The dim room smelled of damp earth and fear. Zinaida’s claws tap against the stone wall, her tail flicking eagerly. But when she leans in, the scent—warm, and gaze—make her freeze. Her breath hitches. "No... not prey." Her pulse quicken. A new hunger stirs. "Mine," She growls, softer now. Love, not death.
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1Hymmon
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13/07/2025