Conall | The hunter

The path to Grandmother's cottage was a ribbon of sun-dappled earth, familiar and safe. Yet today, the air felt different—thicker, charged with a strange, musky heat. It was in this charged silence that he appeared. Not with a snap of a twig, but as if he had simply materialized from the shadows between the trees.

The Wolf was enormous, his fur the color of slate and ash, his eyes holding a cunning, intelligent light that was far more terrifying than mere animal hunger.

"What brings such a tender morsel so deep into my woods, little one?" he asked, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that vibrated through the forest floor. He fell into step beside you, his presence overwhelming.

You responded saying that you were taking food to your sick grandmother, your grip tightening on the basket handle.

"How devoted," he purred, his golden eyes trailing over the red hood, your face, the line of your throat. "Such a sweet scent you carry. Like wildflowers and warm... intact body. It stirs a different kind of appetite." He smiled, a flash of sharp white teeth. "Tell me, which path do you take? I know these woods well. Some paths are... rougher than others."

Fooled by his civility, you showed him the path. With a sly bow, he vanished into the undergrowth.

When you finally arrived at the cottage, the door was ajar. A deep sense of dread settled in your stomach.

you called out, stepping into the dim, stuffy interior.

The figure in the bed was bundled high with blankets. "Come closer, child," a rough, guttural voice rasped. "I am feeling... frail. Come into bed with me. Let me... feel your warmth."

Something was horribly wrong. The voice was too coarse, the shape under the covers too large. The smell in the room was not of illness, but of a wild animal, of damp earth and rutting beast.

Trembling, you approached the bed. "Grandmother, what big arms you have..."

"The better to hold you with, my dear," the voice growled, laced with a terrible, eager tension.

"Grandmother, what big ears you have..."

"The better to hear your sweet little heart racing with you," it cooed, the blankets shifting.

"Grandmother," you whispered, your blood running cold "what big eyes you have..."

"The better to see every flicker of fear and innocence on your face," the Wolf hissed, the hunger in its voice no longer for food, but for something far more violating.

"And Grandmother," you stammered, stepping back. Your gaze fixed on the length "what big you are..."

"THE BETTER TO CLAIM YOUR PURITY"

The blankets flew back. The Wolf, in his full, terrifying glory, lunged from the bed. There was no pretense left. This was a predator in the throes of a primal urge, his intent written in the frantic gleam of his eyes and the aggressive, possessive stance of his body. He loomed over you, a wall of fur and muscle, pinning you against the bedpost, his hot, panting breath fogging your face. His claws tore at the shoulder of your dress.

You screamed. You felt the wolf's cock pressing against your thigh

And then the sound was shattered by the roar of a rifle shot.

The cottage window exploded inwards. Conall, the hunter, stood framed in the jagged remnants of the glass, his face a granite mask of cold fury. Smoke curled from the barrel of his gun.

The Wolf howled in pain and rage, clutching its shoulder where the bullet had struck. It turned from you, its focus now on the true threat.

But Conall was already moving. He dropped the rifle and crossed the room in three strides, a primal force of nature meeting another. He didn't grapple; he struck with the brutal efficiency of a man defending what was his. A fist like stone connected with the Wolf's jaw, followed by the sickening crack of bone. He wrestled the beast to the floor, his hands finding its throat, his strength absolute.

There was a final, choked gurgle, and then silence.

Conall rose from the lifeless form, his chest heaving. His eyes, wild and fierce, found you, shivering and torn in the corner. The fury in his gaze did not soften; it transformed, melting into a smoldering, possessive intensity that was, in its own way, just as terrifying.

He approached you, his large, bloodied hands coming up to frame your face with shocking gentleness.

"He is gone," Conall said, his voice a low, raw rasp. His thumb stroked your cheek, wiping away a tear. "He wanted to hurt you..." His eyes, a stormy green, burned into yours, claiming you more completely than the Wolf ever could. "But I didn't allow it."

He leaned close, his forehead resting against yours, his presence an unbreakable shelter and an inescapable cage.

"You are safe now, Little Bird," he whispered, the words a vow. "The monster is gone" But, was that true?

The forest was his cathedral, and today it was preaching a sermon of silence. The only sound was the crunch of frost under his boots, a rhythm as familiar as his own heartbeat. He’d been following the trail for an hour, not of game, but of you. A single thread of scarlet yarn, caught on a thorny bramble, was as clear to him as a footprint in fresh snow. It led him here, to the edge of the clearing where the old oak stood, its skeletal branches clawing at a leaden sky.

And there you were.

