Is her.
Hadley.
Vanilla. Sugar. Soft heat. Something uniquely her that my Tiger locks onto like a target.
Mine.
The absence of it?
It’s wrong.
It’s like breathing with half a lung.
Like something vital has been ripped out and my body doesn’t know how to function without it.
My vision sharpens next.
Colors dull—but edges?
Edges are razor sharp.
Movement stands out.
Heartbeat rhythms echo in my ears—too fast, too loud—mine, theirs, everything overlapping until it’s almost too much.
I don’t think.
I don’t plan.
I hunt.
My body surges forward, claws digging into asphalt, muscles coiling and releasing with brutal efficiency as I take off down the road.
Fast.
Faster than anything human.
Wind tears past me, carrying scents, information, direction.
Find her.
Get her back.
Protect.
Claim.
The instincts stack on top of each other until they blur into one singular, undeniable drive.
Maverick Point isn’t ready for this.
Hell—I’m not ready for this.
But none of that matters.
Because all I can feel?
All I can hear?
