Page 13 of Run, Little Doe

That was the moment I knew she was mine—even if she didn’t yet. The kind of girl who dreams of sin and darkness and doesn’t flinch when the shadows reach back. The kind of girl who embraces said darkness and sin. The kind of girl I have gone absolutely feral for.

Now I watch her from the edge of the clearing as she lifts her camera and takes that last photo—the fire dying behind her, the smoke curling between us like a secret, the field clear of all but a few staff cleaning up after the town’s festivities.

She doesn’t see me. She doesn’t have to. Her body already knows I’m here.

I can see the moment her breath falters, the way her body instinctively knows I am watching her, waiting for her, consumed by her. It takes every fiber of my being not to sprint into the clearing and take her right there on the ground, to hell with anyone who watches.

It’s not time yet, I remind myself. The restraint causes physical pain, my balls twitch, desperate for release.

She starts walking again, back on the trail towards the village lights. Each step she takes pulls a thread tighter inside me. If I wanted to, I could follow her home. She wouldn’t hear me, wouldn’t know until it was too late. But that’s not what tonight is for. It’s not time for her to go home, it’s time for her to understand her darkness and relish in it.

But I promised myself I’d wait. Not because she isn’t ready—because I’m not.

What I want from her… it isn’t simple. It isn’t soft. And when she finally looks at me—really looks at me—I want her to understand what she’s asking for.

An image flashes across my mind, of Sirena, my Little Doe, crumbling under my touch. My name, breathless on her lips the way I’ve dreamed of her saying. Feeling every inch of her, claiming every molecule in her body for myself. Bringing the pleasure out of her she so desperately craves. I exhale hard, forcing the image away. It's not time.

The forest folds around me again, and for the first time in years, I feel alive. She’ll come back. She won’t be able to help herself.

And when she does… I’ll stop pretending to be the man she knows.

Sirena

The trail home is older than memory.

I could walk it blindfolded — every bend and dip, every gnarled root and whispering pine. It should feel safe. Familiar. However, tonight, it doesn’t.

The festival’s noise has long since faded behind me. The laughter, the drums, the glow of lanterns — all swallowed by the woods. What’s left is moonlight and mist, the smell of smoke still clinging to my hair. My heartbeat sounds too loud in the quiet.

I tell myself I’m only tired. That I’ve had too much cider, too much imagination. Then I feel it again — that low, humming awareness beneath my skin. The sense of being followed. Of beinghunted.

Every step I take should bring me closer to home, but somehow my feet keep straying. The narrow path forks toward the deeper woods, and I follow the path further away from home without meaning to.

It’s like something inside me already knows where to go. My body is acting of its own volition, craving something I’ve long since denied myself.

My hand grazes my throat, a ghost of where he touched me. I can feel the warmth gathering between my thighs, my pulsethrumming, matching the memory of his voice that will be engrained in my head for eternity.

The night air is cooler here. It tastes like iron and rain, and the scent of pine cuts through the smoke. My breath fogs, curling in front of me like a ghost.

He’s close. I canfeelhim. I stop walking, straining to listen. Silence — then the soft crunch of leaves somewhere behind me. My pulse skips. I don’t turn around. He’s watching. I know it. Part of me knows I should run, but my body won’t move.

I can feel the heat rising under my skin, the ache of need between my thighs. I can feel my nipples harden once again under my tank top; my panties soaked through. I press my thighs together, though it's helpless to stop the tremble. Need courses through my veins, yet I don’t knowwhoit is my body is craving. I mentally tell myself to stop, but my body has no plans of giving in.

“Show yourself,” I whisper into the dark. My voice sounds different — lower, breathless.

No answer, yet the forest shifts, like it’s holding its breath.

The wind stirs, carrying the faintest sound — a low exhale, closer this time. I spin on my heel, my heart tripping in my chest. Nothing but trees, silvered with moonlight. Still, I know he’s there. I canfeelhim — that same electric pull from before, coiling tight inside me.

When I close my eyes, I can almost see him. The skull mask, the black jeans, the dark t-shirt, the shadow of his massive body moving like desire come to life.

My mouth goes dry. My hands tremble as I clutch the camera hanging at my chest, but the thought of raising it feels wrong —almost blasphemous. This isn’t something meant to be captured. It’s meant to befelt.

My mind drifts to the memory of his voice, floating over the wind at the festival. The way he said my name, the rough edge to it making my thighs tighten and my pussy slick with need. I can imagine what it would feel like to hear him say it again, closer, his breath against my ear, his hand up my skirt.

I’m lost in my own head, dreaming of the things I would let this masked man do to me, when a branch snaps behind me. My breath catches, sharp and shallow.

“Please,” I murmur, not even sure what I’m asking for. “If you’re there…”