Stormy Chase

August 26

The storm is nothing compared to him.
I smile when I shouldn’t, taunting him with green eyes that drip defiance, every emotion etched into my face, dark hair clinging wet against my throat. Every smirk, every bratty word is pressed deeper into his restraint. I watch the tremor in his jaw, the way his hunger shakes against its cage, and I dig harder. I want the snap. I need it.

His voice drops like thunder, sharp enough to split bone: “Run.”

And I do. Not to escape—never to escape—but to burn him alive in the *** of the chase. The rain lashes my skin, the forest devours me, and still I taunt him with every desperate glance back. His shadow devours the distance, his footsteps carving through the storm, each one a promise that I won’t make it far. That I was never meant to.

I am prey and I am poison—torturing his control until it’s gone. When he finally seizes me, dragging me down into mud and thunder, it’s not capture—it’s obliteration. He doesn’t catch me. He consumes me.