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The Night Market of Dathomir Collection

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Feral: Takes you to the abandoned mall on the outskirts of town. Pulls off the wood slats, tosses his letter jacket over the breaks in the glass doors to ease you through to where it’s dark and the overgrowth from the forest nearby has crept inside: nature reclaiming what was stolen. Holes in the roof. Moonlight falls in beams. He holds your hand, creeping between shards of silver to the fountain where coins remain forgotten against the water stains. His kiss is warm, and wet, snuffling up your neck — fangs press from his lower jaw into your lip. Don’t think about the musk heat of him. Don’t think of how the backs of his hands fur with the change when he steps back through a moonbeam. Hold on tight when he howls. You’re not afraid.

Savage: Leads you off the path with the sound of a snapping twig. You do up your belt, head muzzy with drink. A bonfire in the distance and the tinny sound of your friends, forgotten. The shine of eyes refracting the light of your cellphone should give you pause, but in the next moment: there are only boulders and moss and upended trees, the slash of branches across your palms, and the burning in your lungs as the wet heat of his breath brushes your neck as he hunts you down. Your feet leave the ground. You struggle for balance. Strong arms. Barrel chest. Breathless. Claws rake your hips, shred your jeans — it only hurts if he doesn’t fold you around his waist. It only hurts if he doesn’t worry at your skin in warning, throat bared, shivering as he growls, “You smell perfect,” before he licks up your neck and fills your mouth. You’re not afraid.

Maul: Wears bespoke well. Tailored lines. Rich black. Red tie. Marks you from the boardroom as his own before anyone else can lay claim. You wait too long, puddling beneath that heavy stare as he goes too still, too quiet, too considering as his lips curl when he inhales. You make it to the elevator, ready for him to give chase, but disappointment hits hard as the doors begin to shut. Swallow your nerves. A hand halts progress. You never make it to your floor. He never touches you himself, preferring to watch you with low, commanding instruction as you describe in detail what he scented so keenly. His mouth at your ear. Your hand up your skirt. No sense. No self. No one but him, keeping you upright against the wall. You come twice before he straightens his tie. The elevator dings, and the wolf slips away. Your legs shake. You’re not afraid.