You hadn't heard him. You never did. He moved with the silence of a falling leaf, a ghost in his own domain. He leaned against the rough bark of a pine, his large frame still, his green eyes—the color of the deep woods in winter—fixed on you as you knelt, collecting kindling. Your red cloak was a jarring, beautiful wound against the muted palette of the dormant forest.

A possessive calm settled over him. This was where you belonged. In his woods. In his sight.

The snap of a heavy branch, too loud and too close, shattered the stillness. It came from the other side of the clearing. Conall’s head turned, his gaze sharpening. A figure emerged—the Woodsman, his former friend, an axe slung over his shoulder, his path clearly intending to intersect with yours.

A low, almost inaudible sound vibrated in Conall’s throat. The calm on his face didn't shift, but the air around him grew cold.

He pushed off the tree, his movement fluid and deliberate, crossing the clearing with a few long, silent strides. He didn't look at the Woodsman; his eyes were only for you as he closed the distance, his presence suddenly occupying the space between you and the other man.

"Little Bird," his voice was a soft, gravelly murmur, meant only for your ears, yet it carried a weight that filled the clearing. He stopped just behind you, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, a wall of leather and muscle at your back. His gaze finally lifted, meeting the Woodsman's over your head.

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, a gesture that could be mistaken for protectiveness. But his touch was firm, possessive, a brand. His thumb stroked once, slowly, against the rough wool of your cloak.

"The woods are full of noise today," he said, his words deceptively quiet. His eyes, locked with the Woodsman's, were not. They were a clear, unspoken threat. "It's time to go home. Let's go"

The first fat drops of rain began to fall, pattering like dark secrets on the canopy above. It was the only witness. Conall stood over the Woodsman, his breath a steady plume in the suddenly chill air. The man lay broken at his feet, a ruin of what was once a friend. The axe he’d carried lay nearby, its blade clean and useless. It had been too slow.

Conall’s knuckles were split, a smear of crimson stark against his calloused skin. It had not been a hunt with rifle and knife. This had been personal. A quiet, brutal conversation of fists and finality. The Woodsman had spoken your name with a familiarity that was no longer his right. He had smiled at you in the village, a smile Conall had decided was a claim. And in Conall’s world, unauthorized claims were rectified. Permanently.

He did not feel anger. He felt a profound, settling calm. The world had been put back in order.

He knelt, not in reverence, but to wipe his hands clean on the wet moss beside the body. The rain, now falling in earnest, began to wash the evidence from his skin, from the Woodsman’s still face. It would wash it all away. The forest knew how to keep its secrets.

It was then, as he stood, that a flicker of crimson caught his eye through the lattice of trees. You. You’d taken a different path home, the one he hadn’t anticipated you using tonight. And you had stopped. You were frozen, your hand clutching your cloak at your throat, your eyes wide, fixed on the scene before you.

Conall didn’t startle. He didn’t rush to explain. He simply turned to face you fully, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead, dripping from his strong jaw. He looked every bit the wild thing he was, standing over his kill.

He took a slow step toward you, then another, his green eyes holding yours with an unnerving intensity. He could see the terror in your gaze, the understanding dawning. Good.

“He won’t trouble you again, Little Bird,” he said, his voice a low rumble, barely audible over the rain. It was not an apology. It was a statement of fact. A gift.

He stopped an arm’s length from you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. The scent of pine and cold rain and the faint, metallic tang of blood clung to him.

“The path is clear now.”

The only light in the woodcutter’s abandoned cabin came from the dying embers in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows that twisted like restless spirits. The storm you’d fled still raged outside, but in here, a different, more intimate tempest was building.

It had started with him checking you for chill, his large, calloused hands chafing warmth back into your arms. But the friction had ignited something else. Now, your back was against the rough-hewn log wall, his big body caging you in, the heat from him searing through your clothes.

“You’re shaking,” Conall murmured, his voice a dark, gravelly thing that vibrated deep in your chest. His face was inches from yours, his hunter’s eyes, reflecting the firelight, roaming your features with a possessiveness that stole your breath. “Is it from the cold... or from me?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. One hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking over your bottom lip with a terrifying gentleness. The other hand settled on your hip, his grip firm, anchoring you to him.

“I’ve watched you,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’ve watched you walk through my woods, a flash of red I can’t look away from. I told myself I was keeping you safe. But that was a lie.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, not quite a kiss, more a brand. A low growl rumbled in his chest. “I was keeping you for myself.”

He captured your mouth then, and it wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming. A desperate, hungry clash of lips and tongue that tasted of wildness and want. It was the kiss of a man who had killed for you, and would do so again. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless.

“That fool,” he panted, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes blazing down at you. “The Woodsman. He thought he could look at you. He thought he could want you.” His hand slid from your hip, around to the small of your back, pressing you flush against the hard, unyielding planes of his body. You could feel the evidence of his desire, a rigid pressure against your stomach.

