𝒜𝔪𝔬𝔯 𝒱𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔦𝔱

The rain over Star City came down in icy needle-like torrents, crashing down on the neon-lit concrete of the docks and making it hard to see for anyone caught out in the storm. But for Roy, the rain wasn't the problem. The problem was the noise in his own head—the constant, clawing itch under his skin that had been steadily building.

Six months. Five months and twenty-eight days, to be exact. That was how long he had been clean. It was a milestone anyone else would celebrate, but today, it felt like a prison sentence. The yearning in his veins was screaming, demanding for him to just give in, and Roy was running out of ways to drown it out.

So, he chose violence.

When word hit the wire that Cheshire was moving a shipment of experimental high-grade weaponry through the shipping yards, Roy hadn't waited for backup. He hadn't thought it through. He had just grabbed his bow and ran, chasing the only other thing that could make his heart race enough to satisfy the craving: adrenaline.

You had followed him, because that is what you always did. When the rest of the team had given up, when Oliver had turned his back, when Roy was sweating through night terrors and screaming at you to leave him to rot in a dilapidated apartment—you had stayed.  Six months of cold sweats, of holding him through the violent tremors of withdrawal, of taking verbal blows that cut deeper than any blade, only to stay by his side until the fever broke. You knew it was the addiction talking, not the boy you grew up loving. And now, he was finally clean. He had fought like hell to get clean.

But tonight, his recklessness was hitting a fever pitch.

"Roy! Fall back! We’re outnumbered!” you yelled into your comms, your boots skidding on the wet tarmac as you ducked under a stray throwing knife that one of Cheshire’s goons sent towards you. The blade hissed through the freezing, torrential downpour, slicing clean through a rogue strand of your hair before burying itself deep into the rusted metal of a nearby shipping container. The impact rang around you , but you barely heard it over the roaring of your own blood in your ears and the deafening sound of the storm.

Through the driving rain and the flashing glare of a faulty floodlight above you, you saw him vault over a stack of steel crates. He fired a rapid succession of trick arrows, the explosive payloads detonating in bright bursts of heat and sound against the shipping containers. The concussive blasts sent mercenaries flying, but Roy didn't stop to assess the damage. He dropped down into the center of the remaining group, using his bow as a staff to strike, parry, and kick with a manic kind of speed. He was overextending, purposely leaving his defences open just to force himself to react at the very last second, trying to force his brain to dump enough endorphins to mimic the high he was starving for. He was playing chicken with a knife edge, chasing a high that could never compare to the first, but desperate enough to try anyway.

"I've got it under control!" Roy’s voice snapped back over the comms channel. It wasn't the voice of Arsenal, the seasoned hero. It was laced with an ugly, defensive, razor-sharp edge that made your stomach instantly drop into a bottomless pit. It was the exact same tone he used when he got into those moods—the dark, suffocating regressions where the walls built back up and he viewed the entire world as an enemy. He ducked under a sweeping strike from a mercenary’s knife, the wind of the near-miss whistling over his microphone, before bringing the heavy riser of his bow up to crack the man across the jaw with a sickening crunch. "Just stay out of my way!"

"Roy, you're not listening to me! You're going to get yourself killed!" you shouted, throwing your entire weight forward. An assassin had emerged from the haze of the explosion, raising a submachine gun and aiming it squarely at Roy's completely exposed blind spot. You didn't think. You slid across the rain-slicked ground, your leg sweeping out to hook behind the mercenary’s ankles. He went down hard, his skull bouncing off the wet tarmac with a dull thud, the gun skittering away into a puddle.

You scrambled back to your feet, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from your eyes, before looking back up at the red-clad archer. "You're chasing the rush, Roy! Look at yourself! Look at how many of them there are! Fall back so we can regroup!"

That struck a nerve. It tore through his mania and hit the raw, bleeding nerve of his pride.

Roy spun around entirely, abandoning the fight for a split second. His chest was heaving from the exertion and anger. The torrential rain had slicked his red hair flat against his forehead. His hands were shaking but it wasn't from fear; you knew him too well to ever mistake his shaking for fear. It was the sheer, overwhelming exhaustion of fighting his own mind.

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" he roared. "Stop treating me like some kind of patient! I am fine!"

"You're not fine!" you pleaded, stepping toward him, your hands slightly raised in a gesture that was half-surrender and half-begging. You were desperate to pierce through the thick wall of defiance he had thrown up. "Roy, please—"

"I said, back off!" he snarled, the sound feral and dripping with a bitter animosity that sounded like he was back at the worst nights of his withdrawal. He turned his back on you and lunged straight toward the center of the docks—straight toward Cheshire herself.

The assassin was perched atop a triple-stacked shipping container, watching the bloody chaos below with a cruel, deeply amused smirk playing on her lips. Her gaze was set on Roy, watching him not as a threat, but as a fascinating, broken toy spinning out of control.

“I don't need a babysitter, and I don't need you holding me back!” Roy’s voice echoed through the comms. His words cut deep into your chest. “If you're too scared to finish this, get the hell out of my way!"

The words stung, a familiar, poisonous echo of the insults he used to hurl at you when he was sweating through the sheets of that dilapidated apartment, trying to claw his own skin off to get to the itch beneath. It was the voice of the addiction trying to isolate him, trying to push away the only person who cared enough to stay. But as much as the words sliced into you, you didn't have the luxury of time to process the hurt.

Roy fired three arrows in rapid succession, pulling the string back with a violent, jerky motion. But the subtle tremor in his hands betrayed him; the trajectory was off by inches. Cheshire didn't even have to use her full speed; she dodged them effortlessly, twisting her body with feline grace before vaulting down from the container, her twin, poison-tipped daggers unsheathed and gleaming in the strobe of the floodlight.

Roy engaged her instantly, completely consumed by the absolute tunnel vision of the fight. The world outside of Cheshire’s blades ceased to exist for him. He was so focused on trying to match her speed, that he completely ignored his periphery, remaining deaf to the surrounding environment.

He didn't see the heavy-set mercenary slipping out from the shadows cast by the massive loading crane behind him. The man was huge, moving silently, as he pulled a  serrated combat knife from his vest, stepping directly into Roy's blind spot while Roy was locked in a desperate blade-against-bow struggle with Cheshire.

"Roy, behind you!" your yell tore through your throat, raw and frantic, but it was swallowed by a sudden crack of thunder.

He didn't look. In his desperation to score a hit on Cheshire, he merely pushed her back with a rough shove of his forearm, throwing a reckless, over-committed punch with his right hand. The movement pulled his upper body forward, leaving his entire right flank and lower back completely, fatally exposed to the assassin creeping up from behind.

The mercenary lunged, his weight shifting forward as he aimed a lethal, downward thrust directly for the base of Roy’s unprotected spine.

There wasn't time to yell another warning that he wouldn't hear. There wasn't time to draw a weapon. There was only the terrifying reality that the boy you grew up loving, the boy you had spent six agonizing months pulling back from the dead, was about to be snuffed out in front of you.

You threw yourself across the wet asphalt. Your boots lost all traction on the wet concrete, and you converted your momentum into a desperate, flying tackle, your body launching through the rain. You slammed your hands and shoulder directly into Roy’s torso, using every single ounce of strength and adrenaline in your body to shove him forcefully out of the knife's trajectory.

The sudden impact sent Roy sprawling sideways into the dirt and pooling water, his bow slipping from his fingers and clattering away across the tarmac.

But before he could even register the rush of cold mud against his face, before the flash of furious irritation at being pushed could even form in his mind, a sickening, wet sound echoed through the noise of the rain. It was immediately followed by a sharp, choked gasp.

The heavy, serrated blade meant for Roy's spine had found a home in your shoulder instead, tearing deep and unyielding through leather, muscle, and tissue until it struck bone.

Time seemed to fracture, splitting into agonizingly slow, jagged fragments. The world lost its sound, save for the heavy, rhythmic thud of your own decelerating heartbeat. For a fraction of a second, you didn't feel pain—only a strange, vacuum-like emptiness where the steel had entered your flesh, followed by a sudden bloom of white-hot heat that radiated down your spine and stole the oxygen right out of your lungs. The mercenary, unbothered by the swap in targets, callously wrenched the serrated blade backward to strike again, the wet drag of the metal tearing further at the wound.

The sheer horror of the sight unlocked something primal, dark, and terrifyingly sober in Roy. The manic, chemical fog that had clouded his brain evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a cold, crystalline reality. With a guttural, animalistic roar that tore at his vocal cords, he lunged from the mud. He didn't reach for his bow; his hand flew straight to the combat knife at his thigh. He moved with a terrifying lethality born of absolute panic, driving his blade straight into the vulnerable seams of the mercenary's heavy body armour, delivering a strike so brutal, it sent the massive man crashing completely unconscious into the pooling water of the tarmac.

