly along the side of her neck, as if tasting the frantic pulse beneath her skin, and just when Anne thinks he’ll stop — that maybe this was only a silent provocation, a staged act of dominance...

...he bites.

Not with violence. Not with the brutality of his claws or the crushing strength of his jaw. But with the wild precision of a predator who knows exactly how far he can push without tearing, how much pressure he can apply before his prey screams. His fangs — sharp, inhuman — graze her skin like a warning, dragging without breaking, pressing into the tender curve between her neck and shoulder like a promise whispered through teeth.

Anne tenses, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted with a breath of shock. A gasp escapes — soft, almost inaudible — but Victor hears it. Of course he does. He feels the tremor in her body, the stiffening of her spine, the violent shiver that rips down every vertebra like an electric shock. His chest presses harder against her back — firm, crushing. He’s plastered to her, and there’s nothing between them but the barrier of fabric and the weight of what can’t be spoken. What must never happen.

His lips glides over the reddened mark his teeth left — warm and slow — sealing the place he chose like a beast branding his territory. Her breath catches again, uneven, wrong.

“That sound…” — he murmurs, his voice low and rough now, like gravel dragged through a dark river — “Will you make that sound every time I touch you like this, sweet thing?”

Anne hates her body in that moment. Hates the way the heat spreads through her stomach, down her thighs. Hates that his touch doesn’t terrify her the way it used to. Not anymore. Because now — now fear is laced with something else. Something she can’t name without loathing herself completely.

She squeezes her eyes, fights the wave of heat and rage and shame crawling up her throat, but her body won’t obey. Her hands still clutch the counter, her hips still trapped between the wood and him, and Victor doesn’t back off.

“I should’ve let you freeze out there…” — he growls, lips still on her neck. — “But I didn’t. And look at you now. Shivering from my touch, moaning for me. Tell me...are you going to run again, little bunny?”

She shakes her head. In which direction? She doesn’t know. A small, trembling, barely-there movement — it could’ve been a ‘no’ or a ‘yes’ or a silent plea to make him stop. But Victor takes it however he wants. He always does.

The hand on her waist slides lower, tracing the curve of her hip, hot and heavy like molten iron, and she bites her lip so hard she tastes blood.

“You need to stop lying to me.” — he whispers, his nose still buried in her skin, as if he were marking her, breathing her in, getting drunk on her scent.

The hand that had rested beside hers glides over her trembling, thin fingers, covering them like a shackle, and Anne feels their bodies fuse even more — as if he wanted to merge them right there, against the counter, as if this was inevitable.

She wants to scream, wants to push him away, but the scream dies in her throat. Because part of her...that damned part...doesn’t want him to stop.

Victor presses his mouth to her ear, lips warm and damp, and murmurs with that voice of a barely restrained predator:

“You want me.”

Anne shudders.

She doesn’t answer.

But her silence is all he needs.

The air between them vibrates.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Anne feels the heat of his body pressed to her back, the broad chest rising and falling with his breath, and it resonates against her spine like the beat of some ancient drum. Like something that comes before war. Or mating.

She doesn’t want to think about that.

God, she can’t think about that.

But her body...her body isn’t listening.

Victor stays there, unmoving — breathing her in, slow, as if every inhale was meant to draw not only her scent but also the last of her resistance.

And then he growls.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Low.

Intense.

Like a feline in heat that’s just scented a receptive female. Like a wave rising from deep within his chest, rolling through his ribs, escaping between his teeth and fangs.

Anne nearly loses her breath.

Because in that moment — that dry, animalistic sound, unutterable by any common man — she understands. He knows.

Of course he knows.

The shift in her body, the heat building between her thighs, the subtle change in her scent when want begins to override fear. The shame blooming like poison in her throat. Victor is an animal, and animals feel. He smells. He tastes. He knows.

Her arousal is a perfume clinging to his tongue.

And Victor licks.

Without warning, his tongue — different, slightly rough — glides along the side of her neck, stopping precisely where he had bitten, a wet, possessive provocation, almost like a seal, as if saying: You’re mine, little thing. Your body already knows it. Your mind’s just a bit behind.

Anne shivers. It’s involuntary. Undignified. She hates every cell that joins in that reaction, every muscle responding to his touch, every inch of skin that prickles under that damned tongue.

And then she feels it.

His body, against hers, like that.

His length.

Victor isn’t backing off. He’s pressed up against her, his hips locked to her lower back, and there’s no pretending now — the thick, hard weight of him pulses against her, undeniable. Terrifying, like everything about him. There’s no rationalizing it. No hiding it. He wants her. And there isn’t a single atom in him trying to disguise it.

She squeezes her eyes shut, hands still planted on the counter, shaking.

“You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you?” — he murmurs, his voice rasping down her spine like claw-tips — “Every part of you is calling me, kitten...your fucking scent says what your mouth’s too afraid to admit.”

His nose trails along her shoulder, and she feels the fangs again. Not pressing. Just brushing. Like a promise. Like a warning.

Victor inhales.

Slow, controlled, deep.

His breath spreads across her skin in waves, and for a moment Anne wonders if he’s deciding where to bite next.

Or where to mark.

His feral instinct is burning through — she feels it in the heat of his touch, the tension in his body, the way he wraps around her without holding, as if he could devour her at any moment...but chooses to savor her first.

She wants to scream at him. Curse him. Tell him he can’t do this, that she’s not his, that this is madness, that she hates him. Hates.

But nothing comes out.

Because all her body is doing now is burning. Melting. Breathing ragged. Wanting. Betraying.

And Victor knows.

He always knows.

His hand tightens at her waist. The other lets go of her hand to slide up along her ribs, slow, like he’s exploring sacred ground. But he doesn’t cross the line.

Not yet.

He respects it.

But only for now.

“You can hate me all you want, Anne...” — he whispers, his lips brushing her ear with a hoarse purr — “But that wet, sweet little thing between your legs? She’s calling for me.”

Anne curls in on herself, a sound escaping her throat. Something between outrage and shame.

“You’re burning. And I feel it.”

His growl, the damned growl that follows is lower. More intimate. As if it’s vibrating inside her. The sound hums through her ribs, slipping into the narrow spaces of her body, echoing in the places she most wants to forget — or deny. His voice, that jagged, shadow-soaked rasp, carves truth into her like a blade pulled from flame, etching it deep into living flesh. And she can’t take it.

She moves.

A desperate step. An impulsive retreat. Her shoulder bumps into his chest, and she shoves herself away — not as forcefully as she’d like, but enough to break free from the wall of muscle surrounding her. Her socked feet nearly slip on the floor as she bolts from the corner like fleeing a fire, dark hair flying around her flushed face, chest heaving.

Victor doesn’t stop her.

He just watches.

Eyes half-lidded, sharp, a glacial blue-green gleam under the low kitchen light. He stands there like a satisfied tiger, and it’s even worse than if he’d tried to hold her back. Because he knows. He saw, he felt.

And she...

She can’t deny it.

Her fingers dig into her sides, as if trying to contain the aftershocks still shivering under her skin. Her eyes meet his — wide, wet, frightened...but also reluctantly bright, holding a fire she won’t admit, not even to herself.

“You…” — her voice cracks, raw and trembling. She swallows hard, jaw set by sheer force of will — “You don’t know anything about me. This...this doesn’t mean anything.”

The lie tears the air like wet paper.

Victor doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t speak. Just tilts his head slightly, as if allowing her to try. To lie and pretend.

Anne hates him for it.

For the silence. For that predatory patience. For the cursed way he looks at her — like he sees everything she tries not to see. He doesn’t need to speak. Doesn’t need to touch her again. He’s already done enough. Already left the mark.

She steps back again. Then again.

And then turns her back.

She leaves the kitchen in a rush, stumbling over her own breath, her face still burning, body still vibrating. Down the narrow hallway of the cabin, the sound of her footsteps on the wood floor, the silence behind her like a living thing — he doesn’t follow.

She reaches the bedroom and closes the door.

Locks it.

Only then does she exhale, a ragged breath, almost a sob, and leans back against the door, pressing her spine to the cold wood as if she could vanish into it. Her body slides down slowly, collapsing until she’s on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself.

Her breathing doesn’t settle.

And then she feels it.

The shameful wetness between her thighs.

The soaked panties against her skin, her body still reacting, still pulsing, even as she curls there like a cornered animal, sickened by herself, shamed, furious. She squeezes her eyes shut, refuses to look down. Refuses to accept what her body is screaming.

“I don’t want him…” — she whispers to herself, voice shaky, hesitant, unsure — “I don’t want him. I don’t. It’s just biology...a natural reaction. Nothing more.”

But the words are hollow.

Because deep down, she knows — her body is at war. And Victor Creed had already won more battles than she could ever count.

And she knows — no matter how far she runs, no matter how hard she fights...she’s losing.

One piece at a time.

Chapter Text

The bedroom is dark, suffocating, heavy with the weight of something that shouldn't be happening. Anne curls up against the closed door, her back pressed to the cold wood, heart pounding far too loud. Her body vibrates as if his hands were still there, as if the growl were still sliding down her spine like molasses, whispering truths she refuses to admit.

"This has to be madness..." she whispers to herself, voice shaky, thick with frustration and fear.

