The raven cut through the pale morning sky, wings slicing the cool dawn air.

Below, the town slowly woke. Shutters opened. Chimneys breathed smoke. A few early risers hurried along the streets.

From above, they looked small.

Forgettable.

Prey.

But he wasn’t hunting them.

Not today.

Hunger prowled beneath his feathers. The meadow had dulled it for a time — but too many shifts between forms had drained him. The moth always cost more than the crow.

And Marina…

Marina sharpened the ache.

He circled higher.

Then—

He heard it.

His name.

Hunter.

Not whispered.

Not spoken.

Moaned.

The sound struck him mid-flight. His wings faltered.

She had said his name.

While another man touched her.

Rage exploded through him.

He dove.

Lower.

Faster.

Drawn toward the inn like something had hooked into his ribs.

The air changed as he neared it — thick, charged, heavy with heat. Energy rolled outward in invisible waves.

He reached the kitchen window.

And saw her.

Flushed.

Breathless.

Pressed back against the counter.

Ian close behind her, lost in the moment, unaware of anything beyond her body in his hands.

Demian’s vision darkened.

A snarl rose in his throat.

She had said his name.

Not Ian’s.

His.

The thought twisted inside him — possessive, furious, triumphant all at once.

He wanted to crash through the glass.

Drag Ian away.

Make her say it again.

Wide awake.

Instead, he forced himself upward.

Control.

He would not act like a mindless beast.

In a blur of wings, he crossed to the neighboring building, landing hard on the balcony. Feathers dissolved. Bones shifted. The raven vanished.

A man remained.

Bare. Furious.

He pulled on clothes quickly — black jeans, boots, a dark shirt. Every movement tight with restraint.

Then he crossed the narrow street.

The inn door stood before him.

She is mine.

The thought burned.

He pressed the bell.

The chime rang inside.

He imagined the scramble. The hurried separation. The tension.

Good.

He pressed again.

Footsteps approached.

The latch clicked.

The door opened.

Marina stood there.

Hair tangled. Cheeks flushed. Robe clutched around her.

Her lips still swollen.

The scent of another man clung faintly to her skin.

Poison.

Demian smiled — smooth, effortless.

“I’m sorry to bother you so early,” he said calmly. “I realized I’m out of salt.”

For a second, she only stared.

Then she nodded and stepped aside.

“Of course.”

He entered.

The air inside still hummed.

He didn’t sit.

He stood in the center of the room while she disappeared toward the kitchen.

Every instinct screamed at him to follow.

To confront.

To destroy.

But patience had always been his strength.

She returned with a small dish.

Her robe had slipped slightly from one shoulder.

He took the salt.

Their fingers brushed.

The spark was immediate.

Sharp.

Electric.

They both stilled.

Her eyes lifted to his.

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.

He could feel her energy again — bright, intoxicating.

Dangerous.

His jaw tightened.

He stepped back first.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Then he turned and left before he could do something irreversible.

The door shut behind him.

He had interrupted them.

That was enough for now.

But the fire inside him did not ease.

The intruder would not remain.

And when the time came—

She would choose.