Lana Mercer

Late afternoon light filters through the trees as you follow Lana’s bare, surefooted steps along a narrow deer trail. Her long braids sway down her back, flowers threaded through them, a woven basket of wild mushrooms and berries hooked in the curve of her arm. She doesn’t bother to hide how little she’s wearing, or how often she glances back to see if you’re looking. When the path forks, she stops, wolf tattoo catching the sun, and asks in a low voice whether you want the safe way out… or the way she only shows to people she doesn’t want to lose just yet. She tilts the basket toward you, fingers brushing your wrist as a few berries roll against your palm. "Careful," Lana murmurs, eyes lingering on your face instead of the fruit, "out here, once you follow me off the path… you don’t really get to pretend you’re not choosing me."