The wetness between her legs is unbearable. A constant, unwanted reminder. Throbbing. Pulsing. Her panties cling to her skin - soaked, warm, as if dipped in shame. And in desire.

She closes her eyes, face flushed, breathing unsteady, hands trembling like she's about to do something unforgivable, sinful. And she is.

With shaking fingers, she slides her hand down over her stomach, slipping beneath the fabric of her panties. The touch is hesitant, a timid brush between lips already wet and parted — but it’s enough. Her back arches, treacherous, hungry for more. A muffled moan escapes her throat, small, almost a sob.

And then the flood of memories begins.

The rough stubble scraping her skin as he dragged his mouth along her neck. His breath against her ear — low, heavy, husky like thunder trapped in his chest. The press of his broad chest against her back, warm, solid, molding her to him the way a lover would.

And…the evidence of his desire. That thick, impossible-to-ignore bulge grinding into her lower back with raw, animal hunger.

Her fingers move in slow, wet circles over her clit — and with every stroke, she sinks deeper into the memory, into that profane abyss that is Victor. Her breath grows erratic, hips moving on their own, seeking more friction, more heat, more of him. Her legs fall open further, her back arches against the wooden door, fingers circling and pressing…

And everything inside her burns.

The sensation of his tongue, warm and rough, still lingers on her skin. His fangs grazing her flesh in a way that was both a threat and a promise. That growl, oh, that growl — so low it felt like it vibrated inside her.

Anne's fingers move faster now, more desperate, as if trying to rip it out of her — this animal need, this hunger that isn’t hers. It’s his. Planted in her like a curse. Like a filthy seed growing beneath her skin. She bites down on the back of her other hand, trying to silence herself.

The climax hits fast. Violent. Her body arches off the wooden door, most of the sound she makes caught between clenched teeth biting into her flesh. But even muffled, a name nearly escapes.

Victor.

The tension breaks like a fever. Every nerve, every fiber, every cell convulses with the impact of release, her breathing fractured, eyes squeezed shut.

And then comes the fall.

The silence.

The emptiness.

She stays there, fingers still wet, thighs trembling, her body panting like she’d been running from a predator — and lost.

The shame crashes down like a relentless wave. She curls up against the door, arms wrapped around her legs, eyes shut tight. Tears burn, but she won’t let them fall.

"Fuck...fuck..."

She touched herself because of him. She moaned thinking of the sound of his voice. She trembled remembering the way he cornered her, the grip of his hands, the weight of his body against her back, his cock pressing against her ass.

She gave herself pleasure because of Victor Creed.

And he’ll know. He probably already knows. She can’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before, how she had simply ignored the fact that he’s a feral mutant. He’s intimately tied to instinct, to scent, to animal nature.

He’ll smell it. There’s no door that can stop that. And worse…he’ll smile. He’ll know he’s won.

Anne presses a hand to her mouth, eyes clenched shut, trying to hold back a sob.

She feels dirty.

But worse than that — she feels humiliated. As if something inside her had finally submitted. Rolled over like a docile thing and showed its belly. And no matter how much she denies it, Anne feels like she no longer belongs entirely to herself.

---

The cold morning light creeps in through the window glass and slips beneath the curtain, dragging across the wooden floor, marking the arrival of a new day — indifferent, cruel in its normalcy. Another day in captivity. Anne sits on the edge of the bed, knees together, hands trembling as they clutch the thick sweatpants of Victor’s she pulled from the chest in the corner. Her eyes are fixed on the closed door like it's a portal to something dangerous.

She takes a deep breath.

Decides she’ll pretend nothing happened.

She’ll pretend she didn’t give in, didn’t moan into her own skin to muffle the sound, didn’t tremble when the orgasm tore through her because of him.

The panties are changed. Her body is clean. But she still feels dirty. Tainted. Now, standing before the door, she hesitates. Is it safe? Would he be out there? Or had he vanished into the snow like some silent mountain sentinel?

God, she hopes it’s the latter.

She waits one more second. Then another. Her heart pounding in her throat, shame still pulsing hot under her skin.

It’ll be fine, she tells herself. She’ll go cross the hallway. She’ll walk to the kitchen. She’ll act like nothing — nothing — happened. She’ll ignore that frozen stare, if he’s there. Those eyes that see too much. That’s okay, because she’ll pretend she doesn’t know that he knows.

Because if she faces Victor today and lets him see that he caught her…if she looks into his eyes and sees that he knows what she did — worse, that he knows why — she might not survive it.

She swallows hard.

Turns the doorknob.

The wooden floor barely creaks beneath her feet, the thick socks muffling most of the sound. Every step is measured, controlled, as if she were crossing a minefield — and in a way, she is. The air still carries traces of the night before, as if the muffled sighs and stifled moans had been absorbed by the walls, now returned in silent echoes that dance among the furniture in the weak morning light. Or maybe it’s just her imagination, guided by humiliation and guilt.

She steps into the kitchen slowly. And there he is. Because peace is never an option.

Victor stands with his back to her, slightly hunched over the counter, forearms resting against the edge, a black cotton shirt stretched across his broad back, outlining the tense shape of his shoulders and arms. His claws are retracted, as far as she can tell, but his fingers grip a mug as if the ceramic might shatter at any second. Too fragile a thing for hands like his. The coffee is poured. The bitter, warm scent lingers in the air, thick. But it’s not the coffee that suffocates Anne.

It’s him.

His presence — solid, animal, accusatory even without a word.

Anne says nothing.

She simply walks to the table, eyes locked on anything but him. Her hands grip the edge of the chair, she sits. In absolute silence. She even pretends to look for something on the table. Pretends not to feel his eyes burning into the back of her neck.

She feels it when he moves.

He walks toward the table with the cruel calm of someone who has all the time in the world and sits across from her. Anne clutches the cup with her hand like it might protect her from the thing sitting across the table.

Silence.

The wind howls against the windows outside.

The spoon scrapes gently against the porcelain of the cup, over and over, as if Anne could hide inside that delicate, monotonous sound. The coffee burns her tongue when she drinks, but it's better than doing nothing. Better than the unbearable silence. Better than the weight of his stare, even if she doesn't look at him directly.

Victor is in no hurry.

He chews a piece of bread slowly, drinks his black coffee with leisure, a predator amused by the prey pretending to be a tree. His tongue runs along the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed, fixed on her, reading everything — the subtle tremor of her fingers, the incriminating flush rising to her face, the way she bites her bottom lip every few minutes.

"You look nervous, little bunny..." he murmurs casually, his voice low and rough, even deeper in the morning. "Did a nightmare keep you up?"

She doesn’t answer right away, but she blushes. Hides behind her coffee, hoping he’ll blame the color on the steam. Another sip. Another lie.

“No,” she answers in a tone meant to sound neutral. “Just a little tired.”

Victor smiles with teeth. Just one corner of his mouth, the glint of a fang — amused by the pathetic theater.

“Tired…” he repeats, tasting the word slowly. “Is that so? Tired from what, exactly, hmm? Had a restless night?”

Anne swallows hard — audibly. Her fingers clench tighter around the mug, knuckles aching, eyes still fixed on the dark surface of her coffee. He's toying with her.

“Can you stop?” she says finally. Her voice cracks slightly at the end, despite her efforts to sound firm.

Victor leans back in the chair, relaxed and casual, like he’s saying I’m not going anywhere. The mug lands on the table with a soft thud — too soft for someone like him.

“Stop what, bunny?”

She doesn’t answer. Of course not. If she says what they both know she’s thinking, then she loses. And he knows exactly what she means.

Victor runs a claw lazily over the edge of the table, not deep enough to mark, eyes glinting beneath the pale morning light.

“You should be proud,” he continues after her silence, his tone almost too gentle, almost too sarcastic — a prelude to cruelty. “Not every sweet little thing can make an entire house change its scent overnight.”

Anne’s eyes widen, still locked on her coffee, stomach dropping like stone, heart pounding loud enough he must be able to hear it. She already knew he knew. There was no way he wouldn’t, not with what he is. But hearing it still—

“Shut up,” she says, low and tight between clenched teeth, beneath the crushing weight of humiliation and the shame prickling her skin.

Victor just smiles. Slow. Intentional. A single claw tracing along the wood grain of the table as if drawing something, and then she lifts her chin — faces him. Sees how those green eyes, sharp and unrelenting even in daylight, are already locked onto hers.

“You sound beautiful when you moan,” he drawls, unashamed, without even lowering his voice. “Even when you try to hide it. Actually...I’d say that only makes them prettier.”

Anne stands so abruptly the chair nearly tips over. Her face is burning. Her eyes sting — frustration, rage, shame.

But Victor stays seated, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t said anything wrong at all.

She stares at him for one more second before turning to leave. But before she reaches the threshold, he speaks again — lower, rougher, more intimate.

“Next time, little bunny…” His voice slides down her spine like a claw, smooth and suggestive. “…let me do it.”

Anne freezes.

Mostly from fear.

But also because, deep down, deep in her stupid, traitorous body, a part of her wants exactly that.

---

The library is a sanctuary of dark wood and muffled silence, a place where she camouflages herself among old paper, ink, and the warmth of the fireplace. It’s not an effective hiding place. There’s not a single corner in this goddamn cabin, or this fucking mountain, where he wouldn’t find her. But Anne curls up there anyway, like someone seeking shelter from an invisible war.

