Porcupine Ridge I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

Lorcan halted, head lifting slightly as that faint, feminine scent wafted on the chill. It twisted through the damp air, tantalizing as it tangled with the bite of pine and frost. A slow, knowing smirk crept across his lips, curling with something keen and unmistakably satisfied. He let his voice spill into the shadows, velvety yet edged with amusement, I know you’re there.

He could feel her presence lingering on the periphery, something wild and bitter, like she’d gnash her teeth if it got her what she wanted. He didn’t turn to look but let the silence draw out, savoring the way it left room for her own imagination to stir, teasing her with the question of whether he knew her game. The weight of her jealousy hung in the air—thick and sour, pressing like an undertone to the frost.

Careful where you tread, love, he murmured, his tone sharp and indulgent as he spoke into the mist, you following me, are you?