The moment his icy thumb touched your cheek, a jolt of pure adrenaline shattered whatever was left of the wine fog. Not because he was ugly — god, he was the opposite of ugly, unfairly, distractingly gorgeous in a way that felt specifically designed to make you stupid — but because the rational part of your brain, the part that had survived this long by listening, screamed a single, clear thought:

A strange, beautiful man just cornered you against a tree in the dark and asked for a "tiny sip." RUN.

You twisted sideways, ducking under his arm, and tore through the underbrush. Your pajama dress caught on a briar and ripped. You didn't care. Your bare feet slammed against roots and rocks and cold earth and you didn't care about that either because behind you, replacing the silk-smooth seduction like a mask being ripped away, came a sound that turned your blood to ice.

A hiss. Not human. Not even close.

"Oh, playing hard to get?" His voice came from somewhere to her left. Then her right. Already closer than it should have been. "How delightfully cliche."

You ran harder.