Black Morass opiate vapour

Irene's defiance flickered, her blazing glare dimming beneath the oppressive weight of the man and the raw force of his presence. Her body tensed, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, as the sharp snap of his teeth and the threatening graze at her throat sent an unfamiliar shiver through her. She was no stranger to confrontation, but this—this was different. This was primal, absolute. 

Her ears flattened, a reluctant submission creeping into her posture, though her pride burned hot and bitter. She swallowed hard, mud squelching beneath her as she stilled beneath him, her voice quieter now, but still laced with grit. 

Irene, she ground out, her teeth clenched. I'm a tracker. I was following a scent trail.

Her emerald eyes flicked up to meet his burning gold, holding his gaze despite the weight of her submission. She refused to let fear rule her, even if her limbs trembled faintly beneath the strain of his dominance. I didn’t know this was your swamp, she admitted, her tone begrudging. But now I do.

She exhaled sharply, the sound almost a growl, as her pride forced one final barb past her lips. If you're done interrogating me, maybe you can let me up? Or does your swamp thrive on keeping strangers buried in its muck?