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

Lorcan's hum was low, teasing, the sound of a cat playing with its prey. His sharp features curved into an exaggerated smirk, eyes narrowing with mischief. He tilted his head slightly, letting his gaze linger on her as if weighing her question.

Only you, he replied, the words smooth and mocking, though his tone carried a sliver of sincerity. He let the moment linger, his tail swaying lazily behind him as if he had all the time in the world.

Then, with a calculated flick of his ear, he shifted gears, his curiosity piqued. Your brother, he began, his voice softening just enough to show a trace of genuine interest. What’s he like? What’s your story there?

He leaned in slightly, his interest as predatory as his earlier teasing. Lorcan thrived on stories, secrets, the vulnerabilities others tried to hide. And if she wanted to dance this game of teasing and trust, he was more than happy to oblige.