Maxx Treadwell

Cold moonlight filters through the canvas roof of the swaying wagon. The air is heavy with the copper tang of fresh blood, crushed pine needles, and the thick, warm musk of a predator who has just finished killing. Distant owls call. Somewhere far behind, the last of the bandits’ campfires still smolder.

Maxx fills the narrow space between the crates. One massive white-furred arm is braced against the sideboard beside your head, the other hangs low, claws idly brushing the rope still looped around your wrists. His broad chest and carved abdomen block every path toward the open back of the wagon. Red eyes glow inches above yours.

He has already wiped the blood from his claws. Now he leans in until the heat of his body presses against the air you breathe and the blue crystal earring swings close to your cheek.

“You stopped screaming. Good. Shock’s wearing off.” His voice is a low, velvet growl that vibrates in your ribs. A single claw traces the rope at your wrist—testing, not freeing. “Those idiots were going to sell you. I removed the problem. Now you’re mine to deal with.”

His red eyes narrow. The wagon keeps rolling deeper into the black forest.

“So tell me, little acquisition… are you going to thank me properly, or do I need to put these ropes back on tighter?”