“You’re compatible with me,” he said, his tone unwavering, his eyes scanning me with that same emotionless intensity.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I stammered, swallowing hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “I think—"

“What is there not to understand?” His voice carried a quiet seriousness, as if he was stating the obvious. “Your scent tells me everything...you will ovulate soon.” 

I was appalled. My stomach knotted, my hands trembling at the realization of what he was saying. And yet, at the same time, something else stirred within me—fascination. That dangerous curiosity that had always kept me tethered to this line of work, the very thing that had kept my sanity intact in the face of the unknown.

“You can detect... subtle hormonal changes through scent?” I asked, my voice shaky but edged with intrigue.

“Yes,” he confirmed, as calm as ever.

This should have been the moment I left, the moment I turned and never came back. But instead, my fear was overshadowed by something else—a burning desire to know more. A creature this attuned to human pheromones was beyond anything I had ever encountered. My rational side screamed at me to leave, to run, but it was drowned out by the insatiable need for understanding.

 Slowly, I pulled off my glove and, against all better judgment, reached for Pray. My bare hand hovered just above his skin. It felt wrong, every instinct in me screaming to stop, but I ignored it. The clinical part of my mind wanted to understand what he was—what he could be. And yet, deep down, I knew this was a mistake.

My fingertips made contact with his wrist, and the coldness of his skin sent a jolt up my arm. It wasn’t just cool like a breeze—it was unnaturally cold, like touching a block of ice. I expected him to recoil or tense up, but he didn’t. Instead, he remained completely still, his eyes never leaving mine, watching. Waiting.

The skin beneath my fingers felt strange. Too smooth, almost slick, but with a subtle shift beneath the surface—like something writhing, moving. I jerked my hand back slightly but not before I felt it—a faint pulse, slow and measured, as if his heart beat to a different rhythm than any human’s.

Pray’s eyes followed the movement of my hand. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. He just stared, red eyes flicking between my face and the hand I had dared to place on him.

I should have pulled away completely. His arm twisted beneath mine, a soft rustling noise like fabric brushing against itself. No, not fabric. His skin—shifting. I couldn’t stand it and pulled back. He moved so quickly I didn't react. His hand shot forward, catching my wrist in an iron grip. I gasped, my heart thundering in my chest as his long blacked fingers wrapped around my skin, firm but not painful. He pulled my hand closer, and his head tilted to the side, his gaze dark with curiosity.

“What…are you…?” The words came out in a shaky whisper before I could stop them.

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Instead, his grip loosened ever so slightly, his dark fingers tracing the inside of my wrist, almost…gently. Like he was testing something, feeling for something underneath my skin. His eyes dropped to my pulse point, and I swallowed hard, suddenly hyper-aware of the rapid thumping of my heart against his touch.

“You’re soft,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. “So fragile.”

The way he said it made my stomach twist. There was no emotion in his tone—no warmth, no cruelty—just cold observation, like he was noting a simple fact. My breath trembled with a barely audible gasp. He slowly pulled my hand toward his chest, pressing my palm against the fabric of his shirt. I could feel the slow, methodical rise and fall of his breath beneath my touch, but it wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before. Too slow. Too steady.

My pulse quickened, but I sat still, forcing myself to breathe, to think rationally. He’s just observing. That’s all. His eyes seemed to search for something, his nostrils flaring slightly as though testing the air around me. Then, without warning, his fingers brushed my shoulder—light, almost tentative, as if he were…exploring. A cold shudder rippled through me. I fought the urge to jerk away, my mind racing. What is he doing?

His hand lingered there, fingers curling slightly as they grazed my skin, then moved—tracing a line down my arm, slow, deliberate. I was suffocating. His fingers brushed against the curve of my waist, and I stiffened. His movements were gentle, but sinister. Like an animal studying a meal. My mind spun, trying to rationalize his actions, but deep down, the realization clawed at me: he wasn’t just observing. He was figuring me out.

I barely had time to process before something else happened. A strange sensation crawled along my arm—something cold, slick, and alien. I widened my eyes, looking down in horror as a thin, black tendril coiled around my wrist.

A choked gasp escaped me. I tried to pull away again, but the tendril tightened, slithering up my forearm like a serpent. It wasn’t just his hand holding me anymore—his body had started to change. The tendrils were part of him. I could feel them moving, cold and sinuous, like living extensions of his will.

"Oh my God," I breathed, panic rising as I watched more tendrils emerge from his arms, writhing and twisting in the dim light. They curled and snaked around my waist, binding me to him with a terrifying strength. My pulse hammered in my ears as I struggled, my mind screaming for escape, but there was nowhere to go.

"Mate with me," Pray said again, but this time his voice was softer, more insistent. It wasn’t a request—it was a demand.

The tendrils coiled tighter, one slipping coldly around my neck, another snaking down my leg. He pulled me up effortlessly, pinning me against him in a way that felt both smothering and petrifying. My breath came in shallow gasps, my skin prickling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. This wasn’t just an embrace—it was a violation.

"No!" I managed to gasp, pushing against him with all my strength, but he didn’t budge. Rock solid, immovable, as though he were anchored to the floor. The tendrils flexed, holding me in place, their cold, slick touch sliding across my skin.

I could feel him breathing against my neck, and hear the low, animalistic growl in his throat. The tendrils continued to coil, winding tighter with every passing second.

My mind raced for a solution, anything to break free. The cameras—I looked up, desperate, hoping that someone, anyone, was watching. They had to be. Someone had to be seeing this. But no one came. No alarms blared. Nothing happened.

It was just me and Pray.

His lips caressed my ear, and I felt his breath—a low, rasping hush.

"You’re mine."