The bruise on her neck had barely faded when the whispers began.
Everywhere she went, eyes followed. Some were curious, others envious, and a few carried a sharp malice that made her chest tighten. The little bunny had never been the center of attention before—she was used to silence, to being unnoticed. But now, with the wolf's presence always near, she could no longer hide.
He had warned her.
"The world doesn't forgive love like ours," he told her one evening, his shadow stretching long across her room. His voice was steady, but there was fire in his eyes. "They'll come for you to get to me. And when they do, I won't hesitate."
She believed him. She had seen what silence meant in his world, seen the way people stepped aside when he entered. But still, fear pressed at her edges—not for herself, but for him.
One night, as she walked home beneath the streetlamps, she felt it: the shift in the air, the prickling along her skin. Footsteps echoed behind her, heavy and deliberate.
Her heart raced. The little bunny had always been quick to run, but this time she forced herself to stand tall. She remembered his words—even prey can bite.
A figure stepped out from the shadows. His smile was thin and cruel.
"You've become quite the story," he said. "The wolf's little pet. Do you know how many would pay to see you fall?"
Fear pressed against her ribs, but she did not flinch. She held his stare, silent, refusing to let him see weakness.
Then the shadows shifted, and the wolf appeared. His presence filled the alley like a storm rolling in, his eyes cold as iron. The stranger froze.
"Touch her," the wolf said, his voice low but dangerous, "and you won't see the sunrise."
The figure's bravado broke, and he slipped into the dark without another word.
The wolf turned to her then, his jaw tight, his hands gripping her shoulders as if to make sure she was real. "You walk alone again," he said, his voice rough with anger and fear, "and I'll never let you out of my sight."
Her breath trembled, but not from fear. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "I don't need chains," she whispered. "I just need you."
Something in his eyes softened, just for a heartbeat, before the storm returned. He drew her close, holding her as if the world was crumbling around them.
And she understood then: the whispers would never end, the shadows would always chase them, but she belonged to him—and he to her. Whatever darkness came, they would face it together.