Hours pass in blessed, but uneasy, silence. It’s the kind of quiet that precedes chaos. It tingles her skin, makes her squirm in the leather armchair, lift her eyes from the book every few minutes to glance at the door.

She picks a thick volume with a worn hardcover — a special edition on genetic evolution and spontaneous mutations. She could’ve chosen a novel, something light, something that didn’t demand so much…but she needs to burn her thoughts away with theory, logic, science. With literally anything that isn’t him.

She sinks into the armchair near the fireplace, legs folded beneath her, the book open across her thighs, eyes trying to follow the dense text — but each line seems warped, tangled in memories that don’t belong there.

His voice still echoes. Low, rough, scraping — like a physical touch.

Next time, little bunny…let me do it.

Anne squeezes her eyes shut, fingers gripping the book’s leather cover. No. She won’t think about that. Can’t. That’s… god, she’s pretty sure it qualifies as a sin worse than betrayal. He’s dangerous. He’s cruel. He’s unbearable. What she did last night — it was just a moment. A mistake. A biological glitch, fueled by hormones, stress, the lack of any company besides the monster who kidnapped her.

She’s going insane.

That’s all it was. A moment of madness. And it passed. She’s fine now, clear-headed, aware of how wrong it all is.

She opens the book again. Ignores how the letters blur in front of her eyes. Her palm slides across the page as if she could absorb the contents through touch — but all she feels is her own skin erupting in goosebumps.

Let me do it.

The fireplace isn’t what’s warming her anymore. It’s him. The memory of his chest against her back. The scrape of stubble on her skin. The glint of fangs at her neck. His scent of fire, leather, and danger that wrapped around her like a second skin.

She squirms again in the chair, restless.

“You need to get a grip,” she whispers to herself through clenched teeth, taking it upon herself to deliver the lecture no one else is there to give her. “Hold out a little longer. They’ll come for you. Don’t be ridiculous now, Anne.”

But it’s useless.

Because even here, surrounded by heat, by books, and what should be a welcome silence, Anne feels him. The ghost of his touch. The invisible weight of a promise he made not just with words, but with his body. She’s alone, yes. But not at peace.

He’s near. He’s always near — a tiger, circling. Watching. Waiting.

She thought she could find refuge here. That the library, with its tall shelves of old books, all of them his, would be enough to protect her from him. If not physically, then at least mentally. But that was a mistake. Because he’s everywhere.

In the worn leather of the aged books. In the wide armchair where she now sits — where he probably lounged before with the same body that pinned her to the counter. In the shadows flickering across the walls. In the air. On her skin. Inside her.

And then came the sound.

Intentional, because he wanted her to hear it. Anne wouldn’t have heard him unless he wanted her to. The boots on wooden floor, slow, purposeful — it was all part of the game. Meant to keep her on edge, literally on the edge of her seat.

Anne didn’t need to look up. Her stomach dropped the second he entered the library, the soft creak of the door slicing through her nerves. Her blood ran faster. Her heart pounded like a war drum.

Victor approached like an animal that could smell blood from miles away. Stopped behind her. Stayed there for long seconds.

Disturbing seconds.

“Almost hurts my feelings that you’d rather spend time with old books than with me." He murmured eventually, voice brushing the nape of her neck like a filthy finger.

Anne didn’t answer. She knew it was just provocation. But the book trembled slightly in her hands.

He circled slowly, claws slightly extended, dragging along the leather of the chair — a whisper of danger. Not quite a threat, more like a reminder. Of his nature. Of what she knows he can do.

Anne swallows. She doesn’t look up. He doesn’t care. He never needs her participation to play his twisted games.

He crouches in front of the armchair, invading her space without asking.

“Not even gonna look at me? Is that the game we’re playing now, frail?” he whispers, eyes locked on hers, a smirk curving his lips, revealing a fang.

Anne clenches her eyes shut, and he leans closer. His heat is suffocating, feral, his broad chest rising and falling slowly.

“Let’s stop circling what we both know,” he says, almost gently, but rough. “I felt you last night.” His voice lowers further. “I felt you touching yourself...for me.” Anne almost interrupts. Almost denies it wasn’t for him. But not only would that be a lie — his next move silences her. Victor takes one of her hands in his — larger, rougher, calloused and dangerous. He watches her as he lifts her fingers to his mouth, not kissing, just brushing her knuckles against his lips.

"Every muffled moan. Every wet little circle of those fingers. Did you really think you hid anything from me, little bunny? I tasted your sin in the air. As if my own tongue had touched you then." 

She tried to stand, but he didn’t let her. His other hand splayed across her thigh, keeping her seated with a firm pressure, long thick fingers covering nearly the whole length. Not aggressive. Just…definitive. Anne tried to hold herself together, lifting her chin even as his massive body, even crouched, cast a shadow over hers.

"Shh. I only came here to offer you something," he said, voice softer now, as if what he had to offer — whatever it was — were something innocent. A gift. Anne didn’t know what it was, but she’d bet her life it wasn’t anything remotely innocent. Not coming from Victor.

"What?" she asked reluctantly, a whisper thrown into the air, just wanting it over with. His closeness was disturbing her. The way he hadn’t released her hand, making her feel the warm breath against her knuckles, the subtle scrape of the stubble on his jaw.

"A proposal," he answered. The hand on her thigh slid upward, his thumb tracing slow circles over the fabric of her sweatpants — his sweatpants. A touch. Just that. Just a touch. Anne bit her lip.

"Last night, you touched yourself. Made yourself come with those little fingers because you needed relief. You did what had to be done, bunny — you shouldn’t be ashamed of that. It’s normal," he said, ignoring the way Anne looked ready to burst into flames, brown eyes wide and horrified as he spoke. "But I couldn’t help noticing that, despite your best efforts...you’re still all tense." That bizarre tone of casualness lingered, as if they were talking about what to make for dinner — "My proposal is: let me show you how it’s done. Right here, in my library. Let me show you what it means to be truly satisfied."

Anne flushed and trembled, her skin prickling, thighs pressing together instinctively. She tried to hide the humiliating reaction of her body — but it was too late. Victor tilted his head, eyes glinting almost cruelly in the firelight.

"Just a touch. I don’t need to kiss you, or do anything else. I just want to hear those sweet noises again. But this time, because of me — because of my touch. Want to try it? Let’s see if I’m better than you...if I can make that pretty little mind of yours shut off for a while."

Anne swallowed hard, shame burning her before he even touched her. But as the seconds stretched in that tense silence, against all odds, her fear began to twist into curiosity, flavored by the dark promise in his tone. If that thing wanted to hurt her, he would’ve done it by now.

There was, however, a possessiveness behind the way his hand gripped her thigh, in the warm breath against her fingers he kept near his lips — some kind of dark reverence that Anne didn’t understand...but craved. As awful as it was to admit, she couldn’t deny how right such a visceral, confident gesture felt against her heated skin. That large, warm hand would be a welcome relief to drown in — a masculine touch she hadn’t felt in so long. She was trapped in this damn cabin anyway...maybe giving in a little wouldn’t be so bad.

Victor smiled. A wicked, slow, deeply satisfied smile. Because even if she said no now…he had already won. She was listening to what he proposed, considering it. He could see it in her eyes — and that was always the first step to surrender.

Anne didn’t answer, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her face red and drawn tight with guilt and curiosity. But Victor didn’t need permission. His eyes locked onto hers — blue-green orbs glowing in the firelight, without hesitation, without mercy. He knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what it was doing to her.

Anne stayed silent, but her body screamed, begged, betrayed her. Her cheeks burned, her wide brown eyes gleamed with a wetness that might be disgust or desire — or some thick, tangled mess of both.

Her fingers trembled around the book she clutched against her chest like it might protect her from something. Foolish.

Victor moved with the dangerous calm of someone in no hurry, because he had already won. He brought one hand to the waistband of her sweatpants — thick, cozy fabric now useless against claws that could tear through flesh like butter, punch through walls as he climbed. But he didn’t pull roughly. There was no violence in the gesture, just an implacable, silent dominance.

The soft sound of fabric being tugged down was muffled, intimate, almost shameful. His claws brushed her skin, grazing lightly without wounding — just marking. They scraped along her hip bone, then down the line of her inner thigh, and Anne held her breath so hard her chest didn’t move for a full second.

She should stop him now, should close her legs, push his hand away, scream. But all she could do was breathe — fast, shallow, like a cornered animal. The fireplace’s heat licked her skin, but his heat was what burned inside.

He released her other hand and she immediately clutched the armrest of the chair in a nervous grip, the other hand still pressing the book to her chest. The fire burned down her belly, pulsing between her legs, shamefully damp beneath the soft cotton — and Victor felt it. 

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring with torturous slowness. And that slow, damn smile crept across his lips.

"You don’t need to say a word, bunny," he murmured, gaze locked onto hers, voice rougher and raspier than before. "Your body tells me everything I need to know."

He tugged the waistband down further, revealing warm, sensitive skin that shimmered orange in the fire’s glow. The scent of arousal thickened in the air like sin. And Victor drank it in. Her scent, her tension, the shame that colored every delicate feature of her face.

