The little bunny thought the fire in her chest would cool after the night under the blood moon, but she was wrong. If anything, it grew hotter, consuming her every thought. She woke each morning with the memory of his hands on her, his voice wrapped around her like smoke, his promises echoing like a vow carved into her skin.
But with passion came danger.
The wolf was not a man who could be hidden. He was power in motion, his presence undeniable, his name spoken like a warning. The deeper she fell into his world, the more she felt the weight of eyes watching her, the whispers of those who envied and hated him.
One evening, he arrived at her door—uninvited, but welcome in a way she could never admit out loud. His suit was black as the night itself, his eyes burning with something primal. He carried no flowers, no gentle tokens of affection. Instead, he carried the scent of danger, of battles fought and enemies broken.
"You belong to me," he said, his voice low, steady, unshakable. "And the world needs to see that."
Before she could answer, he pulled her close, his lips crashing onto hers, leaving her breathless, dizzy. When he pulled away, her neck burned where his mouth had lingered—his mark. A bruise shaped by passion, ownership, and devotion.
That night, he didn't let her hide from what they were. He took her into his world—the neon lights, the crowded rooms filled with silent watchers, the heavy silence that followed him wherever he walked. And there, with his hand wrapped firmly around her waist, he introduced her not as a secret, not as something fragile, but as his.
His little bunny.
Some men smirked, some women whispered, but no one dared challenge him. Still, she could feel the tension, the jealousy, the silent threats hiding in the crowd. Eyes lingered on her too long, some with hunger, others with malice. But every time, his grip on her waist tightened, his body angled like a shield. He was warning them. And they listened.
Later, when the night was theirs again, he pressed her against the cold glass of a high-rise window, the city glowing beneath them like scattered fire. His reflection loomed over hers, a predator holding his prey—but prey that had chosen not to run. His voice was a growl against her skin.
"They'll try to take you from me. But they'll fail. Because I'd burn this city to ash before I ever let you go."
Her heart trembled—not in fear, but in exhilaration. She tilted her chin, meeting his gaze with a fierceness she never knew she had.
"Then burn it," she whispered. "Burn the world if you have to. Just don't let me go."
And in that moment, she understood: this was no ordinary love. This was war disguised as passion, a devotion so dark and consuming that it blurred the line between salvation and destruction.
And she wouldn't have any other way.