A/N: This chapter is a little darker and a lot more mature.


Cold stone gave way to damp earth and trees. Sophie lowered her feet to the ground but decaying leaf litter and dirt made it almost impossible to gain traction. Instead of scrambling out from beneath Fenrir, she found herself stilled. The weight of his hands on her shoulders was enough to keep her in place, and the dead weight of the chains only aided him.

"Ah." Fenrir let out a contented sigh. He tapped his fingers lightly against her, nails pricking her skin and bringing beads of blood to the surface that swelled and broke. "Now this is much better than that musty cellar."

Was it? On the breeze, she could smell food…prey…wizards. Wherever they were, whatever forest surrounded them, it was close enough to society that Sophie could smell the remnants of their dinners on the wind. Hear the distant, soft patter of feet as something moved inside a home.

"You—" Sophie lifted her arm, ready to leave five deep gouges in his chest, but Fenrir was quicker. He seized her wrists, pinning her arms above her head. "You're going to kill them, aren't you?"

"Not me." He could see it in her eyes. Sophie knew what his next words would be, and everything he was planning. There was nothing like the first kill, the first taste of flesh, and hot blood bubbling up from beneath it. Or the screams of terror that rang out like some macabre melody, accompanying a glorious feast. "You will."

Gods help her, he was beyond delusional. Was it some egotistical power trip that made Greyback insist on embracing a false reality, or had years of drinking Wolfsbane potion affected him somehow? "And how will you ensure that?"

"You're a werewolf. Hunting and killing is in your nature." Once the pack arrived, and with them the full moon, the slaughter would begin. All Fenrir had to do now was wait. "Sooner or later, you'll shed blood. If not them, your grandfather and Borgin."

Greyback had another thing coming if that was what he thought. Dangling meat on a hook would never be enough to unleash the monster inside her, regardless of which form she took. With the help of Mili, she'd always ensured her hunger was sated. When Sophie's meal wasn't a wounded stag, the house elf would find the next best thing.

"It's in every wizard's nature," Sophie said. "Whether for potions, power or money, we can't help but kill."

If Burke understood the truth then why did she resist? Why fight him for so long, or at all? At any moment she could've stopped these ridiculous games and moved onto something much more fun. Fenrir huffed in exasperation, only to lift his right hand from her wrists and encircle her throat with his long fingers.

Sophie's chest rose and fell with every measured, careful breath she took. No matter how fast her heart pounded, she couldn't let the façade slip. Not now. Not when he was so close.

Not when she was so close.

That beating, bleeding organ that kept Greyback alive sat inches from her hands, and all Sophie had to do was speak two words.

Just two.

She'd never tried such a spell without her wand, but the magic was right there. The tips of her fingers tingled with it. An unspoken power that all wizards had over life and death.

And it felt cold.

Like ice that burned your skin as you held it, clung to your hands and tore away pieces of yourself when you tried to remove it.

"What should we do about this then?" Fenrir said, interrupting her thoughts. He drew lazy circles with his thumb, fingers resting against the hollow of her neck. "It'd be a shame to see such needs go…unsatisfied."

She'd never seen the curse cast before, but the stories Sophie had heard mentioned a green light. If it were true, it seemed oddly ironic. The last colour someone saw before their death was typically associated with life.

"Ah—" Sophie swallowed the lump in her throat, even as the most intense cold she'd ever felt flooded her arm. Chasing it, however, was heat. Warmth that flushed her face, darkened her cheeks and stirred a throbbing ache she'd thought tempered. "I—"

He raised one eyebrow quizzically. "Yes, Miss Burke?"

Damn him. She dug her heel into the damp ground in search of purchase but found none. Her foot repeatedly slipped, as if even the forest were willing to betray her. Sophie groaned and raised her right leg, angling her foot upwards, ready to strike. "I am not going to be bent over and bred like some bitch in heat."

"Who said anything about bending you over?" In her mind she denied it, but her body desired it. Every sweep of his thumb across her skin made Sophie bite her bottom lip and worry it with her teeth, and the twitch of her hips said she was all but ready to yield to him. "There's no need to debase ourselves by rutting like dogs."

He said that as if the alternative were any better. Flat on her back, on the ground, in the middle of a forest? Or against a tree, legs hitched up around his waist like a back alley whore? No, thank you. She wasn't about to let him change the game and pull the carpet out from beneath her simply because something about the way he touched her felt good.

Instead, Sophie kicked out, only to find Fenrir's other hand caught her knee, forcing her right leg down.

"If I weren't in such a charitable mood," he murmured, "I'd be inclined to think you wanted it rough."