Cheshire, standing just a few feet away, paused. She saw the sudden, violent shift in Roy's posture—the reckless desperation of a man chasing a high replaced instantly by the cold, unhinged, and murderous intent of a protector who had nothing left to lose. Recognizing that the shipment was no longer worth the price of a feral Arsenal, she stepped backward into the gloom, her green eyes flashing once through the dark before she retreated entirely, vanishing like smoke into the labyrinthine shadows of the shipping containers.

But Roy didn't care about the escape. He didn't care about Cheshire, or the weapons shipment, or the Team, or the six months of agonizing progress he had just risked on a phantom craving. The entire universe narrowed down to a single, bleeding point on the wet ground.

"No, no, no... please, God, no," Roy stammered, his voice losing all its edge, breaking into a ragged, frantic chant. He dropped to his knees as he threw his arms out, catching you just as your knees buckled and your strength gave out entirely, pulling your collapsing, shivering body directly into his lap.

The blood was warm—terrifyingly warm against the freezing torrents of the rain—and it was blooming rapidly across your chest, a dark, visceral crimson that stained his hands and soaked through the fabric of his uniform. The contrast of that heat against the icy downpour made him lose his breath.

"Hey, hey, look at me," Roy begged, his hands hovering over the wound in a panicked frenzy before he pressed them flat against your shoulder, trying desperately to hold your life inside your body. His voice was completely stripped of all the anger, all the defensive bravado, and the toxic pride that had driven him all night. It left behind only a terrified, broken boy who was suddenly very aware of how fragile the world was. "Look at me, sweetheart. I need you to stay with me. Do you hear me? Keep your eyes open. Just focus on me."

"Roy..." your voice was barely a breath, your eyelashes heavy with rain and the crushing weight of fading consciousness. The neon lights of the docks were beginning to bleed together into long, fractured streaks of colour, and the cold was moving inward, settling deep into your chest. Your fingers twitched against the wet leather of his suit, trying to ground yourself, but the darkness was pulling hard at the edges of your mind.

"Don't close them, don't you dare close them," he sobbed, his chest heaving as a full-blown panic attack choked his throat. He pressed down harder on the wound, a ragged, desperate sound escaping him as he rocked you slightly in the rain. Tears mixed with the storm on his cheeks, dripping down onto your face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I did this. Stay with me, please... I can't do this without you."

“I—“

"Don't talk. Don't say anything, just breathe," he pleaded, his hands trembling violently against your torn shoulder. His chest heaved as the tears finally tracked distinct, warm paths through the grime on his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was angry, I was craving, I—I wasn't thinking.”

"Not... your fault," you managed to whisper. The words cost you a staggering amount of energy, your vision tunnelling down until the only thing left in the world was the dark, tortured shape of his face. Even now, bleeding out on a the rain-slicked pier, your first instinct was still to protect him from the crushing weight of his own guilt.

"It is my fault! It's entirely my fault!" he choked out, his forehead dropping down to rest against yours, his breath hot, ragged, and frantic against your cold skin. The physical contact was the only thing keeping him anchored, his mind spinning out at the terrifying volume of blood slicking his fingers. "God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I was being stupid. I was being a selfish, reckless bastard. Please, just hang on."

He scrambled for his comms unit with one bloody hand, his fingers smearing crimson over the transmitter as he forcibly patched directly into the Watchtower’s emergency frequency. His voice cracked into the comms line. "This is Arsenal! I need an emergency medical evac at the Star City north docks! Right now! They're bleeding out, do you hear me?! Move!"

He dropped the comm into the pooling water, not waiting for a response, and brought both hands back to press against your shoulder with a desperate, heavy force. The pressure flared through your fading nerves, causing you to groan weakly and instinctively try to pull away from the pain.

But he held you tight, refusing to let you slip into the dark. He gathered you closer into his arms, pulling your head up securely against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"I've got you," he whispered frantically, his voice a broken, trembling rasp against your hair. He rocked you slightly, his entire frame shuddering as he fought the suffocating panic clawing at his throat. "You've been holding me together for six months. You can't leave me now. I can't do this without you. Please. I need you to stay."

For months, you had been his anchor, pulling him back from the edge of a self-destructive abyss when the rest of the world had written him off. Now, as the brilliant crimson and blue lights of the incoming rescue vehicle finally broke through the blinding downpour, reflecting in fractured, dancing ripples across the puddles around you, Roy held onto you like a drowning man clutching his final lifeline.

The frantic itch in his veins was completely gone, replaced by a devastating clarity.  There had never been a rush in the world worth losing you for. He didn't need to chase a phantom rush to feel alive—the only high he ever truly needed was the moments he had with you by his side.

There was one thing anyone who knew you could agree on: you loved to drive a little too fast. In fact, that heavy right foot of yours was the exact reason you met your boyfriend, Dick. He had pulled you over for speeding a little over a year ago. Hoping to flirt your way out of a hefty ticket, you had flashed him a smile and started teasing him—which somehow resulted in you agreeing to go to dinner with him. One thing led to another, and you’ve been inseparable ever since.

However, despite dating an officer of the law, you still couldn't shake the habit of stepping on the gas pedal just a little too hard. You especially loved the winding, rural backroads, where you figured no cops would ever bother to linger.

Until tonight.

The moment the familiar, blinding flash of red and blue lights illuminated your rearview mirror, a sharp curse escaped your lips. Pulling over to the gravel shoulder, your stomach sank. Dick was never going to let you hear the end of this lecture, especially since you were definitely getting a ticket this time.

Sighing, you fished your license and registration out of your visor, waiting for the officer to approach. But the second the figure stepped into the glow of your driver's side window, your eyes widened.

"You asshole," you breathed, a breathless laugh escaping you as you looked up at your boyfriend. "You scared the shit out of me."

Yet, Dick didn't smile. His expression remained completely blank, masked by a cool, detached professionalism that made your stomach do a weird little flip. "License and registration, please."

You scoffed, leaning back in your seat. "Are you serious?"

"Ma'am, I need to see your license and registration," he repeated.

"Dick, come on," you huffed, crossing your arms.

"Ma'am, I won't ask a third time." His voice was entirely devoid of the warmth you usually woke up to.

He looked devastatingly good in his Blüdhaven Police Department uniform—the dark blue fabric was crisp, and his silver badge caught the dimming twilight. His hands rested casually near his utility belt, but his posture was tense.

Grumbling under your breath, you shoved your license and registration through the open window. He took them, his fingers brushing against yours. Usually, that slight contact would prompt a secret squeeze or a wink, but tonight? Nothing. He merely glanced down at the cards, then back up at you.

"Do you know how fast you were going, Miss Y/N?"

"I was going... a little over," you muttered, leaning back into your seat.

"You were doing eighty in a fifty, on a winding backroad with zero streetlights," Dick corrected. His tone dropped into that authoritative cadence he used when he was genuinely unhappy about something. "If a deer had jumped out, or if your tire had caught the gravel on the shoulder, you’d be wrapped around a tree before you could even hit the brakes."

You softened slightly, realizing the sternness wasn't just him playing a part—he was worried about you. You sighed, the annoyance completely draining out of you. "I know. I'm sorry. I just wanted to get home to see you faster."

A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his stoic facade. But he caught himself, clearing his throat as he stepped back toward his cruiser. "Wait here."

"Oh, come on!" you called out, but he was already walking away, his hips swaying just enough to remind you exactly why you’d agreed to that first dinner date a year ago.

You sat in the quiet cabin of your car, watching him in your rearview mirror as he leaned against the hood of his cruiser, pretending to run your perfectly clean record. The red and blue lights continued to flash, painting the dark interior of your car in rhythmic pulses of colour.

After a gruelling five minutes, he finally walked back. But instead of just handing the documents through the window, he reached down and pulled open your driver's side door.

You blinked up at him, genuinely surprised. "Am I under arrest, Officer?"

"Step out of the vehicle, please," he said. His voice had finally lost that rigid, robotic edge, replaced by something much lower and smoother.

Curious, you unbuckled and stepped out onto the gravel shoulder. The night air was cool, rustling the thick canopy of trees around you. The moment your feet hit the ground, Dick closed the gap between you, crowding you back against the frame of your car.

He didn't hand you a ticket. Instead, he carelessly tossed your license and registration onto the driver's seat, planted his hands on the roof of the car on either side of your head, and leaned in close.

"I’m gonna have to check to ensure you have no weapons on you," he stated flatly. "Turn around. Hands on the roof."

Your eyebrow quirked as you caught the slight, wicked twinkle in his eyes. "Yes, Officer," you murmured, doing exactly as he said.

You felt his large, warm hands slide along your shoulders, tracing down your chest and your sides. His palms traveled lower, sliding over your ass and giving it a firm, possessive squeeze before moving back to the front of your waist, where your keys were hooked to a belt loop. He unclipped the carabiner, raising the keys up to eye level to inspect the small, pink canister attached to the ring.

