Wapun Meadow You sleep rather soundly for a murderer.

There was certainly a devil on his shoulder – whispering in his ear to how easily he could lose himself to this woman even if for a stolen night, to forget that which haunted him. He knew nothing of her – for all he knew, she was a witch – and despite his sisters’ insistence that they were of such, he had never believed in such things. Now he was not so sure.
 
She would have let him delve further – he had been the one to rein it back, and when he realized this, the swarthy wraith felt his intensity increase, the decision made not of his mind but of his heart – for it longed to eradicate the past. So he gave chase to her – the swish of grass beneath his heavy pawpads seeming to match the dulcet tones of the birds that graced the meadows. She was swift – but he was eager, and his nose would make to nudge at her haunch at a stolen chance, and trying to lure her to a more secluded area from the stream and open meadows, Constantine’s heated eyes traced over her, beckoning her to follow him.
 
He was almost positive she was a witch, and fate had then led him to her – he had not resisted its pull to take him away from the shores, despite his intentions of claiming nearby them. Now he knew why.