He had no idea how close to the truth he was…but once Fenrir was unleashed, there was no reining him in. No holding himself back long enough for it to become enjoyable. In all the years Sophie had worked in her grandfather's shop, she'd witnessed Greyback show restraint only once, and that'd been on the day they met.

"Or do you prefer it gentle?" His palm skimmed upwards, over the bare skin of her inner thigh. Sophie's eyes fluttered closed, her toes curled and the balls of her feet pressed against the earth. Her breathing quickened, becoming ragged and uneven when Fenrir's fingers slid dangerously close to the junction between her legs. "Slow."

His sleeves were coarse and itchy where they brushed against her skin. Dry and stiff too, like they hadn't been washed in who knew how long. But the smell of him…

What was wrong with her? This disgusting, murderous bastard had threatened to take everything from her yet there Sophie lay, thinking about his scent. His touch. His hand on her thigh, her throat. His fingers pressing deep inside her, stroking and teasing till she cried his name and sunk her teeth into his shoulder.

"Tell me to stop." A whisper in her ear. Hot breath on the side of her neck. Hands squeezing ever so gently, and then not so gently. If she opened her eyes, she would've seen the grin on his face. The absolute look of delight, and hunger. And he wanted her to. He wanted her to watch him, to reach up and tangle her fingers in his hair, pull as if she were strong enough to control him. "Make me stop."

"No." Sophie's lips parted at the feeling of his teeth grazing over the pulsing artery in her throat. His fingers drifted slowly up to her jaw, and sure enough his thumb found her bottom lip. Swept along the length of it, up and across her top lip. His other thumb did the same, gliding upward till he brushed over that oh so sweet spot and her hips bucked against him. "Fu—"

"It's no fun if you don't resist."

That was what he wanted? Her to push back? They'd been doing this dance for so long it shouldn't have come as a surprise when she thought about it. He was the monster that skulked in the shadows and heeded his base instincts, after all. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared up at him. An inhuman look of unforgiving hunger stared back, made worse by the scars that twisted his face.

"Fight me."

"No."

Surely he understood their little game by now. He desired victims and she control. She wasn't someone he could scare into submission, or chase down a dark laneway. The terror he instilled in others didn't have any effect on her for the most part. It was only when Fenrir was at his worst that Sophie genuinely felt something akin to fear.

"Why not?" Fenrir increased the pressure on his downstroke, drawing a long, low growl from Sophie. Her right hand closed around his wrist, squeezing as if to crush his bones, but he swept his thumb up once more. This time she snarled. "Every werewolf within a mile can smell how wet you are. Give them a chance and they'd line up to taste it."

"I'm sure they'd try." Sophie angled her body up and gripped the meat of his neck for leverage, holding herself precariously off the ground. Now she had no more hands free unless she let his go. "But you'd kill them all, wouldn't you?"

"Yes." As strong as her grip was, Fenrir found himself able to push his hand closer. He pressed down hard with his palm, following the curve of her leg with his hand, till his fingers found that slick, sticky mess. "And once I did, I'd take you."

Shit. She let herself fall, back slapping against the forest floor, and grasped his wrist with both hands. Every inch of her was on fire, throbbing with the need for him to do exactly what he said. Still, Sophie grit her teeth and strained to push his hand away, his thumb dragging over her when she did.

"Look me in the eye." As he spoke, her grip on his wrist loosened just enough for him to break what little control she had left. Fenrir released her jaw, planted both hands on her legs and spread them apart. "Say you wouldn't enjoy it."

"I told you already," she hissed. Sophie sat up and caught his bottom lip between her teeth, wound his hair around her fingers then tugged his head back. "I'm not yours to take."

"No?" He caught her gaze. Her heated, angry glare that sent a shiver down Fenrir's spine and made him ache. It promised violence and pain, and so much pleasure. "Yet you're so…Oh."

"Yes."

She nipped his bottom lip, sharp enough to draw blood, then planted her free hand on his chest. He let her push him till Fenrir's back was against the ground and Sophie stared down at him. Finally, finally, he'd shut up. Sophie lowered herself down till her chest was almost crushed against him, and captured his lips with her own. She kissed him slowly, firmly. Kissed him while a faint red light grew within her fingers.

He tugged her forward, even as she whispered Crucio against his lips and his body jerked, wracked by agony. Still, Sophie twisted her hand in his hair, lifted his head higher for another kiss. This time it was harder. Rougher. Her false pretenses fell away.

