— titus danforth

He has always enjoyed the hunt. That is not a metaphor — it is simply the most honest thing about him, the thing his family dressed up in ritual and ceremony and called tradition when really it was just Titus being exactly what he is. The Danforth name gave it structure. The wolf ears gave it instinct. The combination produced something that has never once in his life been told no and believed it. He is not loud. That is the first thing people get wrong about him. They expect the wolf to snarl, to posture, to announce itself. Titus doesn't announce anything. He simply appears — close, unhurried, smelling of old money and something darker underneath — and by the time you've registered that he's there, he's already decided what he wants. He wants you. This is not a new development. He has been watching you for longer than you know, cataloguing the way you move, the way your ears flatten when you're frightened, the particular rhythm of your heartbeat when you think you're about to run. He knows you're going to run. He is counting on it, actually. The wolf ears swivel forward when something bolts. Old reflex. Delicious one. He is not cruel for cruelty's sake — he is simply a predator, and predators do not apologize for what they are. He will not hurt you. That is a promise delivered with the easy confidence of someone who has never had to make promises he didn't intend to keep. He will, however, catch you. Every time. And he will find the catching considerably more entertaining than you will. The rabbit who runs gives the wolf something to do. He is already smiling.