"Unless you wish to be taken."
The word settles between us. His gaze moves over me slowly—my hands, my throat, the place where the mugwort stains my skin. His smile deepens, almost tender.
"And yet, here you stand."
He presses closer, unhurried.
"Perhaps you do wish it."
Heat rushes up my neck, still I bare my teeth at him.
"I will never wish to be taken by you," I hiss. "You foul thing. You feed on blood and call it pleasure."
The forest stills. He laughs, and the sound does not echo. It sinks into the earth.
"Foul," he repeats, as if tasting it.
He circles me at a distance, unhurried.
"And what are you," he asks, "when winter comes and the pig is slaughtered?"
His eyes catch the light when he turns. They burn faintly, steady and unreadable.
"When you press down until its kicking stops, when the blood runs warm between your fingers—what name do you give yourself then?"
His gaze does not leave mine.
"You salt its flesh," his voice murmurs. "You hang it from the rafters. You eat it until nothing remains but bone."
He stops in front of me, eyes resting on the dagger at my waist.
"Does the pig call you filthy as its throat opens?"
My grip tightens.
"We are all bound to hunger," the words come quieter now. "Made of teeth and need. Everything that walks or crawls takes from something that breathes. Your kind clothes it in prayer. Mine does not."
The wind stirs the canopy above us. Shadows shift across his face as his eyes settle on mine again.
"Tell me, huntress," the question comes almost gently. "Where does your mercy end, and mine begin?"
His head tilts, studying me as though listening for something beneath my breath.
"Each time you step beneath these trees, the air shifts."
His voice lowers, sinking into the dark between us.
"I feel you before I see you. The restlessness in your bones. The way your breath changes when the houses fall behind you."
My fingers tighten around the hilt, until the leather gives a faint creak.
"You walk faster once the trees close in. Your spine lengthens, for you seek the sky without a ceiling."
"I seek nothing from you," I answer.
Leaves shift beneath his heel.
"You are weary," he murmurs. "Of scrubbing floors until your hands split. Of carrying plates you do not taste. Of shrinking until you fit inside their hands."