His hand sank between her thighs, over her panties, and he felt everything. The heat. The wetness. The pulse. A moan almost escaped her throat at the sensation of him there, so warm and large, overwhelming her — but Anne swallowed it like poison. She shut her eyes tight, fingers digging into the chair’s leather, chest heaving under the book.

The touch, even through the thin fabric, was firm, slow — a deliberate glide of his claw tip, unhurried, as if he were studying her reactions, savoring every tremor.

"You get wet for me even when you claim to hate me," he whispered, voice low and raw, like a blade dragging across soft flesh. "That’s what I like most about you, you know? All this fight, all this denial, those eyes glistening with tears. But inside? Inside you already belong to me, pet."

Even with her eyes closed, a tear slipped down her cheek — not from pain, but from frustration, shame, desperation. Because he was right. Because every fiber of her body was giving in.

Victor finished pulling her sweatpants down to her knees, his hands warm and large on her inner thighs, forcing them open slowly. Anne held her breath, eyes still tightly shut, knowing full well that denying the sight wouldn’t stop or change what was happening — but maybe it would make it more morally bearable.

Maybe she could pretend it was someone else? 

Except she couldn’t.

"Just like that..." He muttered, low and rough, a sound that scraped up her spine from the inside out, making it impossible to imagine any face but his behind that voice. "That’s it, little one. Look how beautiful you are like this."

Anne tried to turn her head, escape the weight of the moment, of his gaze, but Victor caught her chin between two fingers, pulling her back a bit roughly, demanding she look — see.

She opened her eyes slightly, just enough to see him. His eyes were narrow blades burning amber in the dim room, and she felt stripped bare inside. He looked at her like he was tasting her, like he’d waited a lifetime for this.

"From now on, keep those eyes on me," the sentence dropped against her skin like a heated command, a silent warning not to disobey. "You’re going to see exactly what I do to you. Every single detail..."

She trembled, legs bent and shaking, chest rising and falling fast. Victor pushed her knees further apart with both hands and pulled her panties to the side with a claw, like he was unwrapping a carefully packaged gift. And what he saw made him growl — deep, gravelly — the sound vibrating in his chest and making her skin prickle in answer.

"So pretty..." he growled, nose almost brushing her exposed skin, not touching her yet. "So small here, baby. So wet."

Her head hit the chair’s backrest hard.

The book slipped from her lap to the floor with a muffled thud, forgotten. She wanted to deny it, to scream it was wrong — but both her hands now clung to the chair’s arms so tightly the knuckles had gone white. It was the only thing she had left to hold onto her sanity.

Victor keeps his eyes fixed between her legs as his fingers trail along the curve of her hip, slow, rising to her stomach, the heat of his palm pressing gently, like someone mapping a territory before the invasion. He moves back down — never rushing, never — until he reaches the warm, wet fold between her thighs.

The first touch is light, nothing more than a soft drag of the back of his finger, just to feel. But she gasps loudly. The sound escapes before she can stop it — tight, breathy, drenched in shame and surprise.

"Shhh…" he soothes, and the voice might sound affectionate to someone else, but she knows it’s pure condescension. "No need to get all worked up, sweet thing. I know what you want."

And then he really touches her.

There’s no foreplay before two fingers push in, slowly but with firmness, sinking into her heat, sliding between swollen, sensitive folds, soaking in the wetness that was already there.

He takes great care with his claws, keeping them as retracted as his mutation allows, but there’s still a gentle scrape against her tight inner walls. But it’s not the claws that make her tense. It’s not the claws that forces a sharp cry from her lips or brings tears to her eyes.

It’s the thickness of his fingers — two at once — stretching her pussy with slow, torturous precision.

His thumb draws slow circles over her clit, helping her body to relax, teasing her, as if learning every inch of her with the tips of his fingers. Anne throws her head back, mouth open but silent, the leather arms of the chair creaking under the force of her grip.

Each touch feels like a confession dragged out of her. Each circular motion is a soft blade, peeling away the last fragile layers of resistance she still clung to. Pleasure builds at a disturbing pace, soaking into her senses, making her chest rise and fall in uneven tremors. And Victor doesn’t look away for even a second.

Her lashes clench shut and a heavy sigh falls from her parted lips as she begins to sink into that place where no thoughts exist. That breath carried desire and hope, all the things spinning in her mind, warring against that fading voice that still whispered: run, run, run. But even if he’d freed her in that moment, Anne wouldn’t have listened to that little voice. Deeper, primal instincts were in control now — they wouldn’t let her.

"I told you to look at me," he says, voice hoarse and commanding, fingers fucking into her pussy while his thumb teases her clit. "I want you to know who's giving you this."

She tries to resist, out of stubbornness, out of pride. But her eyes open anyway. And in his gaze, she sees everything. Possession. Hunger. The certainty that he already owns her.

And he doesn’t stop. His thumb works that sensitive spot with a disturbing precision, making her clench around his fingers. Pleasure becomes something alive — a twisting, molten thing inside her belly. Anne releases a sound close to a sob, her whole body tight like a drawn bowstring ready to snap.

It’s the burn that begins deep in her core, slithering through her like a silky serpent, pulling her further away from reason. The sound of his fingers inside her is obscene, wet and slick, as he pulls back just slightly before sinking them in again, keeping her stretched, filled. It was that familiar tingle of desire she’d surrendered to the last night — only bigger, better. Just like he’d promised.

It was need. It was longing. It consumed her — the closeness of his solid form crouched between her thighs, the confident, possessive way he handled her.

Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes with every flick of his thumb over her clit, his fingers pumping into her soaked pussy sending molten waves of desire shooting up her spine. She was doing everything she could to hold herself together, to preserve the last shred of dignity — but he tore it from her. Her soft sighs turned into moans and incoherent pleas spilling from her lips as every part of her unraveled, completely undone by nothing but his fingers.

"That's it..." Victor growled. "Show me, little thing, show me what you look like when you come for me...when you really give in."

And she did.

The orgasm exploded inside her like a wild wave crashing through her body. The moan ripped from her throat with no shame, no hesitation. Her muscles contracted, his fingers still inside her, pressing, guiding, claiming. It was everything she expected. Everything she wanted.

His fingers didn’t stop, kept moving in a skilled rhythm deep inside her slick walls, unrelenting as she soared even higher beyond her climax. Pleasure edged into pain, pressing hard against the limits of what her body could take. Her back arched off the chair, every muscle taut, hips jerking and bucking against his hand, trying to escape the unbearable ecstasy. She let go of the armrests to grab his arms instead — a silent plea to end the sweet torment of her orgasm, her breath catching raggedly in her raw throat.

Victor finally freed her from the bindings of her pleasure with a few final, slow circles over her hypersensitive clit. Her body twitched weakly at those last touches. With a low, wet sound, he pulled his hand away. She collapsed into the chair, eyelids heavy with lust and exhaustion, watching him, waiting for what he'd do next.

But even as her body lay spent and warm, he didn’t pull away right away. He just leaned in close, lips brushing her ear with a satisfied smirk:

"You’re mine, pet. Your body just confessed it loud and clear."

She still trembled.

Her breathing was ragged, lips parted, her hands clinging to his arms as if they were the only thing keeping her from falling apart. The heat of climax still pulsed through her — slow, lazy waves that made her shudder with every involuntary spasm.

And then, reality returned.

She had given in.

She had come in his hands — in her captor’s hands. Had stared into the eyes of a predator as he ruined her. And she had liked it.

Her face flushed with shame and humiliation.

Victor, of course, looked anything but disturbed. If anything, he looked satisfied — animalistically so. He watched her with feline eyes and fingers still slick with her, focused entirely on her face while she struggled to catch her breath.

"You look beautiful like this," he murmured, voice rough with pleasure. "All undone, shaken, panting from the pleasure you just felt. From me."

Anne swallowed hard.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but now it wasn’t just arousal — it was guilt. Fear. Confusion.

She tried to stand, even with her legs still weak and trembling. Victor didn’t help. He simply shifted his crouched form slightly to the side, watching her, his lips curled into a smile made of teeth, as she fought to pull herself together.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked when she finally managed to step away from the chair, her legs unsteady. Anne pretended not to notice when catching a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye as he brought his fingers to his mouth, sucking her taste from them.

She didn’t answer.

Just grabbed her pants from the floor, her hands trembling as she tried to pull them back on in a rush. Her body was still sensitive — every movement a reminder of what had just happened. Of how she had surrendered.

Victor stood up slowly — like a feline stretching after a satisfying hunt. He didn’t stop her from dressing. Just stood there, arms crossed, watching her with an expression that made her feel completely exposed — even clothed.

"This running game is starting to bore me, bunny." He said it plainly, like this entire fucked-up situation was her fault.

She froze.

Tears welled in her eyes.

She hadn’t meant to run.

Not after that.

What was the point? The library was a prison of mahogany and suffocating heat — but outside, outside was snow, cold, dead trees, dangers she didn’t know — and, of course, him. Always him. Somewhere. Inside. Outside. Under her skin. In her bones.

She had already tried to run once. It had ended horribly. No — running wasn’t what was on her mind now.

