POV: Evan
"Five minutes," Ayla repeated.
Her voice was calm, which only made the panic worse.
Outside, the sound of sirens swelled like a filthy tide. It wasn't just patrol cars; I could hear the heavy growl of a diesel engine coming up the street. An armored vehicle. SWAT. Or something worse.
We were trapped in a box of rotten wood and plaster.
"We have to get out through the basement," I said, grabbing my backpack with clumsy hands. Fear made my fingers feel like frozen sausages. "There's a low window that opens into the neighbor's yard. If we run—"
Ayla grabbed my arm to stop me.
She misjudged her strength.
Her fingers closed around my biceps and I felt a dry crack. Pain exploded in my shoulder and my knees buckled.
"Aghhh!" I screamed, dropping the backpack and falling to my knees.
Ayla let go instantly, stepping back. She looked at me with that cold curiosity, tilting her head like a bird of prey that had just snapped a branch by accident.
I looked at my arm. Four deep, almost purplish red marks where her fingers had sunk in. A little more force and she'd have ripped muscle from bone.
"You're too soft," she said, frowning in annoyance. "If I drag you out of here at my speed, I'll dismember you. Your structure is… disappointing."
"Sorry I'm not made of steel," I muttered, rubbing my arm and holding back tears. "Can we discuss my fragility after we run?"
"No." Ayla planted herself in front of me. Her shadow swallowed the little light that got in. "If we get into a fight, I'll have to carry you. I'll have to hold you while I move. If I can't control the pressure, I'll reach extraction with a corpse in my arms. Corpses don't work as camouflage."
The sirens were already at the corner. Red and blue lights began to dance across the living-room walls like ghosts.
But Ayla wasn't looking at the window. She was looking at me.
"Show me," she ordered.
"Show you what?"
"The secure hold." She extended her hands, rigid like claws. "I've seen humans do it. They lock bodies together, transfer heat, but they don't break. I need to know how much pressure your ribs can take before you collapse."
It was insane. We were about to be stormed by half the police force, and she wanted a lesson in hugging.
But I saw her eyes. There was no mockery—only a crushing, brutal logic of survival. If I didn't learn how to touch her without breaking, I wouldn't make it through the night.
"Okay," I sighed, swallowing the fear. "It's called a hug, Ayla. And it's not a combat move. It's to… hold."
I stood up carefully.
I stepped toward her.
"Lower your arms," I said softly.
She obeyed, taut as a spring ready to snap.
I slid my arms under hers, wrapping around her waist. I pressed my chest to hers.
Feeling her body against mine was like hugging a marble statue that breathed. She was hard, compact, pure dense muscle under a layer of smooth skin. Her heart beat slow and strong against my ribs: thump… thump…
"Now you," I whispered, my voice trembling a little from the closeness. "Circle my back. And squeeze. But slowly. Imagine I'm… a bird's egg. If you squeeze too hard, you'll break me."
Ayla hesitated.
She raised her arms and placed them over my shoulders.
Her hands touched my back. At first, her fingers dug into my spine, seeking weak points by instinct.
"Gentle," I corrected, wincing from the pain. "More gentle."
She loosened the tension.
She slid her palms down my back, tracing the line of my spine.
And then she did it.
She pulled me to her.
It wasn't a predator's grip. It was a hug.
She rested her chin on my shoulder. Her body, which had been rigid as stone, yielded a millimeter against mine.
I felt her warmth. It wasn't the feverish heat from before. It was a steady, deep warmth, like standing in front of an open oven.
"This is… dangerous," she murmured against my neck. Her breath prickled my skin. "You leave my throat exposed. I leave your spine exposed. It's a stupid position."
"It's called trust," I answered, closing my eyes for a second, trying to ignore that a SWAT team was about to break through the garden door. "It means I know you could kill me, but I choose to believe you won't."
Ayla squeezed a little more. This time it was perfect. Firm, secure, but not painful.
Something in the air shifted.
For a moment, in that ruined house, we were not prey and predator. We were two castaways clinging to the only solid thing in the middle of the storm.
---
POV: Ayla
The human is soft.
His bones are thin, fragile rods of calcium wrapped in tender flesh.
My instinct screams to close my arms. To squeeze until the satisfying crack of ribs yielding. It would be easy. It would be quick.
But I don't.
I hold back the force. My muscles tremble from the effort to be gentle. It's unnatural. My kind doesn't hug; my kind grabs, rips, and consumes.
But Evan is warm.
I smell his fear—sharp, spicy—but beneath that… something else.
I smell his blood pumping. I smell his skin. It's a sweet, earthy scent.
He lays his head on my shoulder. He surrenders.
He trusts me. That word—"trust"—is a flawed human concept. In my world there is only hierarchy: eater and eaten.
But he offers me his back. He gives me his life.
I close my eyes. I absorb his heat.
And then it happens.
It's not a thought. It's a physical strike.
It starts in the center of my chest, right behind the sternum where my vital core burns.
It is a deep vibration. A growl that does not come from my throat but from my blood.
THUD.
I pull away from Evan with a jolt, pushing him gently.
"Ayla?" he asks, frightened by my sudden move.
I bring my hand to my chest. I feel heat. A lot of heat. As if I'd swallowed a burning coal.
Thud… thud… thud…
My core's rhythm speeds up. It syncs.
I look at my hands. For a second I see veins pulsing violet-dark under the skin.
"What's wrong?" Evan grabs my arm. "Does it hurt?"
I look at him. I no longer see him only as meat or tool.
I see him with a new, terrifying clarity.
My biology just reacted to his touch.
It's not a mistake. It's a mark.
I have marked the prey. But not to eat.
I've marked him as mine.
And in my species, protecting what's yours is the most violent instinct there is.
"Something has changed," I whisper. My voice sounds strange, hoarse. "The contact… it has awakened the hunger. But it's a different hunger."
"What hunger?" Evan looks toward the window. A powerful spotlight blinds us. "Ayla, we have to go. They're here!"
I feel the pulse climb my throat. My fangs brush my lower lip.
I no longer care about hiding.
I no longer care about stealth.
They want to take what's mine.
"The plan's changed," I say, turning to the door. My vision tints red, detecting the heartbeats of the men approaching outside. "We're not running to hide anymore."
A brutal blow rocks the front door.
"POLICE! OPEN UP OR WE'LL COME IN!"
The battering ram slams the wood. Splinters fly through the air.
I look at Evan. He looks terrified, small.
But now he's part of the pack. A pack of two. And I will tear apart anyone who tries to touch him.
"Climb on my back," I order, crouching slightly and letting my nails extend, scraping the floor like sharpening blades. "And hold on tight, Evan. I don't care if it hurts. Just don't let go."
Evan leaps onto my back. His arms wrap around my neck.
The heat in my chest roars.
The door explodes inward.
Three men with tactical shields and long rifles pour into the hallway through clouds of dust and screams.
I smile, baring all my teeth.
Dinner's served.