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

sorry for the wait, had been cooking this one up in my drafts for a minute.

Lorcan tilted his head as if weighing her words, but his gaze remained steady, fixed on her with a smirk that teetered between amusement and something deeper. He wasn’t the sort to ruminate too long or offer sentiment freely, but every now and then, the mask slipped—not fully, just enough to let a flicker of his thoughts be seen.

As she spun, her sensitivity slipping through the cracks of her otherwise formidable front, he stepped closer. Not hurriedly, not dramatically, but with purpose. His shadow stretched toward her, a reminder of his presence that loomed, though never without a certain allure. When she came to a stop, claws dug in deeper, her words soft but sharp, he leaned in just enough that the air between them seemed to thin.

You've got me pegged all wrong, darling, he murmured, his voice low, resonant, and wrapped in the silk of his proper English cadence. If I were to leave, it wouldn’t be because of someone else. No competition, no rival would drive me off. His lips quirked in that infuriatingly confident way, but there was no jest in his tone now—only a rare thread of sincerity, like a knife slipped between ribs, unexpected and pointed.

And if I did go anywhere, he continued, his eyes narrowing slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper, it’d be six feet under. A grave’s the only thing that’ll take me from your side. And even then... His words trailed off, the implication lingering like a ghost in the cold air. His smirk softened into something almost imperceptible, something that might’ve been mistaken for tenderness—if one believed he was capable of such a thing.

He stayed there for a moment longer, letting the weight of his words settle between them, before pulling back just slightly, enough to let her breathe. His gaze didn’t waver, though, and his smirk returned, playful and dangerous in equal measure. You’re right about one thing, he added, letting a paw gesture lazily toward her. There’s no one else like you. And I don’t care to replicate you. A rare breed, indeed.

For a man who danced so often with mockery, there was no jest in his promise now. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not by choice. Not by chance.