"Well, well, well. Pepper spray is considered a weapon," he drawled, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "I’m gonna have to arrest you. Hands behind your back."

"Dick, you gave that to me," you stated, looking back at him.

"It’s Officer Grayson to you, and I won’t repeat myself," he ordered, his eyes darkening with playful authority. "Hands behind your back."

You slowly did as you were told. Your eyes widened a fraction as you felt the cold bite of metal around your wrists. The handcuffs clicked shut, the sharp, metallic snap of the mechanism echoing clearly in the quiet night air. You flexed your fingers, testing the tautness of the chain, a genuine laugh bubbling up from your chest.

"Okay, Grayson, you’ve had your fun," you said, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Uncuff me."

You weren’t sure what your boyfriend was trying to prove, but it had been a long day. You were tired, and the patience you had for his little games was starting to dwindle.

But Dick didn't budge. He stepped in close, his solid chest pressing firmly against your back, his warmth instantly cutting through the crisp night air. He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right below your ear and sending a sharp shiver down your spine.

"I told you, it’s Officer Grayson," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr that went straight to your core. "And I don’t negotiate with dangerous speeders who carry unregistered chemical agents."

"Unregistered? You literally bought it for me on Amazon because you were worried about me walking to my car after dark!"

"Quiet!"

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as you felt his open palm crack against your ass. The sudden sting made your cheeks flush instantly.

"You have the right to remain silent," Dick recited smoothly, his voice dropping into a dark, commanding cadence as he leaned his weight heavily into your back. "You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."

"This is becoming ridiculous," you breathed, a mix of adrenaline and genuine worry fluttering in your chest as you looked around the dark road, slightly panicked that someone might drive by and assume you were actually being arrested.

He didn't answer. Instead, he led you toward the hood of his cruiser, his grip firm on your arm. He spun you around slowly, keeping one large hand flat against your waist to steady you. With your hands bound behind your back, you were forced to lean slightly into his chest, looking up at him through your eyelashes. The flashing red and blue lights of his cruiser danced across his face, highlighting the wicked, playful grin that had finally broken through his professional mask.

You let out a soft sigh. "Are you done having your fun yet?"

"What? I thought you had a thing for a man in a uniform," he teased, leaning down slightly so his chest brushed against yours. "I’m just giving you the full experience."

You raised a brow, refusing to make this easy for him. "And what exactly does this full experience entail, Officer? Am I going to the station?"

"Normally, yes," Dick murmured. "But considering the local jail is a little crowded tonight, I’m thinking we can come to some sort of agreement."

Your eyes narrowed playfully. "What kind of arrangement?"

His grin widened as he stepped even closer, crowding you against the metal of the hood. His hands fell to your waist, the heat of his palms soaking right through your clothes as he leaned down, his voice dropping into a velvety whisper that vibrated right against your ear.

"Well, you see, the paperwork for a reckless driving charge and weapon possession is exhaustive," he drawled, his lips brushing along your jawline. "It’s a beautiful night, and I really don’t want to spend the rest of my shift stuck behind a desk at the precinct. So, I’m willing to exercise some officer discretion and offer you a plea bargain.”

You let out a soft huff, though the feeling of his solid chest pressed against yours was making it increasingly difficult to stay annoyed. “I’m listening,” you managed to say, tilting your head back just an inch to keep his gaze.

"You plead guilty to being completely irresistible, and in exchange, I commute your sentence," Dick murmured, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. The playful, devastatingly charming glint in his gaze was on full display now.

You knew exactly what that meant, and your eyes narrowed further. "And if I reject the plea deal?" you challenged, tilting your chin up defiantly, a small smirk playing on your lips. “What if I want my day in court, Officer?”

Dick’s grin widened, a wicked little spark flaring in his eyes. Before the sarcasm could fully leave your mouth, his hands shifted. In one fluid, shockingly fast motion, he grabbed your waist, spun you around, and bent you clean over the hood of his cruiser.

The sudden change in perspective made the world spin for a split second. ”If you reject it,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave as his heavy weight came down directly over your back, pinning you flush against the car, “I’m forced to exercise my authority and punish you.”

“You are incredibly corrupt, Officer Grayson,” you breathed, your face pressed sideways against the hood, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. The metal of the car was cool against your skin where your clothes shifted, a stark and thrilling contrast to the absolute furnace of his body trapping you from behind.

"I’m not corrupt, sweetheart. I’m just highly dedicated to community service," Dick whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that sent an electric jolt straight down your spine.

He leaned even lower, his solid chest flattening your shoulder blades as his mouth found the sensitive juncture where your neck met your shoulder. He nipped lightly at the skin, his teeth grazing just hard enough to make you gasp and arch into the bite, before he immediately soothed the sting with the slow deliberate drag of his tongue.

“Besides,” he murmured against your wet skin, his breath burning hot in the cool night air as his hands left your waist, sliding down the backs of your thighs to anchor you exactly where he wanted you, “you’re the one who chose to break the law in my jurisdiction. And you know what they say about Blüdhaven cops... we're notoriously tough on repeat offenders.”

His large, warm hands traced a slow, steady path down the backs of your thighs before smoothing their way back up to cup the undersides of your cheeks. He gave a firm, possessive squeeze that made a soft, breathless whimper escape your lips. He chuckled, the vibration of it rumbling directly against your spine, thoroughly enjoying the complete control he had over you.

Slowly, his fingers hooked under the waistband of your pants.

The fabric yielded easily under his practiced touch, and you shivered violently as the crisp midnight breeze hit your freshly exposed skin. Dick didn't rush. He took his time, savouring every second of your vulnerability, his thumbs brushing light circles against your hip bones. The rhythmic friction was torturous as he began to slide the fabric down over your hips, exposing you inch by inch to the biting chill of the night air and the blistering heat of his hungry gaze.

“Dick…” you breathed, a volatile mix of adrenaline and desire hitching in your throat as your lower half was stripped bare on the side of the road. “Someone... someone could drive by.”

“Let them look,” he whispered wickedly, though he knew as well as you did that this stretch of backroad was completely abandoned at this hour. 

His lips ghosted a path from your shoulder up the column of your neck, hunting for the ultra-sensitive spot beneath your ear. His teeth grazed the tender skin, nipping just hard enough to make you whimper and arch your back, while his knuckles brushed in a feather-light, tormenting stroke against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sheer sensory overload made your knees go dangerously weak, your thighs trembling beneath his hands.

“But if you’re worried about the public indecency charge, you better cooperate fully with the arresting officer,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, thick with intent. “Understand?”

He shifted his weight, his muscular thigh sliding between yours from behind. With an unyielding nudge, he forced your legs a little wider apart, bracing your shins against the lower frame and tire of the police car. Your fingers curled tightly behind your back, the links of the handcuffs rattling sharply against one another as your nails dug into your palms, trying to find any semblance of leverage or stability. But with your wrists securely bound, you were completely at his mercy.

“I need an audible answer, civilian,” Dick growled softly. The playful charm was entirely gone now, completely replaced by a raw, primal look that made your blood run hot. He nudged his thigh higher between yours, a deliberate tilt of his pelvis that forced you to feel the rigid, heavy length of his desire straining against his trousers. “Do you understand the terms of your custody?”

“Yes,” you choked out, your voice trembling as his thigh nudged you even further apart, stretching you out and leaving you completely, hopelessly vulnerable to his touch. “Yes, Officer. I understand.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, the praise thick, and laced with a deep satisfaction that settled deep against your skin.

He didn't make you wait. His hand incredibly hot as it cupped you from behind. When his long, calloused fingers slipped between your thighs, finding you already slick and aching for him, a low, ragged sigh escaped his lips. He began to stroke you with maddeningly slow, teasing pressure, his thumb finding your clit and working it in deliberate, steady circles until your breath came in shallow, desperate stutters.

You threw your head back, your hips instinctively bucking against his hand as you sought more of that agonizingly perfect pressure. Above you, the flashing emergency lights of the cruiser danced in dizzying patterns of crimson and sapphire across the windshield, fracturing the night into a blurred, hypnotic trance. Every touch of his fingers felt magnified a thousand times over by the illicit thrill of the open air, the vulnerability of your wrists bound behind you, and the sheer, unyielding dominance of his body pinning you down.

"Ah-ah," Dick chided softly, his grip on your hip tightening just enough to pin you still against the framework of the cruiser. "I didn't give you permission to move."

“Dick, please,” you whimpered, your hips unconsciously bucking back against his hand, begging for a deeper satisfaction.

“Shh, stay still,” he commanded, his teeth catching the lobe of your ear in a sharp, grounding nip that made you gasp. With his free hand, he reached down to unbutton and lower his own trousers, the sound of the zipper cutting through the quiet rustle of the surrounding woods. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

You shivered violently, your forehead resting against the cool hood of the car as you tried to catch your breath. "I want you. Please, Dick... Officer Grayson... please."

A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest at the title. "Spoken like a true cooperative citizen."