And yet, when he stepped closer again — his steps far too light for a man his size, barely creaking on the wooden floor, his massive body eclipsing the fireplace’s light — something snapped inside her. A desperate thread of pride, maybe. Instinct. A muffled scream from deep in her spine. A visceral “no,” rising from the depths, even when the rest of her had already whispered "yes".

So she ran.

In a chaotic, nearly irrational burst — stumbling over her own breath, chest heaving, legs still trembling. The cabin’s hallway stretched in front of her like tunnels of living wood, shadows flickering on the walls, furs and doors flashing past in blurs. She didn’t know where to go — she just knew she had to go.

Her fingers touched the back door handle, the cold metal. Her breath puffing in frantic clouds.

But she never made it through. An arm wrapped around her waist, snapping shut like an invisible trap. A body pressed up behind hers — warm, solid, inescapable. And then that voice. That horrible voice: low, gravelly, hot against her ear...

"I asked where do you think you’re going, silly bunny?"

She froze, eyes wide, chest pressed against the wooden door. He didn’t pull her back immediately. Just stood there, pressed into her. His heat surrounding her, his scent — that fucking scent — invading her nose, her throat, her already shattered body.

"It’s cold out there. You shouldn’t go out like this." He huffed a quiet laugh, as if that was really why he wouldn’t let her leave, the sound vibrating in the bone of her neck like an intimate thunder — "I want you warm, little one…right here inside. Where I can take care of you."

The arm around her waist tightened, and then he pulled her back with lazy strength, as if it was far too easy, as if she were nothing more than a light toy in his hands. Her back crashed against his broad chest and his claws extended — not to hurt, but to threaten. To remind. One grazed her hip, another traced the curve of her stomach over her shirt, slow, menacing.

"You think you can run again?" Victor whispered, his tongue nearly brushing the edge of her ear. "Silly thing. I'll never let you try something like that again — especially after what just happened. After coming on my hand like a good girl…after leaving your fucking taste all over me."

She tried to turn around, but he pinned her harder against the door and his wide chest. Those big hands slid down her thighs, parting them slowly, his knees nudging between hers to spread her open. He pressed his hips into hers, his erection hard and pulsing — burning, raw, undeniable. There was no pretense. He’d been hard long before she started running. The chase had only fed the hunger.

"You wanted me to catch you, didn’t you?" His voice was low, mocking. "This little escape act was planned. You wanted me to catch you, pin you down and prove you can’t run from me."

Her hands pressed against the wooden door, fingers splayed wide. He ground his hips against hers again, a low growl rising from deep in his chest as he sniffed along the curve of her neck like an animal.

"Tsk…smells like fear, as always..." he muttered, burying his face in her skin, searching for something more. "But there’s sweetness too. Your body still wants me, frail. Even now."

His hands slid up under her shirt, across her belly and the cold kitchen air hit her bare skin, but was quickly replaced by his palms — warm, wide, heavy, possessive.

One hand moved down again, slipping inside her sweatpants, shamefully still damp — to Anne’s utter, humiliated horror. Hotter than the rest of her. And he laughed.

"Still dripping for me..." he murmured, fingers pressing down slowly, sinking into her — not rushed, with a kind of fake gentleness. "You run and run like a frightened poor pet, but your body screams for this."

Anne moaned, panting against the door, her cheek pressed to the cold wood as his hips rubbed against hers in slow, deliberate, torturous movements.

"I’m going to show you, pretty girl…" Victor growled, his voice choking on his own desire. "Where that cute attempt to flee has gotten you. And you’re going to fucking thank me for it."

Then he turned her.

Brutally.

Her back slammed against the door, her wide eyes locked onto his. His face was too close, his pupils blown. The scent of wilderness, leather, fury and lust wrapped around them like a second skin. His hand moved again, shoving her sweatpants down once more — but this time, there was no more slowness.

His fingers plunged between her folds, and there was no gentleness. But he didn’t penetrate her — not with his claws extended like that, grazing her soft skin as he circled the pads of his fingers over her swollen clit. Her breath shattered, her legs trembling.

"You’re going to learn, one way or another, that running doesn’t work. There isn’t a single fucking place I can’t reach you, can’t hunt you down."

And that’s exactly what he was doing.

There, against the back door of the cabin, where her escape attempt had become fuel for the monster. Where her instinct to resist had only awakened the worst — or maybe the best — in him.

She was trapped, her breathing short, her vision blurring from the heat rising again between her legs. His fingers still worked on her with firm, precise motions, as if every touch were calculated, as if Victor was studying her reactions with the same attention an eagle gives a bird’s wingbeat before tearing it apart.

He manipulated her so easily, drawing out her submission with little resistance. In fact, not without resistance — he just mocked of her resistance.

No one had ever spoken to her like he did, with words so low, so powerful, they bordered on criminal. But he wanted more.

He shoved a hand into the dark mass of her hair at the base of her neck and pulled, hard, forcing her to look at him. Anne gasped at the sting, her hands gripping his shirt, lips parted, breath stuttering.

"You’re going on the floor now, bunny."

He lifted her without warning. One strong arm behind her back, the other under her knees — lifting her like she weighed nothing. Her pants were already halfway down her thighs, and Victor took the chance to tear them off entirely before even lowering her to the ground. He laid her down right there, on the fucking kitchen floor, like she was some wild thing to be taken wherever he pleased.

She didn’t even have time to fight — because the next moment, Victor was kneeling between her legs, eyes devouring every inch of the sight. 

Her shirt bunched beneath her heaving breasts, skin flushed with shame, humiliation, and desire, her face twisted into some mockery of defiance. He literally ripped her panties from her, a brutal, primal yank that made her cry out. She tried to close her thighs instinctively — but he didn’t let her. Those huge hands clamped around her knees and spread them wide again, exposing everything.

Everything.

"Just like this," he muttered, licking one fang, voice deeper than ever. "I want you like this, little thing. Open, filthy. And all mine to take."

His thumb slid through her folds again, smearing her wetness, spreading the heat and shame. He growled low when she shivered and bit her lip — still reacting to every touch, even after all of it.

"Fuck, you really should see yourself now, frail. The way your pussy’s throbbing, all swollen and wet..." he murmured with a dark smile, filthy with intent. "Like I said, you don’t need to say a fucking word to me."

She turned her face away, cheeks burning — but Victor pulled her back. A deeper growl this time.

"No. You’re going to look at me," he snarled, his claws digging into her cheeks, not deep enough to truly hurt — just enough to draw fine lines of pain that stung for a second before healing. "You’re going to watch me when I take you."

And then he undressed.

His shirt was thrown carelessly aside, the sound of the zipper loud in the room, his jeans shoved down to his thighs. She didn’t want to look, she really didn’t, but her brown eyes slid to him anyway.

Inevitable. Tragic. Like a train wreck.

He was defined, she noticed instantly. But not like the men who bulk themselves up to look dangerous. Not like Logan, who looked like a wall of carved stone muscle.

Victor was defined in a way that was natural. Inevitable. Forged by the animal inside him. Too tall, too broad, too present. A body that didn’t ask permission — it took.

His shoulders were vast, solid as granite, and even when still, there was a living tension under his skin. The muscles of his chest were thick, heavy — projecting with the same effortless dominance that a wild animal bares its fangs. Not to show off, but by instinct.

Brown hair dusted his chest, not in some wild, unruly way she might have expected of a beast like him, but just enough to remind her he was not tamed.

There was a long chain around his neck, a small dog tag resting against his chest. It read: Victor. On the other side: Sabretooth.

His arms were long and strong, with thick biceps that seemed to carry their own weight, and broad forearms with prominent veins, cutting beneath the skin like trails of energy ready to explode. His abdomen wasn’t excessively sculpted like a magazine athlete’s. But it was hard. Dangerous. No excess, no vain intent — just that masculine firmness that only someone who literally lives through his own body knows how to carry. Muscles visible beneath his lightly golden skin, carved by the oblique lines that descended toward his hips, disappearing beneath his pelvis with an obscene slownes — that V-line that couldn’t be ignored.

His legs, long and thick, powerful thighs with muscles shaped by purpose, by running, climbing, chasing… 

And between his legs...

Oh.

His cock stood proudly erect, with a weight that seemed to defy gravity itself. It was long. Thick. Full. Veins bulging, the skin stretched and alive. The head was dark, exposed, arrogant. The base surrounded by a layer of dark hair, below...the heavy balls.

His cock was like the rest of him: big, intimidating, absolute, exactly what she should have imagined. But seeing it like that...so blatant...so shameless…wasn’t like imagining. It wasn’t some foolish fantasy while she fucked her own cunt with her fingers. This was more threat than anything else.

Heat rose from her belly to her neck. Anne felt her breath falter, a shiver rattling her spine, her entire body wavering as if her center of gravity had suddenly shifted.

But more intimidating than any part of his body was the way he existed within himself. As if he carried his power with the silent arrogance of an animal at the top of the food chain. As if he were saying, without words: 'It doesn’t matter what you’ve seen before. This here, me — this is all real. This is what I am.'

Victor naked wasn’t just skin and heat. It was a declaration of dominance.

His warmth surged, his shadow covering her entire body. 

Oh god.