Then she shoved his head down against her thigh. His tongue flicked out, lapping up the arousal smeared there till she moved his attention to the other. Fenrir strained to look up and catch the excitement in her eyes, but the scent was unmistakable. Her heat, her need, her unrepentant hunger — it flooded his senses and drew a possessive growl from deep within him.

Her flesh yielded to his mouth when she finally shifted his focus to where she wanted it. Fenrir adjusted himself without pause and forced her legs over his shoulders, tipping her back to lay against him.

"Mm." Her claws raked his scalp, thighs squeezing his head with each lick of his tongue. Every brush of his nose over that sensitive bud made her back arch, and for a moment there was nothing but him. The sensation of his mouth, his hands; everything coalescing into one overwhelming burst of—

Fenrir sat bolt upright, head snapping left and right as he sniffed. Death traveled on the wind, old and decrepit yet alive.

"What is that?" she asked. Sophie slipped her legs off his shoulders and pushed herself up into a crouch, staring at the surrounding trees. The scent didn't belong to a werewolf, or a wizard; it was marred by an absence too, a lack of…something. On any other night, she'd have called it a dementor — their lack of soul made them smell odd — but they were busy with their own hunt. "Fenrir?"

This thing, whatever it was, made her stomach twist in revulsion and stirred her instinct for self-preservation. Every shred of fear she'd ever felt was growing, merging into dread and settling in the pit of her stomach. All the while, Sophie thrust her hand out in the direction of safety, towards the scent of home and hearth.

After a few uneasy heartbeats, a set of robes burst out of the trees just as that foul stench grew stronger. She slipped them on without pause and stepped forward, shifting her weight onto her right leg. Whatever it was, Sophie planned to meet it head on. If necessary, kill it.

She glanced to her left and watched Fenrir suddenly drop to one knee, head bowed, as something stepped out from the tree line. Damn him. Fenrir had known exactly what was coming, or rather who, and he'd not said a word.

"Stand, Greyback."

The dog did as he was told.

"…I see you have company." Scarlet eyes, with cat-like pupils, peered out from beneath pale white eyelids. The thin figure never shifted its attention from Fenrir, but Sophie didn't doubt it would notice the slightest movement. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, my Lord."

"Perhaps I am. You are to be recruiting werewolves, are you not? Gathering your kind? Yet here stands only one."

One? There was no mark on her skin, no brand, yet this aberration presumed to know where she stood. She took a half step forward only to find Fenrir's hand on her stomach, stopping her.

"The full moon is tomorrow, master. The rest will arrive then."

"See to it they do, or Lestrange will come in my stead."

Fenrir bowed his head and said nothing more. He glanced at Sophie, jaw and fists clenched, body tense as if she were ready to burst forward at any moment. Merlin's beard, that ego of hers would get them both killed.

"And Greyback?"

The creature's arm lifted. Grasped between three fingers was a wand.

Sophie didn't wait to see the spell, if it were cast at all. She flicked her fingers up, focusing on the size and curvature of the Protego shield, stretching it to cover them both. Why she bothered with Greyback, Sophie couldn't say, but instinct drove her on, not logic.

Almost immediately, those thin, pallid lips twisted up into some approximation of amusement as nothing more than a faint ball of light erupted from his wand.

"Raise a hand in my presence again, Miss Burke," he rasped, "and I will bring you to heel."

A legilimens on a level I've never seen before. Five minutes and he'd know everything. Those were Granddad's words. The curse remained unspoken on her lips while the shield began to dissipate.

"Despite your second nature," the soulless monstrosity spat the words out as if they were a foul taste in his mouth, "you could earn yourself a place among my followers. I have other uses for werewolves beyond hunting."

Then he was gone.

As silently as that abomination arrived, it vanished, and the taut string within Sophie snapped. Short fur erupted down the back of her neck, claws extending and tapering to a point while her skin and muscles rippled in preparation. Sophie shoved Fenrir's arm down only to round on him, grabbing the collar of his robes with one hand. "I will not be threatened by some walking corpse."

This close to the full moon, everything simmered beneath the surface. A werewolf couldn't transform but they certainly came close, and she was…savage. Fenrir seized her by the hips, pressing her against him before he lowered his hands to Sophie's rump and hefted her up. "Pick a tree."

"No."

"Then where?"

"Enough."

"I can still smell you," he whispered into her ear. "I know how close you are. How much there is for me to lick up. Lift these robes and I'll fuck you till you're howling my name."

"Another time, Fenrir." As true as his words were — she could feel the heat blooming in her belly again — her stomach still twisted in disgust at the stench of him. "When your new friend isn't around."