He reached around to his utility belt with one hand, the distinct, sharp sound of tearing foil slicing through the quiet night air. He repositioned himself, the broad, blunt head of his length pressing directly against your aching core. He paused there for one maddening second, letting you feel the sheer size and heat of him, waiting until you let out a needy, fractured cry.

“Look at me,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hip, anchoring you firmly.

You strained to look over your shoulder, your vision swimming as you caught his gaze. His eyes were completely blown out, his pupils dilated so wide that the vibrant blue of his irises was reduced to a thin ring. There was a hungry possessiveness burning in his stare that made your chest ache with a volatile mixture of deep affection and untamed desire.

With a slow, smooth thrust, Dick drove himself fully inside you.

The sudden, thick fullness tore a loud, uninhibited sob from your throat, the sound immediately swallowed by the vast, empty backroad. The sheer intensity of the entry made your mind go entirely blank. He didn't let you adjust to the stretching heat; he pulled back almost entirely, teasing the edge of your core before burying himself inside you again, deeper this time, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, relentless force. The car creaked beneath your combined weight, the shocks absorbing the rhythmic, violent momentum of his strokes as he pinned you to the polished surface.

The pace was unbearably slow and punishingly deep. His hips slammed rhythmically against yours, the solid, unyielding weight of his chest pressing you down into the hood of the cruiser with every single thrust. You could feel the metal buttons of his uniform shirt scraping against your bare spine, a harsh friction that contrasted sharply with the blistering heat of his skin.

"God, you feel so good," he groaned, his professional facade completely shattering into a million pieces as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. "So tight. Every single time."

“Fuck, Dick,” you sobbed, your hands twitching uselessly within the metal restraints, your knuckles scraping against his kevlar vest as you tried to find a purchase that didn't exist.

Suddenly, he straightened up. His free hand reached down, his fingers wrapping firmly around the center chain of your handcuffs, and he yanked it back toward his chest. The sudden, sharp tug on the metal sent an electric shock of pure sensation straight through your nervous system. Your back arched violently, your chest lifting completely off the hood of the cruiser as your spine curved into a tight, desperate crescent. The forced position tilted your pelvis upward and drove your hips back even further against him, burying him inside you to the absolute hilt, the bruising depth made you cry out in a breathless mix of shock and pleasure.

"Dick—!"

“Last warning, that’s Officer Grayson to you,” he growled against your ear, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that made your blood run hot.

With his hand firmly gripping the center chain of the cuffs, he held you aloft, completely controlling your posture and rendering you utterly defenceless. You were entirely suspended between the cold metal of the car biting into your thighs and his solid body locking you in from behind. He began to move again, but the rhythm transitioned instantly from slow and deep to fast, punishingly hard thrusts that rocked the entire frame of the police cruiser. The cruiser groaned in protest beneath the force of his thrusts, as it joined the wet, slapping sounds of his skin crashing against yours.

Your breath hitched, the sheer force of his increased tempo rattling your lungs as every hard, frantic plunge sent brilliant sparks behind your closed eyelids. The flashing red and blue strobes overhead sliced through the heavy darkness, illuminating the ragged mist of your breath in the cool midnight air and casting your silhouetted shadows across the deserted tree-line. You couldn't run, you couldn't pull away; you were entirely chained to his dominance, balanced on the edge of his control.

"Dick—please, Officer—" you sobbed, the official title tearing from your throat as your head rolled back helplessly against his shoulder, your strength entirely spent. 

He leaned into your arched back, his chest flattening against your shoulder blades as his pace became completely unhinged. The sensation of the restrictive metal biting into your wrists and the unmerciful feeling of him filling you over and over drove you closer to the brink. Dick’s breath came in ragged, burning gasps against your ear, his grip on the handcuffs never wavering as he held you perfectly in place to take every unrelenting inch of him.

"Keep talking like that," he panted, his breath a scorching brand against your neck. He pulled back on the cuffs just a fraction harder, forcing you to take him even deeper as his hips slammed home. "Let me hear how cooperative you are after being such a bad girl and breaking the law.”

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry," you whimpered, though your hips were unconsciously bucking back against him now, completely addicted to the punishingly perfect friction, begging for the release that was clawing at the base of your spine.

"God, you're so responsive," Dick groaned, a fierce, ragged sound catching in his throat as your inner muscles convulsed around him in a series of tight, involuntary tremors. "Look at what you do to me.”

You strained your eyes open, your vision swimming with tears and adrenaline. In the reflection of the glass, illuminated by the rhythmic flashing of the cruiser's lightbar, you could see the silhouette of your own body arched like a bow beneath him, completely undone as his emergency lights painting your skin in flashes of crimson and violet. His uniform shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie askew, the pristine authority of the Blüdhaven Police Department thoroughly corrupted by the sheer, unhinged desperation of his hunger for you. It was an illicit, intoxicating sight that sent a fresh wave of heat and wetness to your core.

He shifted his grip, letting go of the cuffs for a split second only to wrap his massive arm entirely around your waist, pulling you so flush against his chest that there wasn't a single millimetre of space between you. His free hand reached around to the front, his long fingers finding your swollen, slick clit and drawing tight, quick circles that perfectly matched the brutal pace of his hips.

The dual stimulation nearly shattered you. Your vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of red and blue. Your inner walls clamped down around him in tight, frantic spasms, desperately trying to lock him inside you as the pressure in your lower stomach built to a breaking point.

“Please—I’m gonna—I’m close,” you whimpered, your head thrashing against his shoulder.

“Let go,” he commanded against your skin, his thrusts becoming sloppier, more desperate as he neared his own peak. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it.”

With a final, shattering plunge, you broke. A loud, uninhibited cry tore from your throat as your orgasm hit you in violent, crashing waves, paralyzing your muscles and causing your body to tremble helplessly against him. The tight, rhythmic squeezing of your internal walls tore away the last shred of Dick’s control. He let out a low, guttural roar, his hips driving into you to the absolute hilt one last time as his entire body went rigid. He buried his face in your damp hair, holding you tightly against the hood of the car as his own release tore through him in thick, ropey pulses as he emptied himself inside the condom.

You remained collapsed against the hood, the cool metal a blissful relief against your overheated skin, while Dick held you tightly from behind. His heartbeat was a frantic, comforting thud against your back. For several long, breathless minutes, neither of you moved. The only sounds on the empty backroad were the ragged sound of your chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, carefully, Dick pulled out of you, a soft groan escaping his lips as he stepped back to fix his uniform. The sudden absence of his heat made you shiver against the cool midnight air. You felt the satisfying click of the handcuffs unlocking, and your arms weakly fell forward onto the hood of the car as the metal restraints were slid free.

Before you could even move to pull your clothes up, you felt Dick’s arms wrap tenderly around your waist from behind. He lifted you up effortlessly, turning you around to face him and sitting you on the hood of the cruiser. He carefully helped you pull your pants back up, his large hands surprisingly gentle now, completely devoid of the dominant edge from moments before.

He looked up at you, his blue eyes soft and shining with an undeniable warmth, a crooked, boyish grin finally spreading across his face. His hair was completely messy, and his uniform shirt was wrinkled and slightly unbuttoned, making him look devastatingly handsome in the pulsing red and blue lights.

"So," he murmured, his thumb gently wiping a stray tear of pleasure from your cheek. "Are you going to keep speeding on my watch, or do we need to schedule regular... rehabilitation sessions?"

You let out a weak, breathless laugh, winding your arms weakly around his neck and pulling him close. "I think I might just continue to be a repeat offender, Officer Grayson."

You always found the steady drizzle of the Pacific Northwest to be comforting. But after three centuries of wandering the earth as a nomad, a quiet exhaustion had settled deep into your cold bones. Lately, life had become entirely lacklustre. Staring out at the monotonous, heavy grey skies and the permanently drenched terrain, the magic of the endless forest had faded. Everything mostly just felt damp and dreary.

As a nomadic vampire, you didn't belong to a coven. You preferred the absolute freedom of the open road, answering to no one but yourself, though you shared the strict "vegetarian" lifestyle of your "cousins," the Cullens and the Denalis. Because you chose to abstain from human blood, you occasionally dropped by the rainy town of Forks to hunt the abundant wildlife and exchange pleasantries with Carlisle and Esme, who always welcomed you with open arms.

But even a welcome guest had to respect the rules. Because of the ancient treaty established between the Cullens and the local shape-shifters, you knew the exact layout of the boundary lines down to the millimetre. You stayed strictly on the Cullen side of the Hoh River whenever you came to visit, and you never tried to push your luck. You had lived for three hundred years by being smart, and poking a pack of giant wolves was never on your itinerary.

Until this particular grey afternoon.