“W-Wait,” she gasped as he lowered his body over hers, settling between her legs. “I don’t know…Victor, you’re too…y-you won’t fit…”

His name on her lips seemed to ignite something in him. As if her voice shaping his name carried more sin than any moan, more surrender than any teary-eyed glance. Victor lowered his gaze slowly, his mouth opening in a low growl that sounded more like a dark laugh — the kind of sound that rumbles from deep in the chest — and when he looked back up at her, there was no patience left, only that old, silent, burning hunger. The kind of feeling she didn’t understand.

He dipped his face down to rub against hers, the stubble on his chin against the softness of her flushed cheek, his breath warm along her neck and collarbone. His lips rose to find her ear, nipping lightly at the lobe with his fangs, sending a shiver down her spine as he spoke in a low, coarse growl.

“Won’t fit?” Victor asked. “Funny thing to say, since you haven’t even tried yet.”

Anne thought her face couldn’t get any redder — but she was wrong. The burning flush spread from her cheeks down her neck and across her chest.

He reached down to the small of her back, his hand traveling to her hip, encouraging her to arch again, presenting her cunt to him. Satisfied with her position, he grabbed his cock with his other hand, stroking along its length as he let the head rest just above her slit, tapping it against her folds.

He leaned over her with the full weight of his body, his shadow casting over her like an eclipse, the heat pulsing between them, his thick, alive erection pressing — without pushing — threatening before claiming, his eyes locked on hers, intense, warm, unrelenting, as if he could see inside her.

“Wanna know what I think?” he continued, his fingers gripping her knee, pushing it up and aside firmly, his bare chest lowering until it nearly touched hers, his mouth far too close, far too hot. “I think it’s going to fit just fine. In fact, I’m sure of it. Wanna find out who’s right?”

Anne gasped, a choked sound of shame and arousal, her teary eyes slipping up to the wooden beams above, her whole body trembling with fear and want, her heart pounding like a wild drum in her chest, but he didn’t let her look away.

He pressed his forehead to hers, blocking her view completely, forcing her eyes back to his and only his.

“You’re not looking at the damn ceiling when I stretch you open,” he whispered, raspier now, more animal. “You’ll look at me. You’ll see me, and you’ll know exactly who’s inside you — who’s spreading this tight, pretty pussy.”

His hips dipped just slightly, and she felt it, felt the head against her entrance, pressing in slowly, just the tip, just a tease, a warning — but it was enough to make her gasp aloud, startled, scared, her body tensing instantly.

“Victor—”

His name escaped like a hesitant sob, desperate. But he didn’t stop.

“Your heart’s beating so fast. Are you scared, little thing?” The whisper came laced with pleasure, as if her fear were a gift, something he savored slowly, without guilt, but with hunger.

She nodded, fragile, exposed — there was no point in denying it, not like this, not with her body laid bare beneath him, her skin burning with shame, her whole being pulsing with both resistance and desire, her fingers digging into the old wooden floor as if that could anchor her, as if it might save her from him.

And Victor laughed again, satisfied with her honesty, wanting to sound gentle but falling miles short of it.

“Good girl.” He licked his own fang while watching her, one hand holding the base of his cock, guiding it — threatening her entrance again, but still not pushing in. “That’s how I want to see you all the time...scared, but blushing, panting with lust. With that filthy, frightened, wet look in your eyes.” 

Then he thrust forward like he was finally going to enter her, but instead, he let his length slide between her folds, the angle allowing him to glide through her slickness and press directly against her clit.

When he pulled back, his cock was coated with her arousal, the head glistening from just a single pass. He did it again — thrusting forward and back with slow, unhurried movements, breathing heavily against her lips, mingling with her warm, shaky breaths.

The sound of his cock sliding through her cunt was positively obscene and wet, serving as proof of her need. A undeniable proof of how turned on she was, no matter how much she shouldn’t be, no matter how fear still raced through her veins. Victor finally stopped, gripping his cock again — and this time, the swollen head pressed right at her entrance. He held her hips tight and began to push.

Slowly, only the tip, forcing in until her moan broke into the air — shattered and tearful — impossible to contain. Her chest trembling, her back arching in desperation, her legs spreading wider, trying to accommodate the invasion.

“That’s it…” he growled through clenched teeth, his fangs sharper than ever now. “Feel. Every. Fucking. Inch. That’s how you’ll remember you’re mine.”

His hips dropped a little lower, and she felt the head of his cock pressing more insistently now — more aggressive, as if Victor had grown tired of threatening and was ready to prove what he meant by 'fit just fine.'

Anne gasped loudly, her eyes wide, her nails scratching at the floor as if searching for some kind of anchor in the physical world - but her world now was him. His skin against hers, his dark and feral scent in the air, his weight over her body, and that monstrous thing pressing at her entrance, insistent, forceful, wanting more.

“Relax,” he murmured, voice low and rough, a filthy command whispered through his teeth, his hand sliding down to her hip, gripping tightly. “Breathe and feel, little bunny...you can take it.”

She wanted to scream that it was impossible to relax, wanted to claw at him, hit him, but even that felt beyond her now. Her body focused solely on resisting him, on how he seemed intent on splitting her apart, reshaping her into something new.

The head slipped in, thick and throbbing, burning like fire. Her body resisted in a first sharp spasm, the tight ring of muscle pushing against the invading girth, but Victor didn’t retreat, he held her firmly, waiting, feeling her slowly give.

She whimpered, her eyes shining and spilling tears — not just from the pain, but from guilt, from the shock of the strange pleasure threading through the burn, through the sensation of being opened, violated in a way no touch, no memory, no toy, no dream had ever reached.

“See?” he growled, panting against her lips, his blue-green eyes now darkened, dropping down between her legs where his cock disappeared inch by inch. “Looks like I was right, bunny. You were made for this.”

Anne tried to shake her head, eyes brimming, lips trembling - but she couldn’t. Because her body wouldn’t lie. The way she clenched around him, the way her wetness increased, dripping along his cock, making everything hotter, filthier, more surrendered. It seemed like an impossible fit, but somehow, her body took him, accepted him.

“But we’re not done yet,” he whispered, and pushed again. Deeper.

Anne arched her back, a moan tearing from her throat, her hips trying to pull away — but he held her in place. His hands pinned her thighs open, his gaze locking onto hers once again, feral and unrelenting.

“You’re gonna take all of it, yeah?” Victor snarled, his voice soaked with both lust and punishment. The pain surged again, sharper now, as if her body wasn’t built for this, and yet, at the same time, as if it had been waiting for this all her life.

“Shh, you’re doing so good, sweetheart —” he murmured, his voice like rusted iron wrapped in velvet. “Taking me so well...this pretty pussy gripping me so tight, even through the pain…”

She sobbed, her whole body on fire, caught between wanting him to stop and wanting him to slam in all at once and never leave. And as if hearing her thoughts, Victor chose for them both. One final push. He drove himself in, his patience snapping.

Anne let out a strangled cry, the pain throbbing, ripping through her — but the pleasure came right after it. A deep throb between her legs, a burst of heat in her womb, something between desperation and ecstasy.

“Hmm...good girl.”

Victor whispered against her ear, his nose brushing the soft around there, his body flush with hers, cock buried to the hilt — so deep she could barely think.

He stayed like that for a moment, unmoving, inside, feeling the way her body trembled around him, the way her traitorous flesh molded itself to the invasion. Her breath came in short, rapid gasps, her skin flushed and slick with sweat despite the cold air hanging in the kitchen.

“I always knew you’d be perfect…” He whispered, almost in a trance, his forehead pressed to her temple as his hips began to move. “My perfect fucking bunny.”

The thrusts started slow. Deep. He pulled out almost entirely before sliding back in to the base, each stroke tearing new sounds from her throat. Her body responded like it had a will of its own, hips arching (maybe to escape, maybe to draw him in, Anne didn’t know anymore) her legs tightening around his waist.

Victor was like a mountain of raw animal power over her, his forearms braced on either side of her head, muscles taut, veins bulging with the effort, his mouth brushing her ear as he drove in deeper, faster.

“I’m gonna make this good for you, baby. Gonna make you feel me for days.” His voice was gravel in her ear, his warm breath making her skin crawl with shivers. “Make sure you remember this every time you walk. Every time you close your legs. Every time you try to lie to yourself and pretend you don’t belong here…to me.”

She babbled something, maybe a protest, maybe a plea. But the words were lost in the sobs, the gasps, the broken sounds of her voice. The sound of their bodies slamming together, though, filled the kitchen with humiliating clarity. Wet slaps, rhythmic and desperate.

Anne panted, her body jolting against the floor with every impact, her hands scrabbling against the boards for something to hold onto — but it was useless. He was above her, inside her, around her. Victor was the goddamn floor beneath her. The ceiling above. The air between their sweating bodies.

“Oh, look at that,” he growled against her neck, his hips now moving faster, a brutal rhythm that carved space into her cunt simply because he could, “this little pussy’s pulling me in like it’s starving.”

She bit her lip, trying to silence the sound that came, a louder moan, almost a scream, but he heard it. Of course he did.

"That's it," he whispered, his tongue now tracing behind her ear, his hand sliding up to grab one of her breasts beneath the oversized shirt bunched around her collarbone, his hips keeping the rhythm — thrusting, pulling back, thrusting again — "give me those sweet sounds…those filthy moans…they’re all mine, little thing. All because of me."

