The fire crackled softly in the small clearing, casting flickering shadows on the trees around them. Lyra sat stiffly on a makeshift bed of furs, her body tense as Marcus moved around the camp, his presence both infuriating and suffocating. She watched him carefully, her gaze sharp and untrusting. She knew what he wanted, and she had no intention of giving in to him.
Marcus had barely spoken to her since dragging her through the forest, but now, as the night deepened, his eyes lingered on her with a new intensity. He circled closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.
"Lyra," he said, his voice smooth and honeyed. "We could make this easier, you know. You don't have to fight me."
Lyra's jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as she glared at him. "I'll never stop fighting you, Marcus."