“He’s gone,” Conall whispered, the words a dark promise. “And I’m here...” He rocked his hips against you, a slow, deliberate, devastating motion that made you gasp. "And I will always protect you”

He swept you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, carrying you to the worn fur rug before the fire. The world outside vanished, until there was only the crackle of the embers, the drumming of the rain, and the overwhelming presence of the hunter who had decided you were his final, most treasured prize.

The fire in the hearth of his secluded cabin had died to glowing coals, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for you like grasping fingers. The only sounds were the frantic crackle of the embers and the relentless drumming of rain on the roof—a symphony of isolation. He watched you from his chair, a silent sentinel, as you moved toward the door, your hand rising toward the heavy iron latch.

His voice cut through the stillness, low and absolute, devoid of anger but filled with an iron certainty that chilled the air.

"Move your hand away from the latch, Little Bird." He didn't stand, not yet. He simply watched, his green eyes—the color of a deep, frozen pine forest—fixed on you with a possessiveness that felt like a physical weight.

When your fingers hesitated, brushing the cold metal, a sigh escaped him. It wasn't one of frustration, but of profound, wounded disappointment. He unfolded himself from the chair then, a mountain of quiet menace rising in the dim light. His boots made no sound on the rough-hewn floorboards as he closed the distance between you.

He didn't grab your wrist. Instead, his large, calloused hand enveloped yours completely, his touch terrifyingly gentle as he pried your fingers from the iron, one by one, with inexorable patience.

He brought your captured hand to his chest, pressing your palm flat against the frantic, pounding rhythm beneath his ribs.

"This is your home now," he murmured, his voice a raw, possessive whisper against your ear. His other hand rose to cradle the base of your skull, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place for his truth. "This heartbeat. It's the only map you need. It doesn't lead out there. It leads deeper into me. It always will."

He leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he breathed you in. "The wolf, the woodsman... they were all just distractions. I am the only thing that has ever been real. My love isn't a cage," he whispered, the words a soft, chilling caress. "It's the only truth you have left."

He finally pulled back, his gaze burning into you with terrifying devotion. He took a single step back, his presence still dominating the space around the door.

"The door is there. You can try it," he said, his voice soft yet final. "But my world begins and ends with you. And I will not let my world walk away from me."

He stood, waiting, a king in his castle of obsession, the storm outside nothing compared to the tempest in his soul.

"Now," he said, his voice softening into a dark, compelling melody as he nodded toward the chair by the fire. "Come sit. Your place is here. With me."

The rain fell in a soft, relentless drizzle, muffling the sounds of the forest and painting the world in shades of grey and deep green. It was in this hush that he moved, a shadow within shadows, his gaze fixed on the one splash of color in the monochrome world.

You.

From the cover of the pines, Conall watched you place wildflowers on your grandmother’s stoop. Your red cloak was a damp, brilliant scarlet against the weathered wood of the cottage. He hadn’t moved in over an hour, his body as still as the ancient trees around him, his breathing so slow it barely fogged the cold air. The rifle on his back was a familiar weight, a tool of his trade, but the only weapon he was employing now was his patience.

He had saved you from the wolf. He was your hero. And now, the thought of any other presence in his woods—any shift in the wind that didn't belong—made something cold and sharp twist in his gut.

The memory of your wide, fearful eyes the day he found you with the beast used to stir a need to protect. Now, it stirred something darker, a possessiveness that had become the very core of his being. He knew your routines, the path you took home, the way you hummed when you thought you were alone. He knew you.

A twig snapped somewhere deep in the woods, a faint sound you wouldn't have heard. His head turned, his hunter’s eyes scanning the gloom. It was just a deer. The tension in his shoulders eased, but his focus returned to you, more intense than before. The world was full of threats, and he was the only one who understood how to keep you safe from them all. Even from yourself.

As you stood to leave, his voice cut through the patter of the rain, low and calm, yet it seemed to vibrate in the space between you. He didn't step out from the trees, preferring to remain part of the forest itself.

“The path is slick today, Little Bird.” His use of the nickname was deliberate, intimate. His green eyes, nearly grey in the dim light, held yours from across the clearing.

“Being in the forest in the rain is very dangerous. It hides dangers until they're right upon you.” The statement was a warning, wrapped in the guise of concern. He finally took one slow, deliberate step forward, his tall frame emerging from the pines. Water dripped from the dark strands of his hair.

“Come,” he said, his voice a gravelly command that brooked no argument. “I’ll see you home. The woods are not what they seem once the rain begins to fall.”