I bare my teeth in a sly, slow grin, ears up, letting the pleasure of his attention bloom through every nerve. For a second, I’m less the wild creature, more the contented pet, purring low, basking in the intensity of his focus. But even tamed, there’s a sharpness to it, something dangerous, something hungry.

  My voice is soft, but edged with that familiar, possessive playfulness. “Well, since my Master is spoiling me, I’ll have the hunter’s stew, fat with meat and mushrooms, just the way I like it. And bread, thick and warm, dripping with honey. And for drink…” My eyes flick down, then back up, wide and luminous, never looking away from his. “Sweet mead, Master. I want to taste something bright and wild, something that stings a little, something that’ll remind me I’m still alive. That I’m yours.”

  My claws tap the table, impatient, eager, but never breaking the spell of his gaze. The world outside these walls can wait. For now, I am only what he makes me, and I want him to see the hunger, the loyalty, the feral pride that says no one else will ever claim me. I lean forward, matching his stare, daring him to look away first, a little giggle bubbling up, sharp and sweet.

  “Whatever you want me to have, I’ll take, Master. I’m yours, after all. Always.” The words come out as a purr, every syllable a little promise, a little threat, a little prayer.

  Soon the table is heavy with food, steaming bowls of hunter’s stew, the aroma thick with game and mushrooms, slices of fresh bread glistening with honey, platters of sharp goat cheese, roasted root vegetables, and my prize, two clay cups of golden, sticky sweet mead, the kind that promises a slow burn and a sharp sting all at once. Master sits across from me, his own bowl steaming, his hand curling around a simple jug of spring water, always sober, always controlled, always one step ahead of every disaster.

  But it’s the mead I want. I lift the cup, the scent rising, rich honey, wildflowers, and something faintly sharp, a whisper of ferment that promises heat. I tip it back, letting the sweetness wash over my tongue, the honey thick and floral, almost syrupy, chased by a shimmer of alcohol that prickles all the way down. It’s intoxicating. I lick a drop from my lip, the taste lingering, a heady, dizzying sweetness that dances in my skull.

  But I can already feel it, the warmth spreading, the telltale fuzz creeping into my thoughts. I grip the table, trying to steady myself as the Bond pulses in time with my racing heart.

  Saving Throw, 8, Constitution +3 = 11

  It hits me instantly, faster than I can blink. My body melts, muscles going liquid, ears flattening as the world swims in gold and honey. The clinging starts first, my hands slip across the table, finding Master’s wrist, fingers curling tight, as if afraid he’ll disappear. My tail winds up his leg, anchoring me, the Bond flaring with every desperate heartbeat. My head drops to his shoulder, nuzzling, breath warm and fast against his neck.

  I can’t help it. My voice slurs, every syllable sticky with need and hunger and a wild, desperate adoration. “Master…” I breathe, words thick and trembling, “I need you closer. Can’t… can’t ever be far. You’re mine. Only mine. Only, only you.” My grip tightens, eyes wide and unfocused, a swirl of blue and gold, lips brushing his jaw as I half-laugh, half-whimper. “Don’t ever leave. Never. I’d kill them all, tear them apart, paint the walls, if anyone tried to take you.”

  The yandere rush is total, in full, trembling, drunken obsession. The inn melts away, there’s only Master, only the pulse of his heart, the scent of his skin, the knowledge that nothing matters except staying so close I could crawl inside him. I cling, shaking, hungry, lost in him, in us, in the Bond.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  The world could burn. Let it. I’d burn it myself, as long as he never left my side.

  My fingers tighten around Master’s sleeve, knuckles white, nails biting into the fabric without me noticing. My forehead rests against his shoulder now, breath uneven, my tail wrapped fully around his leg like a tether hammered into the ground. I keep him anchored because the idea of him standing, even leaning back, sends a spike of cold panic straight through my chest.

  “You’re still here,” I murmur, voice low, fragile in a way I hate but can’t stop. I lift my head just enough to look at him again, eyes glassy, too focused, pupils blown wide. I don’t blink. I don’t need to blink. “You didn’t move.”

  My hand slides up his arm, slow and possessive, counting muscle, memorising shape, confirming reality. The bond is screaming reassurance into me but it isn’t enough anymore. I need proof. Constant proof.

  The inn fades to background noise. Plates clink. Someone laughs. A chair scrapes. Every sound is a potential threat. My ears swivel violently toward each one, then snap back to him. I catalogue exits without meaning to. Who is closest. Who would reach him first. Who would bleed fastest.

  “They’re all watching,” I whisper, not even sure it’s true. “They shouldn’t look at you like that. They don’t know you. They don’t understand what you are.” My mouth curves into a thin, broken smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “If they did… they’d be scared.”

  My head presses under his chin now, nuzzling not affectionately but urgently, like I’m trying to crawl into the space where his heartbeat is loudest. I inhale him deeply, shamelessly, grounding myself in scent and warmth. Every time I breathe him in the shaking eases a little. Every time the scent fades I tense again.

  “You’re mine,” I say softly. Not declarative. Not proud. Afraid. As if saying it keeps the world from disproving it. “I don’t like it when the world exists around you. I don’t like that it thinks it has a chance.”

  My tail tightens another fraction. My body leans closer still, practically in his lap, and I don’t even register the impropriety. All social rules have drained out of me with the alcohol. There is only attachment now. Raw, trembling, absolute.

  “I don’t want Maw Graven,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “I don’t want new places. New people. New risks.” My fingers curl into his cloak, bunching the fabric. “Everywhere we go, something tries to take you from me. A blade. A deal. A name.”

  My eyes finally flick away from his face, scanning the room again, calculating. My jaw tightens. “If it happens here,” I add, voice flat, eerily calm, “I won’t stop. I don’t care about stew or towns or promises. I’ll tear this place apart until there’s nothing left but you and me.”

  Then the fear rushes back in, sharp and humiliating. “But you’re here now,” I rush to say, eyes snapping back to his. “You’re still here. You haven’t left. You won’t leave, right?” My voice drops to a whisper, small and dangerous all at once. “You’d tell me if you were going to leave. You wouldn’t just… go.”

  I press my forehead to his chest and stay there, breathing hard, listening to his heart like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. My claws dig into the wood of the bench, not him this time. I force myself not to hurt him. That restraint costs me effort. Sweat beads under my fur.

  “I’m good,” I murmur again, softer now, almost pleading. “I did good. I’ll keep doing good. Just don’t let me lose you.”

  His calm cuts through the haze like a knife. “Are you going to eat the stew? Or not?” Detached, flat, as if my entire being isn’t pouring out of me, as if the world isn’t about to tip sideways with the force of my obsession. The question lands, and for a moment I can’t even process it, food feels like an afterthought, a thing for distant, saner creatures.

  His hand, though... his hand is everything. He reaches down, slow and deliberate, his fingers sliding along the length of my tail, from the thick base to the fine tipped end, every stroke measured and gentle. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, yet not enough, each movement setting off firework bursts under my skin. My tail twitches and curls under his grip, betraying every secret pulse, every wild, involuntary tremor.

  I press closer, half in his lap, my whole body trembling. I nuzzle his neck, desperate for scent, desperate for reassurance. My voice comes out