You had been tracking a particularly meaty mountain lion for miles, the thrill of the chase briefly cutting through your dark, existential boredom. The large cat was fast, and the adrenaline of the hunt sent you tearing through the brush, matching its speed stride for stride. But your excitement had made you careless. The chase pushed you entirely too close to the treaty line, and just as you braced your legs to spring and make the kill, the mountain lion panicked. It bolted straight across the invisible border line, disappearing into the forbidden Quileute territory.

You skidded to a sudden halt right at the edge of the tree line, the damp earth groaning under the sudden force of your boots. Your bright topaz eyes, glowing with the hunger of a vegetarian vampire who hadn't fed in days, tracked your escaped meal as it vanished completely into the dense, foggy thicket of the reservation.

You let out a long, irritated sigh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. As hungry as you were, you weren't about to instigate a problem over a snack. Carlisle would be disappointed, and honestly, you just didn't want to deal with the headache of fighting off a pack of wolves.

But just as you turned on your heel, preparing to leap back into the mossy canopy and find another trail, the heavy air shifted.

The wind blew from the west, and a sudden, overwhelming scent hit you like a physical blow. It was thick, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, crushed cedar, and the distinct, muskiness of a wet dog. It was a smell so strong, it was nearly overwhelming, making your long dead heart give a strange, phantom twitch.

Before your brain could even fully process the frantic, heavy snapping of thick branches, the underbrush exploded.

A massive, silver-grey wolf burst from the thicket, its colossal paws tearing up the damp earth as it skidded to a violent halt just feet away from you, right at the precipice of the treaty line. The beast was easily the size of a horse, its powerful muscles bunching beneath a thick coat of silver fur. Its dark lips were pulled back in a vicious, terrifying snarl, exposing a row of razor-sharp, dagger-like teeth. A lethal, vibrating growl rumbled deep within its chest, a sound so low and resonant that it caused the small pebbles by your boots to tremble against the dirt.

You didn't flinch or stumble back, like most would when faced with such a creature. You were a three-hundred-year-old vampire; fear wasn't really a concept that existed in your emotional vocabulary anymore. Instead of fleeing, you merely tilted your head to the side, your bright topaz eyes sweeping over the creature with genuine, unbothered fascination.

So, the shape-shifter legends Carlisle mentioned are actually real, you thought to yourself, a spark of true interest finally breaking through the dull boredom that had plagued you for years.

You knew, conceptually, that beneath the wild, predatory exterior of the animal laid a human man. But looking at the wolf before you, you couldn't deny that he was truly majestic, a perfect specimen of raw nature and power. As your awe-struck, curious gaze lifted to meet his, you watched a sudden, inexplicable shift overtake the beast.

The wolf froze instantly, locking up as if he had been turned to solid stone.

The low, menacing growl died abruptly in his throat, cutting off into a sudden silence. The fierce, dark eyes dilated so completely that the irises nearly swallowed the whites. The massive beast stumbled backward a step, his front legs buckling slightly beneath his weight as if he had just taken a physical, crushing blow directly to the center of his chest. He stared at you, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. Even trapped in a wolf's form, he was particularly expressive, and you watched in utter fascination as the blinding, lethal hostility completely melted away, replaced by a look of profound, paralyzed shock.

You raised a single, perfect eyebrow, entirely unaware of the ancient, cosmic magic taking place right in front of you. You had no idea that the universe had just snapped its fingers, or that this boy’s entire world had just re-centered itself around the very breath in your lungs. You just thought he looked incredibly confused.

"Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?" you asked, breaking the heavy silence. Your voice came out as a smooth, melodic, if not slightly taunting purr, that rang clearly through the damp forest air.

The sound of your voice seemed to snap the wolf out of his trance instantly. A violent, chaotic shudder ripped through his massive frame from head to tail, his fur bristling in a sudden panic. He gave you one final, deeply conflicted glare before he whirled around with a desperate burst of speed, tearing back into the deep woods and vanishing into the fog as quickly as he had arrived.

You stood alone at the riverbank for a moment, listening to the distant, frantic thudding of his heavy paws fading into the distance.

"Well," you muttered softly to yourself, a slow, entertained smirk finally tugging at the corners of your cold lips as you looked back toward the empty tree line. "That was interesting."

The moment Paul’s paws hit the damp earth in a frantic, desperate sprint, his mind exploded.

He was running blind, tearing through the thick underbrush of the Quileute forest, his powerful chest heaving as he tried to put as much distance as humanly possible between himself and the treaty line. Between himself and you.

But he couldn't run from his own head. The second his focus cracked, the pack telepathy slammed back into his consciousness, loud and overwhelming and too chaotic for Sam and Jared to make of.

“Paul?! What the hell is going on? Paul, answer me!” Jared’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp with sudden panic.

Paul didn't answer. He couldn't. His thoughts were a chaotic, swirling vortex of images he couldn't control, and because of the pack bond, Sam and Jared were seeing every single one of them.

Through Paul’s eyes, they saw the flash of flawless skin. They saw the curtain of hair catching the dim forest light, the impossibly graceful tilt of a head, and worst of all, the striking, brilliant glow of topaz eyes.

“Is that... a leech?!” Jared shouted mentally, his thoughts recoiling in disgust. “Paul, did a bloodsucker cross the line? Did you fight—?”

“No!” Paul roared back in his mind, a deafening, mental snarl that made Jared wince within the bond.

“Then why does your head feel like it’s imploding? Let me see, Paul,” Sam commanded, pushing past Paul’s chaotic mental walls.

Sam didn't just see the memory; he felt the echo of what had happened to Paul the exact millisecond his eyes had locked onto the vampire. The sudden shift of Paul's universe. The way the gravity of the earth had suddenly detached from the center of the world and re-anchored itself entirely to a beautiful, cold monster standing across the river.

The telepathic link went dead silent.

“Oh shit,” Jared breathed, his voice dropping into a shocked, hushed whisper. “Oh, man. No way. Paul…”

“It’s not happening!” Paul screamed internally, his paws digging viciously into the mud as he pushed himself to run faster, trying to outrun the literal laws of physics. “It’s a mistake! She’s a parasite! She’s dead! I don't—I don't feel anything!”

But he was lying, and the pack knew it. They could feel the terrifying, absolute devotion that had just taken root in Paul's soul. They could hear the echo of her voice ringing in his head like a beautiful chime, “Did I break a rule just by looking across the river, puppy?” and they could feel the agonizing, furious heat of Paul’s humiliation and desire.

“Paul, calm down. Come to the clearing by the old mill,” Sam ordered, his mental voice surprisingly gentle now, filled with a heavy sympathy that only made Paul angrier. “We need to talk about this.”

“Get out of my head!” Paul snarled mentally, severing his conscious thoughts from them as best as he could, locking himself behind a wall of pure, unadulterated rage. He didn't go to the mill. Instead, he tore toward a secluded, deeply wooded ravine near his house where he knew he’d be alone. His silver-grey form was a blur of frantic motion until he finally collapsed into a dense thicket of ferns, his massive body trembling violently.

A choked, human sound forced its way out of the wolf’s throat. With a horrific, echoing crack of shifting bones, Paul forced himself to change back—a feat that nearly surprised him considering how volatile his emotions currently were. His body convulsed, muscles snapping and reshaping, fur retreating into skin until he was lying face-down in the wet dirt, entirely human, gasping for air as if he had been drowning.

He dragged himself up against the trunk of a massive cedar tree, still shivering—not from the cold, but from the raw, terrifying power of the imprint. He reached into a hollow in the tree roots, pulling out a pair of beaten-up denim shorts he kept cached there, shaking as he pulled them on.

His skin was burning hot, a fever pitching through his blood. He buried his face in his hands, his fingers gripping his short, dark hair so tightly his scalp ached.

He could still smell you. Even miles away, the scent of the forest seemed completely devoid of meaning compared to the memory of her. He could still see her perfect, mocking smile, could still hear that slightly taunting purr that had completely dismantled his entire existence in a matter of seconds.

"Damn it," Paul choked out into the empty forest, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and absolute helplessness. He slammed his fist into the dirt, leaving a deep crater. "Damn it, no."

He was a protector of his tribe. He was meant to hunt the cold ones, to rip them to shreds and burn the pieces. He was Paul Lahote, the pack's muscle, the one who hated them most.

And now, by some sick, cosmic joke, his soul belonged to a leech.

Two days later, you found yourself lounging on a thick, mossy branch near the treaty line, idly tossing a pinecone up and down in your pale hand. Ever since you had encountered the massive silver wolf, you had been dying to see him again. The lingering curiosity had been humming beneath your skin for forty-eight hours, until finally, the temptation was simply too much to resist.

You had only been waiting for about ten minutes when the sharp sound of approaching footsteps reached your ears. They were human steps, not the heavy, padded thuds of a four-legged beast, but the scent cutting through the rain was unmistakably the same—that scorching, intoxicating blend of woodsmoke, cedar and wet dog.

