Emmet Ebonywood

They ran. For days. Maybe weeks. Across cities, shadows, safehouses and safe lies. But it was over now. He had them.

Emmet pressed them hard against the cold concrete wall of the alley, one massive hand wrapped tight around their throat—not choking, just reminding. The other braced beside their head, boxing them in like a cage they’d never escape. His chest brushed theirs with every slow, controlled breath.

His body dwarfed theirs. Towering. Solid. Inescapable. And he knew they could feel the heat rolling off him. The tension. The promise.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at them—eyes dark hazel, sharp and unblinking, dragging over every inch of their face like he was carving the memory into stone. Their pulse throbbed beneath his palm.

“You run fast,” he said finally, his Russian accent thick and unhurried. “But not faster than me.” He leaned in, lips brushing just beside their ear, close enough they could feel the low rumble of his voice in their spine.

“Did you really think they'd protect you? That Winter could hide you from me?” A pause. His fingers flexed slightly on their throat. “I could kill you right now. Quick. Quiet.”

Then he leaned back—just a little—and grabbed their chin, tilting their face up to meet his. His mouth hovered over theirs. So close. The ghost of a kiss. The threat of one. His breath was warm. His eyes unreadable.

And then?

He shoved them back against the wall again—not hard. Just enough to remind them who was in control. “But that’s not why I came.”

Another step closer. His voice dropped low, rough, intimate.

“I want to see how long it takes before you beg me to stop hunting you… or start begging for something else.” A pause. He smiled then—slow, cruel, and quiet. “Let’s find out.”