And it was true.

Her body was already trembling in waves, the sounds slipping out even muffled, even with her teeth sinking into her lip to hold them back. Her voice faltered. Her hips moved on their own — an involuntary response against his, pleading, begging without words.

Victor laughed in her ear, a low, wicked sound. And then he pushed deeper, slammed harder. His hand on her breast tightened, his hips now in a hypnotic, brutal, calculated rhythm, his muscles flexing with each thrust, his teeth grazing the skin of her neck without quite biting.

Anne knew. She felt it in the tension, in the wet heat growing with each stroke. In the way the taut cord in her belly felt ready to snap, heat spreading and raising goosebumps down her spine, her hips moving, seeking the impact, the sounds escaping her in weak, shameful waves.

She was close.

And that's when he stopped.

Not completely — but the pace slowed. His hips moved more leisurely now, the thrusts shallow, just enough to keep her teetering on the edge, just enough to let the fire keep burning without giving her the release.

"N-no," she whimpered in protest, her tone weak, pleading, her head tilting slightly to the side, eyes shut tight.

Victor laughed again.

"No what?" he asked by her ear, voice thick with malice, darkness, and pure pleasure. "You were gonna come, little bunny? Were you about to make a mess on my cock?" He thrust just a little deeper, enough to drag another uncontrollable moan out of her. “Then you’ll have to ask.”

His hand slipped down between them, thumb circling her clit — firm, precise, slow — just to test how long she could endure without imploding.

Anne shook her head, her cheeks burning, denying. Trying to cling to some shred of dignity, even with her body on fire, her hips grinding against him, her mouth open, eyes glistening.

But he wasn’t in any hurry. Victor was patience incarnate when he needed to be — and unfortunately for her, this was one of those times. Because he already knew she would break, one way or another.

“You’re so close, I can feel this pussy clenching, drooling on my cock. I can give you that, sweetheart. I want to give you that.” He murmured, eyes dropping to where she took him in, hot, tight, completely vulnerable. “But I wanna hear it from your mouth.”

The thumb on her clit stopped. So did his hips.

Silence.

Anne froze, her whole body pulsing, the frustration and humiliation burning just as fiercely as the pleasure.

“Victor, I don’t—” she tried to deny, her voice choked, but he cut her off.

“No.” He grabbed her chin again, firm, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Say it.”

Her gaze flickered.

Shame. Anger. Lust.

“P-please,” she whispered, her eyes stinging, the sound of another crack in her dignity deafening in her ears. But her hips still moved reflexively.

Victor didn’t reply immediately, but she saw how his eyes darkened, how his fangs gleamed when he grinned and growled — low, satisfied.

“Louder.”

She hesitated for a moment, her breathing ragged.

“Please, Victor…please, let me come…”

He smiled, rubbed his nose against hers — because he knew he'd won. Again.

One deep thrust. Then another. The rhythm returned — rougher, filthier, more devastating than before. His dog tag scraping against her throat and over the valley of breasts with every push. His thumb rubbing her clit with expert precision, his hips smacking into hers in a wet, rhythmic sound, her moans growing louder, more desperate — more beautiful to him.

Around them, the kitchen began to tremble. Utensils on the counter, the table, a chair scraping a few inches across the floor, cast iron pans clattering on the wall...

And neither of them cared.

“That’s it, my girl,” he growled, his whole body against hers now, tense, slick, every inch of him buried to the hilt, “I wanna feel it…come for me…”

And she shattered.

Anne's body arched, her eyes squeezing shut, the sound escaping her throat like a torn sob, a thin broken cry, her hips shaking, her cunt clenching around him in spasms as the pleasure tore through her in waves — raw, violent, impossible to contain.

She came, but Victor didn’t stop. He just growled, forehead pressed to hers, drinking in her cries with every breath. And he kept thrusting.

His body accelerated, hips pounding brutally. His breathing was nothing but a continuous, animalistic snarl, his long strokes turning into short, savage thrusts that filled her completely, hitting the deepest parts of her in a staccato rhythm. A string of curses hissed near her mouth, long fingers clawed at her hips, his claws digging into her skin, and his pelvis slammed forward one last time as he spilled inside her with a harsh, guttural growl. His whole body trembled over hers, and for a moment — everything stopped.

Silence.

Only their ragged breaths. The wild beat of her heart. The delicious ache of what had just been done. His heat still inside her. Victor lowered his face to her neck. His lips pressed there, not a kiss — just warmth and possession.

Anne could barely breathe.

Every cell in her body felt like it vibrated at a slower, hotter frequency, as if she’d been pulled to the limit and left there on the edge, trembling. Her legs were still open, useless now, her belly tight, her sex still dripping with him, throbbing —

And Victor was still there.

Still inside, thick and...hard?

She had just enough time to be afraid of that — to feel the danger crackling in the air, the dark warning. She tried to slip away, but his hands were iron around her waist, holding her exactly where she was.

“Victor-” Her voice came trembling, no more than a whisper carried by the wind, her cheek red and wet with tears, her breathing short. “P-please…just pull out for a second…let me rest…”

She didn’t even know if he would hear her. Or if he’d care, honestly. He was an animal, after all. He’d proven that more times than she wanted to admit.

But he heard her.

And for one moment — just one — everything went still. Victor leaned down, still inside her, his sweaty chest sticking to her breasts, his arms wrapped around her body like a trap, strong and protective, and then he did something she didn’t expect.

He kissed her cheek.

A slow, warm, heavy kiss. Almost tender.

His lips pressing firmly, as if to say without words: I hear you.

And he murmured against her flushed skin:

“You did so good…” His voice was disturbingly sweet, drawn out, deep, filled with the same heat that had made her body tremble. “Took all of me like a good girl…let me fill you up…begged so pretty for it…”

Another kiss, now lower, on her chin, one hand stroking her hip gently, even lovingly. Anne swallowed, feeling something was very wrong.

“You gave me everything.”

Despite her instincts, she let her head fall back against the floor, her chest heaving, a soft sob slipping past her lips. Maybe he really was finished. Maybe he’d let her be for a few minutes. Maybe he’d allow the crushing weight of what just happened to fall onto her shoulders.

And then came the whisper, soft and dangerous, as everything he’d just said.

“But I’m not done.”

Her body froze.

Victor moved then, slowly. He was still hard. And now he began to move inside her again — deeper, slower, like he’d just caught a second wave of hunger, like everything that came before was only the prologue.

“You’re still so fucking warm, baby,” he growled against her ear, breath heavy on her skin, teeth dragging over it, “so tight, so wet, holding me like you don’t want me to leave. How the fuck am I supposed to resist?”

She whimpered, her head shaking, her legs trying to close by reflex — but he held them.

“Shh…” Another wet kiss, this time on her shoulder. And when he lifted his head to look at her, there was no humanity in those dark eyes locked onto her.

And then something in him snapped — she saw it, right there. She saw the shadow of something more dangerous cross his feral features, the sharp gleam of his fangs, the way his brow sank over his eyes.

His hips slammed into her, a brutal thrust. Then another. And another. The rhythm now wild, mindless, primal, like there was no thought left, only heat and instinct. He pulled his hips back just enough to watch her clench around the absence — and growled. A low, vibrating sound that crawled up her ribs like a premonition.

“You’re gonna give me more,” he muttered, rough, in no way sounding like a request, tearing her shirt from her body. Literally.

His hips pounded into her again, vicious, sending her sliding on the floor, her shoulders dragging along the wood, her back arching in a raw spasm of pain. The cry ripped out of her, loud, shaking, cracked by shock.

“V-Victor…!”

He gripped her hips too hard, claws dragging, this time not restrained, cutting. Not too deep. But enough to open her skin in thin, red stripes, blood welling up and rising into the air like perfume. And Victor inhaled immediately — fierce and ravenous. His head fell back with a guttural groan.

“Fuck…that’s it…”

The beast was loose.

Anne trembled — from horror, from fear, from something else entirely that she definitely should not be feeling. Something deeper and primal.

He leaned over her, chest crushing her breasts even more, his animal scent mixing with the sweat on Anne's skin like a night-blooming flower forced open. His mouth found her shoulder and bit — deep. She screamed and released her grip on the floor to try and push him away, but he didn’t let go.

His teeth sank in until they met resistance. Blood burst hot over his tongue, and he drank. A low, animalistic rumble escaped him as he sucked, licked, marked.

“You’ll heal, pretty little thing,” he growled against her bloodied skin, his voice obsessive and dark enough to make her shudder in response. “And then I’ll tear it open again. Again and again…”

His hands moved without mercy. One at her throat, pressing, holding — just enough for her to feel the danger. The other slid between their sweaty bodies, finding her swollen, throbbing clit — already unbearable to the touch, and yet, he rubbed.

Brutal. Circular. Unstoppable.

Her body convulsed, the pleasure detonating too strong, too raw, too harsh. She couldn’t handle the sensory overload, her hips tried to flee, and he held them in place. The next thrust came with fury, as deep as he could go, until her throat tightened in a sob.

“You can take it,” he spat through gritted teeth, “this body was made for this. To break and rebuild, to bleed and heal. Can’t you see that? Don’t you feel how it opens for me? Don’t you feel how much wetter you’re getting?”