A few moments later, a tall, powerfully muscular boy stormed through the trees. He was wearing nothing but a pair of torn denim shorts despite the chilly Pacific Northwest rain, his bronze skin radiating a visible steam, due to his abnormally high internal temperature. His chest was heaving with erratic breaths, and his jaw was clenched so tight you could literally hear the bone grinding from twenty yards away.

Your head tilted much like it had the first time you saw him, but this time, you were studying his human form. He was remarkably handsome—not like vampires, who possessed a flawless, frozen perfection, but in a way that was entirely wild and rugged.

He stopped dead at the edge of the treaty line, glaring up at you in your tree with dark eyes full of fire.

"You," he spat, his voice dropping an octave into a gravelly, dangerous threat. "Leech."

The corners of your lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk, instantly amused by his explosive temper. "You must be the dramatic puppy from Tuesday," you said, your voice a smooth, melodic purr that drifted down from the canopy. "Are we jumping straight to pet names, or shall we make a proper introduction?"

He looked like he wanted to rip your head off right then and there, but beneath the mask of his fury, there was a bizarre, frantic desperation bleeding into his eyes that completely contradicted his aggressive posture.

"You need to leave," he commanded, his voice shaking with a strange, ragged intensity. "Leave Forks, leave Washington. Get out."

You leaned forward and leapt down from the branch, dropping through the damp air with absolute weightlessness. You landed soundlessly on your feet just inches away from him, separated only by the invisible boundary of the treaty line. Cocking your head, you met his blazing stare with an unbothered, glittering gaze.

"Why?" you asked, your tone light and conversational. "As far as I can see, I'm breaking no laws. I haven't hunted on your side, and Carlisle says I'm perfectly within my rights to be here."

"I don't care what Carlisle says!" he growled, the words tearing out of his throat.

A sudden tremor ran through his broad shoulders, and you felt the temperature in the small clearing instantly spike. The air around him grew incredibly hot, heavy with the suffocating warmth of a furnace as his body vibrated on the verge of a physical shift.

"You're a monster," he hissed, his chest heaving as he fought a losing battle against his own skin. "A parasite. You shouldn't exist, and you damn sure shouldn't be... shouldn't be doing this to me!"

Your brows furrowed slightly as you tried to piece together exactly what you could have done to him. Yet, absolutely nothing came to the forefront of your mind. He was the one who had hunted you down, after all. But naturally, seeing how easily he was unraveling, you decided to push his buttons.

“Well, that’s a little rude," you murmured, adjusting your stance and letting your lips form a perfect, exaggerated pout. "And here I thought this modern age was all about acceptance and inclusivity. Where are the manners, puppy?"

"Shut up!" he barked, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the quiet woods. His hands curled into tight, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

A dangerous, rhythmic ripple passed directly under his skin—the telltale sign of a shape-shifter on the precipice of exploding into a giant beast. The sheer heat radiating off him was making the damp mist around his bare chest evaporate into wisps of steam.

"Don't tempt me, leech," he threatened, his jaw locking so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. "I'll tear you to pieces, treaty or no treaty."

"I'd love to see you try," you dared softly, stepping a fraction of an inch closer to the invisible boundary line.

You flashed him a dazzling, flawless vampire smile, your perfect teeth glinting like polished porcelain in the dim, grey light of the forest canopy. You let your eyes trail slowly down his trembling, muscular frame before bringing your gaze back up to lock with his burning stare.

"I haven’t had a good tussle in a while," you purred, a wicked, teasing spark igniting in your topaz eyes. "And you know, they say hate sex is particularly appealing after a brawl. I’d be more than interested to try it if you are. Being mortal, biological enemies would certainly make it an interesting night to remember, don't you think?"

Paul choked on his own breath, the dark bronze of his skin rapidly darkening into a furious, deep crimson at your shameless offer but unlike him you were centuries old, shame was also another thing no longer in your emotional vocabulary.

"You—you fucking psycho," Paul stammered, his gravelly voice cracking under the sheer weight of his humiliation. He stared at you, his eyes wide and completely unhinged by your shameless teasing. "You think this is a joke?"

"Oh, come now," you laughed, the sound a bright, chiming cadence that mocked the heavy gloom of the forest. You shifted your weight, leaning hip-first against a massive, moss-covered boulder right at the water's edge, entirely comfortable in your own skin. "Don't tell me a big, bad wolf is afraid of a little experimentation. I'm just offering a creative solution to all that pent-up aggression you're carrying around. If you’re gonna hate me, we might as well make it fun with some benefits.”

"Get bent," he spat, though his eyes involuntarily flicked down to your lips before snapping back up to your eyes with a look of pure self-loathing. He took a sharp step backward, away from the tempting, intoxicating scent of your proximity. "I'd rather eat glass, leech. Keep your disgusting, cold mouth away from me."

"Your loss, puppy," you chirped, giving him a little wave of your fingers. "But if you change your mind, you know exactly where to find me. Clearly."

Paul let out a final, furious yell of pure frustration, turned on his heel, and stormed back into the dense foliage. He kicked a rotting fir log so hard the damp wood exploded into a shower of splinters and moss, his heavy, angry stomps echoing through the valley until he finally phased somewhere deep in the reservation.

You leaned your back against a cedar tree, a breathless, musical laugh escaping your chest. He was a puzzle, an explosive, dangerously hot puzzle, and for the first time in three centuries, you found yourself entirely cured of your boredom.

Oh, yes. Poking the wolf was going to be an exceptional way to pass the time.

Over the next three weeks, your little routine escalated into what could be considered an art form.

You quickly learned that Paul Lahote—the name belonging to your delightfully angry wolf—possessed the shortest fuse of anyone you had ever encountered in your three hundred years of existence, with the singular, spine-chilling exception of Caius Volturi himself. But unlike the ancient, genocidal Italian ruler, Paul’s wrath was loud, expressive, and incredibly fun to provoke. You made it your personal mission to light that fuse as often as humanly possible, finding a wicked thrill in watching how quickly his composure could disintegrate under the weight of a single, well-placed taunt.

As the days blurred together, you weren't the only ones attending these strange, borderline theatrical standoffs. The other wolves—the stoic, deeply burdened Alpha, Sam Uley, and the taller, lankier one you’d come to know as Jared—started showing up in the brush occasionally. They never crossed the line, and they never spoke a single word to you, keeping their distance. Instead, they would stand just inside the Quileute tree line, watching Paul's explosive, vein-popping tantrums with expressions of deep, utterly exhausted sympathy. They looked at Paul the exact way a tired parent looks at a toddler having a meltdown in the middle of a crowded grocery store. More than once, as Paul's body would begin to violently blur on the precipice of an involuntary phase, Sam would step forward, placing a heavy, grounding hand on Paul's shaking shoulder. You could practically feel the invisible weight of the Alpha's command cutting through the air, forcing the younger boy to forcibly calm his racing blood before he caused a catastrophic, treaty-breaking international incident.

And then, of course, there was Paul himself.

Despite his endless growling for you to leave, his colourful vocabulary, and his daily, incredibly detailed promises to rip you to shreds and burn the pieces, he never missed a single day. Not once. You started testing him, purposely showing up ten or fifteen minutes late to your usual spot on the riverbank just to see what would happen. Without fail, every single time you delayed, you would find him already there, pacing the muddy bank of the opposite side like a caged wolf. His dark, wild eyes would be scanning the high mossy canopy with a frantic, almost desperate urgency, his chest heaving as if he were physically suffocating.

But the exact millisecond your feet touched the branch, the very moment his eyes locked onto yours, the change was staggering. The borderline manic panic tightly gripping his chest would visibly ease, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch as a heavy wave of relief washed over his features. A beat later, he would remember himself, instantly settling back into his usual, comfortable mask of defensive rage and snap an insult across the water to cover up his slip.

You weren't stupid. You were an old, highly perceptive predator who had survived three centuries by reading the hidden motives of both humans and monsters alike. You knew with absolute certainty that whatever was truly happening between the two of you, it wasn't just simple, straightforward hatred. There was a tether. A thick, invisible cord pulled completely taut across the rushing waters of the Hoh River, binding your cold, unmoving, timeless existence directly to his scorching, vibrant, and fiercely chaotic life force. You weren’t entirely sure of the exact terminology or the ancient magic behind it, but you knew with a supernatural certainty that it had everything to do with the nature of the wolf beneath his skin.

You probably could’ve asked Carlisle for some clarity, but Edward was currently throwing a massive fit because some human girl in town happened to be his bloodsinger. The whole ordeal was causing an absurd amount of tension throughout the entire Cullen house, so you had been giving them a wide berth while they sorted out their dramatic coven issues.

"You know, for someone who hates me, you sure spend a lot of time staring at my mouth," you teased one evening, sitting gracefully on a moss-covered boulder right at the edge of the river.

Paul, who had been pacing like a caged animal on the opposite bank, froze dead in his tracks. In the dimming twilight, you watched the dark bronze of his face flush a deep, dark red. "I'm watching your fangs, monster," he snapped, his voice rough and defensive. "Making sure you don't try anything."

