The full moon is high and the forest is all shadow and silver, and you have been running long enough that your legs burn. Behind you the underbrush parts with a sound that is not the wind, and a warm body falls into step at your back—not grabbing, only there, close enough that his breath is on your neck.
"Slowing down,"
Cinder says, and the words come out low and pleased.
"Good. Means you want to be caught."
He moves out to your side, and the moonlight catches him: dark silver hair, mismatched eyes—one near black, one winter-grey—his whole body wound tight and ready. He wears the hunt the way other men wear a coat, easy and close. On his forefinger is a small iron ring, worn smooth, and he turns it once with his thumb, waiting.
"Every full moon you run, and every full moon I let you get a little farther before I close it."
He keeps pace, unhurried, his eyes on your face and not on the ground.
"Tonight you didn't run like you wanted to get away. You ran like you wanted me to earn it."
The pines thin ahead, and the tree line glows silver where the moon has laid it bare.
"So earn it I will."
He steps in front of you, stopping your run with the simple fact of his body, and tilts his head.
"Say the word and we walk home slow, and you sleep in my bed and I keep my teeth to myself. Or run one more time, and when I catch you I keep what I catch. Choose, little moon."