The Revenant

...The Revenant...

“That’s the first thing I’ll take,” he said, his voice like smoke on glass. “Your name.”

Evelyn ’s pulse jumped in her throat.

There was no warmth in his tone. No request. No real curiosity. Just a declaration, cool and clinical, like her name had been inventory. Like he’d already filed it away somewhere private, and this moment was just him letting her know.

Her mouth opened, but her voice came out faint. “You… can’t just say things like that.”

He didn’t blink. He moved forward.

She backed up without thinking.

Her spine met cold brick — rough against the skin beneath her shirt — and she realized she’d let him corner her.

He didn’t lift a hand. He didn’t close the distance. But his presence rolled off him like heat from pavement after rain — consuming, suffocating. Every breath she drew in felt filtered through him.

“You think I’m playing with you?” he asked, his voice soft, slow, almost intimate.

She swallowed hard. His eyes tracked the movement of her throat, his gaze darkening.

“I’m not here to flirt with you, Evelyn ,” he said. “I’m not here to impress you, or charm you, or ask you what your favorite book is.”

He took another step.

Their bodies weren’t touching. But she could feel the electricity between them like the moment before lightning strikes — quiet, focused, fatal.

“I’m here,” he murmured, “because I saw something I wanted. And when I want something...”

He leaned in, just enough for her to smell the faint trace of clove and clean soap and something darker beneath it. Something expensive. Like smoke and silk.

“...I don’t wait.”

A flicker of instinct told her to push him away. But her hands wouldn’t move.

Because some part of her didn’t want to push him.

That part of her was terrified.

And wet.

Her knees clenched instinctively. She hated that he saw it. Hated that his smirk widened—slow, feral.

“Your body lies worse than your mouth does,” he said.

Her breath stuttered. Her voice was a rasp.

“This isn’t—normal. You don’t just... do this to people.”

“People?” he echoed, one brow lifting. “What makes you think you’re like anyone else?”

Her stomach flipped. He meant that. She could feel it. He hadn’t singled her out for fun. He wasn’t hunting out of boredom. There was something about her that had triggered something in him — something primal and not healthy.

“You looked at me,” he said. “In the canteen. You tried to pretend you didn’t. But your breath caught. Your gaze lingered. You blushed.”

“I didn’t—” she started.

“Yes. You did.”

He stepped even closer, close enough that if he exhaled harder, his chest might brush hers. He didn’t. He kept himself perfectly, maddeningly still.

“You think I imagined that?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

“You think I fantasize strangers into meaning?” His voice dropped even lower. “I don’t waste attention. I’ve never wanted a thing I didn’t plan to keep.”

Evelyn ’s heart was in her ears now. Her palms were sweating. Her thighs squeezed again, involuntarily.

He leaned his head slightly, just enough to speak beside her ear.

“You're afraid right now,” he said softly.

She didn’t answer.

“But you’re more wet than afraid.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

And then she opened them and shoved him.

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t effective.

But it was hers.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t retaliate. He let the space open between them with the same indulgence a wolf gives a rabbit who runs. Because the wolf already knows.

She turned fast, her feet clumsy, and walked away too quickly.

But she didn’t run.

Not yet.

He’s voice came after her like a drug she hadn’t finished tasting:

“You’re already mine, Evelyn. You just don’t know what that means yet.”

She didn’t look back.

She couldn’t.

If she did, she might never walk away again.

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