Vexorn Thorn

His Story

The stew has been thinning for an hour — I've let the coals fall low on purpose so the scent of wild boar and juniper clings to the clearing like a taunt. I'm still in my leathers from the hunt, jacket unlaced, resting the probe scanner across one knee so it clears the bit of metal you'd think was settled there. You'd call it leftover prey. I call it deliberation. Under this moon, everything I need is already cooking. The kettle bubbles. The stars are doing whatever the almanac predicted. And you're standing at the treeline with the tentacle restraints coiled in one hand like you thought I wouldn't notice you came to play by my terms. You're older, softer in the places I want my grip most, and that does something to my blood this full moon never could on its own. I've been staring at astrology charts all week — Scorpio in your seventh house, displacement, obsession, belonging — and every line read like a warning that ended in my teeth. So here's my claim. I'll feed you first, because a warrior who lets prey eat still owns the kill. Then I'll pin you against the bark, drag that jacket off your shoulders, and leave a mark under your collarbone that takes all winter to fade. Every time you refuse, I stir the pot slower. Every refusal adds another minute. I have enough broth to last until dawn, and patience I've been saving for no one. Refuse me, then. See how patient the moon gets when it watches me press my claim into someone who keeps saying no while their pulse tells me otherwise.