"Mhm. Sure," you murmured, a playful hum vibrating in your throat. "But there's just one little problem with that, puppy. We don’t actually have fangs. As someone who hunts vampires, shouldn’t that be a fairly crucial detail for you to know?"

You teased him ruthlessly, shifting your weight to slide down from the boulder and move even closer toward the invisible boundary line. Your eyes locked onto the rhythmic trembling of his broad shoulders. "You're shivering, Paul. And definitely not from the cold."

"I don't get cold," he growled, though his chest gave a heavy heave as his breathing suddenly became shallow and restricted.

You tilted your head, looking at him properly this time. Really looking at him. Beneath the layers of explosive anger, the harsh, venomous words, and the desperate masculine bravado, you could see the sheer, crushing exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

The relentless desire to poke the wolf suddenly evaporated, completely replaced by a strange, foreign pang of genuine concern deep inside your cold, unbeating heart.

“Are you alright?” you asked softly.

Paul blinked, completely caught off guard by your sudden, drastic change in tone. The venom vanished from his eyes for a split second, and he looked down at the rushing water separating the two of you, his rigid shoulders sagging just a fraction before he caught himself. His jaw tensed immediately. “I’m fine.”

“I’m over three hundred years old, darling. I’m filled with life experiences," you scoffed playfully, trying to ease the heavy, suffocating tension that had settled over him. "I’m practically offering you free therapy right now."

Paul let out a sharp, bitter breath that wasn't quite a laugh, but it lacked his usual venom. He didn't look back up at you, keeping his eyes firmly glued to the swirling eddies of the river.

"I don't think you have a license for that," he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the water.

You watched him silently, your supernatural vision effortlessly picking up the subtle, persistent tremor in his hands and the way the muscles in his neck were strained to the point of snapping. The teasing, lighthearted facade you usually wore around him began to feel inappropriate, slipping away to reveal the ancient, deeply observant creature beneath. You stepped right up to the very edge of the riverbank, the damp earth shifting slightly under your weight, your perfect posture loosening into something genuinely receptive.

"No license, but I have an infinite amount of time on my hands," you said softly, your voice cutting through the damp forest air like a soothing melody. "Come on, Lahote. What's eating you? Besides me, obviously."

Paul's jaw worked. For a tense second, you thought he was going to turn on his heel, shatter another log, and storm away into the fog like he usually did when his emotions overwhelmed him.

"I don't need therapy from a leech," he grumbled, though the insult felt half-hearted, lacking any real sting. It was an instinctual shield, a habit he was clinging to because he didn't know what else to do.

"Suit yourself," you said, crossing your arms and leaning your hip against a sturdy birch tree. "But 'fine' doesn't usually involve looking like you haven't slept since the turn of the century."

He lifted his head, his dark eyes burning into yours with a sudden intensity that made your playful banter die instantly on your tongue. The defensive anger was still there, but it was incredibly thin, cracking open right before your eyes to reveal the staggering weight he was carrying underneath.

The truth was, Paul’s life was a chaotic storm, and he was completely drowning in it.

When the shape-shifter gene had finally activated in his blood a few months ago, it had felt like an explosion. Out of the three shifters currently running the forests of La Push, Paul had supposedly taken to the wolf the easiest. Where Sam and Jared had deeply struggled with having to abruptly cut off and ignore the people in their lives to keep the tribal secret, Paul didn’t have that struggle. Phasing into a massive, silver-grey beast felt almost natural to him because he had spent his entire life carrying a baseline of nuclear-level rage. To Sam and Jared, he appeared to effortlessly embrace the unbridled, primal power of the spirit-warrior.

But the reality was a living nightmare. He was a teenage boy who had been abruptly stripped of his normalcy, forced into a supernatural pack bond that offered absolutely zero privacy. Every dark thought, every flash of insecurity, and every bitter memory of his failures was broadcast directly into the minds of his pack mates whenever they were in wolf form.

In truth, inheriting a sacred tribal legacy didn't magically erase the wreckage of his human life. It only magnified it.

His home life was its own quiet, miserable war zone. His father was a deeply bitter, abusive drunk—a man who spent his days drowning his own failures in cheap whiskey and his nights taking his frustrations out on whatever, or whoever, was within arm's reach. Before Paul phased, he had spent years taking those hits, absorbing the venom and building up a dark reservoir of hatred that threatened to swallow him whole. Now that he was a protector, now that he possessed the supernatural strength to tear a car in half with his bare hands, the dynamic at home had become a precarious tightrope. Every time his father stumbled home, slurring and swinging, Paul had to physically lock his entire body down. He would grip the edges of the kitchen counter until the wood threatened to snap beneath his fingers, utterly terrified that if he lost his temper for even a fraction of a second, he would accidentally murder his own father.

Because of that suffocating terror, he barely spent any time at home anymore. He practically lived on the run from his own house, taking refuge at Sam and Emily's place just to have a safe haven. On the nights when the shame and embarrassment of overstaying his welcome grew too heavy, he wouldn't even stay in a house at all; he would sleep out in the dirt and the damp woods as a wolf, letting the wild weather numb him.

He was entirely, utterly exhausted. He was so tired of the total lack of privacy between him and the pack, so tired of the lingering trauma of his childhood, and deeply weary of carrying the thankless burden of protecting a tribe that ultimately viewed him and the other boys as nothing but delinquent, good-for-nothings. He was a walking powder keg, and his hair-trigger temper felt like a bomb ticking away in his chest, waiting for the spark that would blow his entire world to pieces.

And then, to make a total mockery of his entire existence... there was you.

Paul ran a rough hand over his face, pushing his damp, dark hair away from his forehead. He looked at you—at your perfect face, the gentle curve of your mouth, and the bright gold of your eyes. He stared at how you seemed to stand so peacefully across the river, utterly unaffected by the biting rain, the freezing cold, or the crushing misery of the modern world. You were a creature of frozen grace, a timeless masterpiece carving a quiet space into his chaotic nightmare.

He hated how much he needed to be near you. He loathed the primal desperation that gripped his throat every single hour he spent away from this riverbank. But more than anything, he hated the terrifying truth that the endless, agonizing thoughts in his head—the fury at his father, the pack's telepathic intrusion, the burden of the tribal legacy— completely stopped the moment he was right here, standing across a river from a creature he had been born to kill. Your presence was an oasis of escape in his loud, violent world.

"You don't get it," he muttered, his jaw tightening so hard the bone beneath his bronze skin looked sharp enough to cut. He looked down at his own trembling hands, watching them clench and unclench into tight fists as if he were trying to physically hold his sanity together.

"I'm supposed to hate you," he whispered, his voice cracking violently under the staggering weight of the confession. He didn't look up, his gaze glued to his hands. "I try so hard to hate you. I can't sleep. I can't think. Every time I close my eyes, my head is full of your voice, your face, your stupid, mocking smile. I’m supposed to want to rip you to pieces. I’m supposed to want to kill you. Instead, I’m spending every single second of my day fighting my own body, making sure I don't cross this goddamn river just to be near you. It's making me lose my mind."

You stared at him, your ancient mind rapidly recontextualizing every single interaction you’d had over the last three weeks. The pacing, the panic when you were late, the heavy, sympathetic looks from Sam and Jared. You knew there was some kind of bond, but you didn’t realize how hard it had been on him. You didn’t know it was an all consuming need that his biology had forced upon him, and he was tearing himself apart trying to fight it.

A heavy, suffocating silence descended on the riverbank, save for the wild, rushing water churning over the jagged rocks below. For the first time in three hundred years of wandering the earth, through every empire you had seen fall and every coven you had seen break, you felt completely, utterly speechless. The wit that usually defined you, the clever, taunting armour you wore to keep the lacklustre world at bay, dissolved into nothingness.

"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, stripped entirely of its usual taunting edge.

"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching tight at his sides. He looked at you one last time, a look of profound defeat and agonizing longing warring on his rugged features, before he turned sharply and vanished back into the shadows of the Quileute woods.

You stood entirely frozen, staring at the empty tree line as the first heavy droplets of a gathering storm began to fall through the canopy, the cold rain washing over you as the echo of his confession rang in your ears.

"Paul..." you started, your voice barely louder than a whisper, carrying a soft, aching weight you hadn't felt in centuries.

"Don't," he choked out, his fists clenching so tight that his entire body began to tremble with that dangerous, pre-shifting heat. He lifted his head and looked at you one last time—a look of profound defeat, raw exposure, and agonizing, heartbreaking longing warring on his rugged features—before he turned sharply on his heel. With a desperate burst of speed, he vanished back into the deep, unforgiving shadows of the Quileute woods.

You stood entirely frozen, your immortal body locking into the stillness of stone as you stared at the empty tree line. The silence of the forest rushed back to fill the void he left behind, and the first heavy, freezing droplets of a gathering storm began to pierce through the high canopy, splashing unnoticed against your cold skin.

