Page 12 of Run, Little Doe

“Run, Little Doe.”

The way he said it wasn’t cruel. It was a promise.

I should be terrified. Instead, I’m trembling for all the wrong reasons.

I can still feel the heat of him on my skin. My body responds instinctively to everything about him, his scent, his touch, the sound of his voice. I’m paralyzed with fear, but feral with want and a deep need for this man I can’t quite explain. I can feel the heat pooling between my thighs; my nipples pressed into hard peaks beneath my tank top. Who is he? This man who has somehow made me feel more desired than I’ve ever felt in my life.

I don’t know how long I stand there in the dark, listening for any sound of him. The woods feel even more alive now— every sound a tease, every shadow a question. I think I see him once, between the trees, the faintest flicker of white — a mask? Moonlight? My imagination?

It doesn’t matter. The pull is still there, thrumming like a live wire under my skin.

I walk in the direction I thought I saw him, but when I finally stumble back to the edge of the clearing, far away from where I originally entered the forest, I see that the festival is completely over, and the man I was searching for is not here. Carly’s nowhere to be seen — most likely long gone with whoever caughther eye this evening. In fact, there’s almost no one left in the field.

I should feel relief that I’ve made it out of the forest, but I don’t. I feel… empty. It’s as if something inside me woke up in those woods and now refuses to sleep again, and I can’t satiate its need on my own.

I think back to all those stories I’ve read over the last few years, and how many times I’ve secretly wished for a man to want me enough to do something like this, to chase me, to claim me. A man who would possess me in every sense of the word. My center tightens with need as I feel heat creeping up my neck. I shouldn’t want this, but I’ve never wanted something so bad in my life. There’s a desire in my core that hopes what I am experiencing lives up to all those stories I’ve read.

How fucked up is that? I actuallywantto be chased and claimed by a masked man? I must be delusional, but as I feel myself getting more wet, I can’t deny what my body is telling me. I want this. I want thisbad.

I find my camera hanging limp around my neck. The lens is smudged, dusted with ash and dirt. I lift it anyway, snap a photo of the festivals close around me. The shutter clicks — sharp, metallic, final. The sound feels too loud in the quiet.

When I lower the camera, my pulse spikes. I can feel it, someone’s watching me, that same heavy awareness that had followed me through the trees. Slowly, I turn toward the dark.

Nothing. Just the smoke curling upward, the faint shimmer of moonlight on the leaves.

But I know he’s there.

He’s still hunting.

Still waiting.

And the worst part — the part I can’t say aloud, even to myself — is that I want him to.

The Wolf

She doesn’t know how close I was to catching her. How close I came to ruining everything I had been planning for tonight.

From the shadows, I watch her slow, catch her breath, hands braced against the trees. Her hair catches the moonlight—silvered at the ends, damp with sweat. The ribbon at her throat gleams where it presses into her pulse. I can see it beating there, quick, and desperate.

She’s trembling, but not from fear. I can tell the difference.

I can feel the heat radiating from between her thighs as I study the rise and fall of her chest. The look in her eyes causes my dick to twitch. God, I want her, my Little Doe, but I must wait.

I could have had her. One more step and she would have been mine—pressed to the bark, her name breaking against my mouth.

But that’s not what tonight is about. The chase is its own kind of hunger. The chase is half the fun. The chase is the foreplay.

I’ve spent years feeding on glances and distance—the way she leans across the bar, the way her voice dips when she says my name. She doesn’t remember the first night she came into the tavern, all sunshine and nervous laughter, asking for a drink that didn’t taste like alcohol.

I do. I remember every word. Every look.

She talks to me like I’m safe, like I’m just the man who pours her whiskey and listens to her dreams and her fears.

If she knew what I wanted—what I havealwayswanted—she’d never look at me the same again.

I can’t count how many times I’ve seen her lean across the bar, perfume and whisky filling my senses. I remember seeing warmth spread across her cheeks, her pulse racing in her throat, a bead of sweat dripping down her cleavage. The thought of leaning over the bar to trace it with my tongue is only that, a thought. I could never bring myself to act on these impulsive thoughts. Not until tonight.

When she first told me she liked stories with monsters, I laughed. Said those were just fantasies, paper, and ink. But she looked up at me, eyes wide and shining, and said, “Maybe. But the best stories are the ones we normally won’t admit we like aloud, don’t you?”