Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
I nod, a faint smile tugging at my mouth at his reminder to keep my arrow ready. Somehow the way his gaze lingers a touch too long on me before moving on does more than the words—it’s quiet confirmation that I’m doing something right. No correction, no second glance to see if I’m fumbling. It makes me stand taller. My cheeks color.
I follow him in steady silence, my eyes scanning every ridge and shadow we pass. The afternoon light is thinning, shadows stretching longer, the first hints of twilight creeping into the hollows. If we don’t find it soon, we’ll have to turn back—deep cold and darkness are a predator’s allies, not ours, and cats like this can see in the dark like it’s midday.
When he speaks again, I keep my eyes on the rocks above, not wanting to lose my focus. That’s when I hear it—the sharp, choking drag of breath in his throat. My arrowpoint dips as I step toward him. “Damien—?” Concern flickers in my chest, but then I catch the glittering puff drifting past. I know that shimmer. A breath snatch. By the time it flits away harmlessly, he’s breathing again. I smirk, biting down the comment that nearly escapes—about the great hunter being caught by a cloud of glitter. Instead, I just give him an amused look.
The amusement dies the second his eyes shift past me. I don’t even turn before he’s stepping between me and something moving fast. My breath catches—and then he’s gone from in front of me, slammed sideways under a blur of muscle and fur. The crossbow skitters out of reach, and my ears are full of the snarl of a snow leopard, low and cold as the wind itself.
I don’t think, just move. My pulse is roaring in my head as I draw and loose in one motion, the arrow striking deep into the cat’s flank. It barely reacts. My stomach drops.
Fuck. Is it sick? An arrow like that should’ve sent any healthy-minded beast running.
I spot Damien’s crossbow in the snow—closer than I’d hoped. Stronger than my bow. My best chance. I let my own drop and sprint for it, snow kicking up at my boots. The bolt’s still seated. I lunge forward, almost on top of the leopard’s back as I fire point blank for its head. It twists toward me, and the shot slams into its shoulder instead, and that’s all it takes for its attention to turn on me.
It hits me like a wave, claws raking across my ribs. I gasp, pain flaring white-hot—it makes the antler to my arm from the luxere feel like nothing. I don’t even have time for the “shit” on my tongue before the cat’s on me.
I follow him in steady silence, my eyes scanning every ridge and shadow we pass. The afternoon light is thinning, shadows stretching longer, the first hints of twilight creeping into the hollows. If we don’t find it soon, we’ll have to turn back—deep cold and darkness are a predator’s allies, not ours, and cats like this can see in the dark like it’s midday.
When he speaks again, I keep my eyes on the rocks above, not wanting to lose my focus. That’s when I hear it—the sharp, choking drag of breath in his throat. My arrowpoint dips as I step toward him. “Damien—?” Concern flickers in my chest, but then I catch the glittering puff drifting past. I know that shimmer. A breath snatch. By the time it flits away harmlessly, he’s breathing again. I smirk, biting down the comment that nearly escapes—about the great hunter being caught by a cloud of glitter. Instead, I just give him an amused look.
The amusement dies the second his eyes shift past me. I don’t even turn before he’s stepping between me and something moving fast. My breath catches—and then he’s gone from in front of me, slammed sideways under a blur of muscle and fur. The crossbow skitters out of reach, and my ears are full of the snarl of a snow leopard, low and cold as the wind itself.
I don’t think, just move. My pulse is roaring in my head as I draw and loose in one motion, the arrow striking deep into the cat’s flank. It barely reacts. My stomach drops.
Fuck. Is it sick? An arrow like that should’ve sent any healthy-minded beast running.
I spot Damien’s crossbow in the snow—closer than I’d hoped. Stronger than my bow. My best chance. I let my own drop and sprint for it, snow kicking up at my boots. The bolt’s still seated. I lunge forward, almost on top of the leopard’s back as I fire point blank for its head. It twists toward me, and the shot slams into its shoulder instead, and that’s all it takes for its attention to turn on me.
It hits me like a wave, claws raking across my ribs. I gasp, pain flaring white-hot—it makes the antler to my arm from the luxere feel like nothing. I don’t even have time for the “shit” on my tongue before the cat’s on me.
