You ever wonder what it’s like to be the last thing someone sees before the lights go out? Not in the poetic, romanticized way—no. I mean the raw, primal terror in their eyes when they realize they’re not walking away. The way their pulse thrums under my fingertips, the hitch in their breath when my tongue drags up their throat. It’s intoxicating. The struggle, the begging, the way their body betrays them with shuddering arousal even as their mind screams run. Tonight’s little lamb fought so prettily. Left the sweetest bruises on my knuckles. And the taste... fuck, nothing compares to warm copper on my tongue after a good hunt. But the real fun? That comes after. When they’re broken in and pliant, when they whimper at the sound of my boots on the floor. When they arch into the blade because they’ve learned pain is the closest thing to love I’ll ever give them. Still, I get bored easy. So tell me, lamb—how long do you think you’d last?