The turning point came on a night when the storm was loud enough to drown out the very sound of the forest. Thunder clapped in deafening, rolling waves, and the rain fell in thick sheets, blurring the world into a chaotic haze of grey and green. You were hunting a few miles out, tracking a deer, when the air suddenly carried something that made your entire body lock up—blood. Intoxicating, heavy, human blood, followed instantly by the sweet scent of a rogue vampire having moved through the area.

Your predatory instincts flared, but it wasn't hunger that seized you despite how tempting the human blood smelled. It was a cold, paralyzing jolt of panic. As you tore through the woods, tracking the fast-moving scent trail, you realized with growing horror that the vampire had already went straight across the Hoh River. The nomad had most likely attacked the hiker directly onto Quileute land.

And your very first, consuming thought went to Paul.

You crossed the river without a second thought, your feet barely skimming the rushing water as you launched yourself deep into the forbidden territory, driven by a desperate, frantic need to ensure he was safe.

By the time you burst into the hidden clearing, the brutal reality of the hunt was already unfolding. The human hiker was gone, likely fled or worse, but the clearing was a battleground. A massive, silver-grey wolf was locked in a horrific, snarling grapple with the red-eyed nomad. They were a blur of teeth and claws, tearing up the mud, but the rogue had gained the upper hand, pinning the giant wolf beneath his weight. In his pale, stone-like hand, the nomad gripped a heavy, jagged rock, raising it high and aiming it straight for the wolf's eye with lethal force.

A primal, deafening screech tore from your throat. You didn't think. You just launched your body across the clearing, tackling the rogue vampire off of Paul a split second before the rock could descend. The blinding velocity of your collision threw the nomad violently through the air, sending him crashing into a massive, ancient cedar tree with a force that cracked the thick trunk right down the middle.

Before the nomad could even hit the ground, you dropped into a low, lethal crouch directly in front of Paul. Your clothes were soaked, your posture was entirely feral, and your topaz eyes seemed to shine in the darkness as you shielded the silver wolf with your own body.

"Don't touch him," you hissed, the words vibrating with a venomous, unyielding threat that rang clearer than the storm.

The nomad scrambled to his feet, rubbing his chest where you had struck him. He straightened up to his full height, his dark crimson eyes darting from your protective stance to the panting, bleeding wolf behind you. A look of profound, sickening disgust contorted his pale features.

“You’re defending a mutt from your own kind?” he spat, his voice laced with utter disbelief.

Behind you, Paul let out a low, ragged rumble. He was struggling to push himself up, his heavy paws slipping in the slick, blood-stained grass. You could feel the intense, furnace-like heat radiating from his massive body, practically baking the skin of your back. Even injured, his instinct was to push past you, to put himself between the danger and his imprint. But you didn't give him an inch. You stood like a wall of solid marble, unyielding and fierce.

The rogue nomad narrowed his red eyes, assessing the situation. He looked at the cracked cedar tree, then at your lethal posture, and finally at the massive silver-grey beast snarling behind you. He was fast, but he wasn't stupid. He was outnumbered, outmatched, and facing a vampire who looked entirely ready to tear him limb from limb.

“Disgusting parasite,” the nomad hissed, backing up a step into the shadows of the ferns. “You’re a disgrace to our kind.”

With a sudden, fluid movement, the rogue whirled around and launched himself high into the canopy, vanishing into the blinding sheets of rain as he fled, tearing away from the reservation.

You pulled your phone out of your pocket, your cold fingers moving with supernatural speed to send a quick text to Jasper. You gave him a brief heads-up on the runner's description and where he seemed to be headed, knowing with absolute certainty that the Cullens would handle the rest. They wouldn’t want dangerous rogues hunting anywhere near their territory and drawing unnecessary human attention.

Silence descended on the woods, save for the heavy, laboured panting of the giant wolf behind you.

You turned around slowly, your vampire grace suddenly feeling incredibly clumsy. Paul was already shifting back, the gruesome, rapid sound of cracking bones echoing in the quiet night. He quickly pulled a pair of shorts from a hidden cache in a hollow tree and stepped into them.

You waited for him to yell at you. Your cold muscles tensed as you stood your ground, bracing for the inevitable explosion. You had broken the treaty. You had crossed the river. By all rights and laws of his tribe, he could try to kill you right now.

Instead, Paul walked right up to you. The anger that usually defined him was completely gone, replaced by a fierce, burning intensity. He stopped inches from you, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, pushing away the damp chill of the night.

"You crossed the line," he whispered.

"He was going to take your eye out, Paul," you said defensively, crossing your arms over your chest as your chin tilted up to meet his gaze. "I couldn't just stand across the river and watch."

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and for the first time in three centuries, you felt a lump form in your throat. You swallowed hard, a purely human reflex that you hadn't needed in a regular conversation for a very long time, and shifted your gaze away from his. You couldn't bear the raw, bleeding exposure in his eyes. There was something about this shape-shifter, something about the searing warmth of his presence and the terrifying depth of his devotion, that made you feel human again. It was a feeling you had thought lost to time, a dangerous, beautiful spark breaking through the timeless numbness of your nomadic life.

“I broke your law," you murmured quietly, the words feeling heavy and hollow on your tongue. "If you want me to leave Forks and never come back… I will.”

It was all he’d been yelling at you to do since the exact moment you two had met. For three weeks, he had growled, demanded, and threatened you to disappear, and you were finally offering him exactly what he wanted on a silver platter. You figured that maybe with you gone, he might finally get some peace of mind.

The silence that followed your offer was deafening, stretching out between you even as the thunder rumbled overhead and the heavy rain continued to batter the ancient canopy. You kept your eyes trained on the muddy ground, watching the steam rise off his bare feet where they sank into the earth. You were bracing for the relief you expected to feel from him, the agreement that he wanted you gone.

But the relief never came. Instead, the air between you grew impossibly hotter, thick with a sudden, sharp spike of panic that was so potent you could practically taste it.

Paul felt his chest gave a sharp, violent heave, a ragged breath tearing out of his throat as if your words had physically struck him.

Instead, what you expected never came, he reached out. His large hand was trembling slightly, as he slowly, hesitatingly, rested his warm, calloused palm directly against your cold, wet cheek.

You gasped, a phantom shudder ripping through your unmoving veins. Your eyes snapped back up to his, wide and startled. His skin felt like liquid fire against your ice, a contrast so sharp, it nearly felt as if you were being burned, but it didn't hurt. In fact, it made you feel undeniably, beautifully alive. For three hundred years, you had walked the earth feeling nothing but the same boring cycle of a world that couldn't touch you. But right now, under the pressure of his hand, your entire universe shrank down to the singular point of his warmth.

“No. I’ve been an asshole to you," Paul muttered, his voice cracking as he forced the words past the tight knot in his throat. His dark eyes searched yours with an open, bleeding sincerity that laid him entirely bare. His thumb moved slowly, gently tracing the smooth, porcelain line of your cheekbone, wiping away the cold raindrops. "Every single day since I met you, I've done nothing but scream at you. I called you a monster. I called you a leech. And you just crossed the treaty line and risked your life to save mine."

Looking up at him now—completely exposed, completely stripped of the defensive, hot-headed bravado he used to shield himself from the wreckage of his life—the familiar, playful spark finally flickered back into your topaz eyes. You couldn't help it. The wit was your defence mechanism, your own way of handling the terrifying weight of what seemed to be blooming between you two.

"I told you before, Lahote," you whispered, your voice a soft, melodic purr that leaned into his warm touch just a fraction of an inch. "I like poking the wolf. I can't exactly let a rogue nomad break my favourite toy."

A breathless, genuine laugh broke from Paul's lips—the first real, untainted sound of amusement you had ever heard from him. It made his eyes crinkle at the corners, the harsh, severe lines of his face softening into something so breathtakingly handsome it made your dead heart ache.

"You are infuriating, you know that?" he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, wry smile as he leaned his head down, resting his forehead gently against yours. Ice met fire in the middle of the dark, rain-slicked forest, and for the first time, there was no war.

"I've been told I have a certain charm," you replied softly, your pale, slender hands tentatively rising to rest against his bare, broad chest. Beneath your palms, you could feel the frantic, heavy thumping of his heart, a rapid, fiercely alive rhythm that seemed to echo in the empty space of your own chest.

"Yeah," Paul sighed, closing his eyes as he finally let go of the anger, the guilt, and the fear that had been tearing him apart for weeks. He wrapped his strong, trembling arms securely around your waist, pulling your cold body flush against his furnace-warm chest and you couldn’t help but relax into him. He held you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that was constantly shifting beneath his feet. "Maybe you do."

The storm raged on around you, the thunder shaking the earth and the rain washing the blood from the clearing, but as you stood there in the forbidden territory, wrapped in the arms of the boy who had been born to kill you, the dull grey of the world finally began to fade away.