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each other up: its quick, shallow fear against the deep, quiet hunger that’s been building in me for years.

It shifts forward, cautious, its tiny nose twitching, its body a fragile bundle of nerves and instinct. The moment stretches, taut and delicate, and then—when it turns to retreat—I lunge.

My hand squeezes around its body, its warmth shocking against my palm. The rat squeals, high-pitched and piercing, its claws scraping desperately against my skin. Its tail whips, a frantic blur, but I hold firm, pressing it to my chest like a secret I can’t let go of. Without thinking, without hesitation, I lower my head to its belly.

The first bite tears through the fur cleanly, the skin splitting with surprising ease, the warmth flooding my mouth before I even register the taste. Blood, hot and metallic, coats my tongue, drips down my chin, pools on the grass beneath me in dark, uneven streaks. The rat writhes, its body a desperate, thrashing pulse in my hands, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

Each bite is a jolt, a shock of something primal and consuming, raw and undeniable. My teeth sink deeper, through sinew and bone, the slick heat of its organs spilling onto my tongue. The blood smells like iron, like earth, like survival. The fur catches in my throat, coarse and bristling, but I swallow it down, the texture foreign, the taste strangely addictive.

It is horrifying. It is delicious.

The realization comes sudden and sharp, sliding under my skin like a knife. After seven years of crawling, barking, begging, something in me has tipped, shifted into a shape I don’t fully recognize. I’ve worn the collar, the leash, the obedience like a costume stitched into my body, but this isn’t a game anymore. The fur spreading across me is proof. The way my jaw aches withwant as I tear through the rat’s flesh, the way my breath heaves low and guttural in my chest—it’s all proof.

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This isn’t pretending.

This is instinct. Raw, relentless, and real.

The rat lies still in my hands, its final twitch a faint ripple under my fingers, a fragile echo of the life I just extinguished. Its tail hangs limp, a pale, sickle-thin curve that catches the sunlight. Its blank eyes don’t see me, don’t accuse me. The grass beneath me is damp, sticky with the blood I spilled, with the saliva that clings to my chin, dripping in thick strands onto the ground.

The smell of it—metallic, pungent—saturates the air, so heavy I can taste it even when I’m not chewing. My stomach churns, twisting in slow circles, but I don’t stop. I swallow. Again and again, the warmth coursing down my throat, spreading through my chest, pooling in my belly like something molten, something alive.

It grounds me. Anchors me.

I don’t wipe my mouth. I don’t look away from the rat, its limp form cradled in my hands like something sacred. This is survival, I tell myself. This is an adaptation.

I think of the fetus and the thought crystallizes sharp and bitter. Rats carry diseases. Filth. Poison. I chew harder, my tongue exploring the insides of its belly, seeking out the tender insides, the slippery pieces.

Please let this end it.

Let this end the thing growing inside me before Nathan ends me first.

And then I hear him. The sound of footsteps, crushing the gravel behind me. I freeze, my breath hitching, the rat’s limpbody still clutched in my hands. The taste of blood is thick on my tongue, pooling warm and sticky in the corners of my mouth as I turn, slowly, to face him.

Nathan stands there, bourbon glass tilted in his hand, his face frozen in something between confusion and horror. His eyes flicker over me—over the blood streaked across my cheeks, the

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rat’s gutted body, the red stains on the grass. His jaw tightens, and for the first time, I see it.

Fear.

It glints in his eyes, sharp and unfiltered, cutting through the thin veneer of control he wears like armor.

I smile.

It stretches across my face in a way that feels like both defiance and surrender.

The rat slips from my hands, its body falling with a soft, wet thud, and I don’t look away. The taste of blood lingers, rich and metallic, and I feel it—something feral, something ancient, something powerful unfurling in the pit of my stomach.

Nathan doesn’t move. He just stares, fists clenched, the bourbon glass trembling slightly in his grip.

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