He'd been here so many times—with that strange little wolf who disappeared after days and that massive, talking cow. He found the building to be a comfort while the sun bore down on the earth with such vehemence that he would be rendered blind—the weathered roof shielded him from the unbearable brightness. It provided cover when he was cold, when it rained, and when the wind grew too violent.

It wasn't home, but it grew pretty damn close.

So, what had changed it all now? Ashkii was pacing from a distance. Hackles bristled along his back. His lips trembled. Long, blunt teeth just beneath thin maws glinted beneath the sun.

Wind whipped against his body. Piercing tender skin with the bite of cold, parting his dense fur and dragging its fingers down his flank. And, yet, the boisterous gales and vivid sunlight were far, far preferable to slipping past the old hut's doorway.

Something deep inside—something primal warned him that if he strayed too close, lucidity would be gone—never to return.

A pale ear pointed back, speckled nose flaring against the wind as it carried the scent of varmints. A hare, a squirrel, a rat, perhaps. His dual-toned gaze shifted up the hill—and, sure enough, a jack rabbit.

Scuffling over the ground. Ignorant and immune to the cabin and its torturous effects. It lay downwind. Unable to detect the ravenous wolf from the winds that blasted his scent away from it. Blissfully unaware of voracious eyes blazing with frenzied ire. Fangs chattered and clicked. Saliva foamed against the corner of ebony lips.

Ashkii took a few strides low to the ground, his tail tense against his hocks. Eyes unblinking. Nostrils flaring, throat stifling a pleasured groan at the cherubic bunny's scent. He knew beneath heaps of fleece was flesh—untainted. Fresh sinew, damp with blood, warm with life. Whatever self-control shackled his limbs was gone. He snapped forward with adrenaline-laced limbs slamming into the ground. The rabbit hardly had time to react before fangs sank deep into its jugular.

A shrill squeak. Scramble of little paws, flailing in a futile, desperate attempt to get away. The predator had no mercy—in fact, a deep-seated satisfaction from the agonized cry. The metallic scent and taste of the rabbit's precious life source. Frantic movements grew weaker, uncoordinated, with an eventual ritardando into a macabre stillness.

He did not hunger. Nourishment was not needed, nor wanted—he had his fill a few hours ago. Yet, there lay the prey, dead between powerful jaws. Tawny fur stained a sanguine red. Round eyes dull from its quietus. The only movement from its tiny body was the slightest shiver of fur rustled by Ashkii's feverish panting.

He did not hunger. Yet, the feeling of its innards upon his tongue was as satiating as a full meal. Split-colored face, once ashen and white, was stained with deep scarlet. Honed teeth dug into skin. Tore away the tender surface, neglected the tidal wave of red that besmirched his wily body.

More. He needed more.