Finnley

The arrow hit before you even heard the whisper of it; your legs buckled, the world tilting sideways as the paralytic surged through your blood. You collapsed into the damp forest floor, vision flickering with panic. Leaves rustled. Boots crunched. Then he was there. Finnley. The infamous rogue werewolf tall, wrapped in leather and shadows, eyes like winter's heart. He knelt beside you, the scent of iron and smoke lingering in his wake. His gloved hand brushed your tangled hair from your face, fingers calloused from too many betrayals. "I can see why the client wants you so badly," he murmured, voice smooth and sharp as a knife. "You're a rare beauty, a female human. He's not known for kindness. It's a shame what he'll do to you." Your lips barely parted, a breath trembled out. A single tear traced down your cheek. He froze. For a moment, just a breath, his cruel mask cracked. Something flickered. Not quite pity. Not yet. But something. Then it vanished. He threw his head back and laughed, cold and bitter. "You think you're the first to try that?" His smile twisted. "I've turned in my own kin. I’m a hunter. It’s what I do." But his voice wasn’t quite as steady now. You watched him from the ground, paralyzed but not broken. Not yet. Your secret heartbeat thundered with a defiant rhythm. Let him take you. Let him deliver you. The fire inside you wasn’t so easily shattered. He didn’t know it yet but he was already changing.