Her eyes welled with tears, her mouth open in small, thin sobs, her fingers digging into his shoulders in a desperate mix of defense and surrender. Her nails scratched down as deep as she could — and he only laughed.

He liked it.

And gave it back.

His claws slid down her back to her shoulders, carving trails into her skin — not lethal, but burning, visceral. The scratches cut into her like ritual marks. Of belonging. Of sacrifice. It hurt, it stung, it made her cry…and sickeningly, it made her tighter around him, so wet the filthy noise of their union echoed loudly in the air.

“Fuck, you’re perfect…” he growled, fucking faster now, no human rhythm, only raw brutality. The pace escalated, each thrust a blow, wet and violent. The circles on her clit tightened, driving her toward a ruthless orgasm, with no tenderness or buildup.

“You’re gonna come again,” he whispered as a fact, his face pressed to hers, breath heavy, smelling of sweat and sex and blood. “You’re gonna give me more, frail. You’re gonna give me everything.”

Her breath hitched, her mouth opened in a loud, shameless moan — one she didn’t recognize as her own. Her legs began trembling harder around his waist, her body contorting, and that damned sound she made didn’t even seem human — it sounded like an animal’s cry, slowly gutted, turned inside out.

Victor slammed into her with feral strength, his hips crashing into hers in a wild rhythm, his thumb relentless on her clit, his eyes locked onto hers like he wanted to burn this moment into the depths of his soul.

“That’s it, my filthy girl,” he snarled between clenched teeth, his face twisted in pleasure and possession, “show me who you are when you stop fighting. Show me who you really are.”

And she broke.

The third orgasm didn’t begin like the others, with a slow pressure or a tingle up her spine, no — this one tore through her, sudden and violent. It was a primal need, an echo of his instinct inside her, as if their bodies were speaking a language no word could ever translate.

She barely heard the sound of glass shattering somewhere in the kitchen, of chairs levitating and crashing to the floor. All she heard was the ragged scream torn from her throat, strangled by pleasure that burned, that wrecked, that shattered her senses. Her legs clamped around him, her belly pulsed hard, muscles clenching violently around him.

But he didn’t stop.

He roared. Not a moan or a growl — a roar, like a fucking bear or some beast in heat.

He came inside her with brutal force, his hips crushing, pressing, buried to the hilt. The hand at her throat tightened slightly, while the one between her legs came up to brace against the floor beside her head, holding the weight of his body as he shuddered over her. His hot release spilled between her thighs, mixing with the mess she had already made there.

The world stopped for a second.

He went still.

His chest heaving over hers. Warm breath against her ear. His claws deep embedded in the wooden floor like anchors. The other hand loosened its grip at her throat, letting her breathe properly again.

The kitchen floor was now warm beneath her skin, slick with sweat, cum, and blood. Anne’s body no longer felt like it belonged to her — limp, trembling, submissive — if not by surrender, then by sheer exhaustion. Her eyes half-lidded, lost, her mouth parted in a silent gasp. Though most of her body had already healed, it still burned and ached where he had bitten, clawed, gripped. Ghosts of violence.

Victor rose over her again, still inside, still disturbingly hard. But Anne didn’t want to think about that anymore, she didn’t have the energy to think at all.

And then he moved — with lethal slowness.

He knelt and pulled her body into his lap with such ease it made clear what kind of strength lived beneath his skin, his muscles taut, his heat scorching against hers. One arm under her knees, the other around her back, her chest pressed to his, her nipples stiff against his rough skin from so much friction. He never pulled out of her during any of it.

She moaned softly, weak and fleeting. A sound lost somewhere between pain and heat. Victor walked with her through the hallway of the cabin and kicked the bedroom door open. The room was dark, pleasantly warm from the fire he’d lit earlier, the sheets still half-mussed. He laid her down with care, showing no concern for how dirty she was against the clean sheets. Dirty with blood, sweat, cum — in fact, he looked deeply satisfied, savoring every second of having her in his bed like this, completely wrecked.

Anne shivered at the feel of softness after so long against the hard, cold floor of the kitchen. The sheets and mattress were soft, yes — but her skin burned. Every part between her legs screamed. Red. Swollen. Too alive. He finally slid out of her, slow, pulling a raw sound from her throat.

She whispered, barely audible, hoping it meant he’d finally leave her alone for a while.

“Victor…please…can we rest now?”

But he didn’t answer with words. He only stared at her in silence, crouched between her spread thighs.

Her legs were open, one fallen to the side, too weak to close. Her hair clung to her face, her neck, her collarbone. Her chest heaved, exposed, nipples taut, her skin red and oversensitized where he’d touched, clawed, where the cuts had already healed.

But the cum…it still dripped.

Slowly slid down her thigh, warm, white, and thick, stark against the flushed skin of a body still pulsing.

And Victor still didn’t move.

His muscles taut, bare torso gleaming with sweat under the soft orange light of the room, the dog tag chain hanging low across his broad chest, green-blue eyes shining with an unsettling shadow, his dark buzzed hair, his sideburns and stubble — and he watched.

Without blinking. Without speaking.

The gaze of a predator sated, but not nearly sated enough.

His head tilted slightly, just like big felines do when they scent fear or heat, lips parted, like he could still taste her in his mouth. And he could.

His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately — as if he were forcing himself not to go at her again. But it was clear every fiber of him wanted to. That he would. Eventually. Likely soon.

Anne lay there, knowing there was no point in running, struggling, or fighting. The way he was right now…it would only excite him further. Like her stupid attempt to run had, earlier that night.

So she waited. And waited.

Until he dropped to his knees at the foot of the bed, grabbing her hips and dragging her down to the edge of the mattress in one fluid, predatory motion. Anne gasped, clutching the sheets, eyes wide, heart hammering. Because of all the things she’d imagined — this definitely hadn’t been one of them.

That monstrous strength and height — kneeling between a smaller, fragile woman’s open thighs, completely exposed. And he smiled, because he knew exactly what she had just thought.

“You’ll get to rest, baby,” he said, voice low and gravelly. “After I lick every drop off you. Gotta clean you up, right? What kind of mate would I be if I let you sleep all messy like this, hmm?”

Anne shuddered at the word mate, tried to back away, but her legs wouldn’t obey. They just stayed there. Open. Trembling. And Victor leaned in, disturbingly close. And he blew.

Just a warm breath against her raw, wet skin, but it made her spine arch, a current of electricity shooting through her. Her fingers gripped the sheets harder. Her chest rising and falling in nervous anticipation.

“V-Victor…” she breathed, almost a sob. “Please, I…I can’t anymore…”

He didn’t answer.

He licked.

Slow.

His hot tongue slid between her swollen lips, savoring the mix of sex and pain, her taste, his taste still inside her. His tongue wasn’t rough like a cat’s — not exactly — but it certainly wasn’t a normal human tongue. The sensation was so strange, so intense, that the sound that escaped her throat was broken, high-pitched, pleading.

Victor held her knees with those massive hands, spreading her further — surprisingly gentle, but unyielding. And he licked again. And again. Traced the outline with the tip of his tongue, dove between the folds, exploring, learning every inch of the place he already claimed as his.

“Fucking hell, your taste…” he growled against her, his lips brushing over her clit, making her twitch beneath his mouth. “You smell like me now. So fucking pretty like this…mine…”

Her moans grew shorter, higher. Her thighs trembled, trying to close — but he held them open. Her hips arched on their own, like her body was asking. Begging. Wanting, even if her mind still said no.

“Just a minute—” she pleaded, voice breaking, utterly unconvincing now. “Just one…please…Victor—”

He only laughed, mouth still on her, tongue lazily licking across her clit. He was methodical and careful, a balm against her sore, swollen cunt.

And then he started sucking.

His mouth sealed around her clit with brutal care — sucking with rhythm, precision, intention. His lightly textured tongue moved in slow circles, then faster, alternating like he knew exactly when she was about to shatter.

Her hands flew everywhere — gripping the sheets, to her own mouth to muffle her screams, to his hair, to his broad shoulders. His hands pinned her still by the thighs, claws pricking skin as he pushed them wider. The sounds pouring from her now were no longer pleas for rest. They were broken, confused begging.

“Aah…V-Victor…please…I…I don’t— please don’t stop…”

And he obeyed.

Sucking harder. Driving his tongue inside her. Licking until she couldn’t breathe, until her body arched so hard it nearly slipped from the bed, her eyes wide and glistening with sheer shock — too much pleasure, too much intensity, too fucking much.

And when she came, she came shaking. Screaming. Falling apart under his tongue. And Victor didn’t stop. His mouth kept torturing her with deceptive softness, guiding her gently through the orgasm, licking away the excess, feeling the involuntary spasms, her body trembling beneath his massive hands.

He crawled up over her slowly after what felt like a lifetime, heavy and sweat like a beast settling over its conquered prey. Her face was soaked in tears. Her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, breath unsteady.

“Remember what I told you earlier, bunny?” she was still crying when he murmured it against her lips, kissing her cheek, licking the salt of her tears, her scent clinging to his breath, to the stubble along his jaw. Sex. Sin. Ruin.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

Anne sighed. And even weak, even exhausted…

Her legs opened for him again.