Wild Things (Arthur Morgan x Female Reader)

A Strange Encounter

"The last one who tried to kill me is dead," you growl, your voice more feral than feminine.

The intruder pants but says nothing. You are sure you have the upper hand.

But suddenly, as though you were lighter than air, he grabs your wrist as he rises. He about throws you over his shoulder and you tumble. Well, this was rather unexpected.

But you aren't thwarted. You get your bearings and search for the knife that fell out of your hand. But it's dark. Aside from the latern that he had set on the counter in your small kitchen, you can't see a lick.

But you know where your kitchen knives are. Lightning flashes and you see him coming for you. Using the time that you have, you make a beeline for the counter.

You hear him come after you but not before you reach in a drawer and grab the nearest knife you can find.

You soon turn around and hold out the blade.

That's when you see his face.

He ain't a lawman, you know that now. He couldn't be. No uniform of any kind. And he has a clear wound on his shoulder. And you know that it wasn't from you.

But his eyes. Even in the dark you can tell their color. A striking shade of marine, framed by rugged features and a short beard, with a distinct scar on the chin. Short to where you know he's been out in the woods for a while, not near any civilization or a place to be hygienic. That's how the people live out here.

But despite the allure, you focus on the threat that stands before you, your eyes with fire behind them.

His eyes widen upon seeing you in the light and he nearly takes a step back.  "A woman?" he gasps hoarsely. What did he think you were? He holds his hands up defensively, which surprises you. It wasn't just a second ago that he was going to kill you. Or so you thought.

"What?" You snap, your back still into the counter. "Afraid to kill one that fights back?" You don't know what's come over you, a woman of very few words and suddenly you are spitting out a whole dictionary.

"I ain't lookin' to kill you," he answers quietly, with still a rumble in his voice and his hands raised. "I didn't know anyone lived here."

You feel offended. Your home ain't the prettiest thing this side of Ambarino, but it sure as hell ain't neglected or abandoned. "The hell you thought," you snarl, still pointing the knife at him. "And I suppose my chickens and fresh vegetables just decided to read up themselves?"

He swallows. "I needed shelter. From the storm."

You could see that that could be a possibility, but that could be also an easy excuse. You eye his wound. "And to hide from whatever did that, I assume?"

He takes his eyes off you for a second, only to glance at his shoulder. "It ain't going to come after me. Unless bears have a sense of vengeance." He must not find you as much of a threat, as he almost says it half-jokingly. Still, you keep your blade pointed at him. Still seeing the apprehension in your eyes, he casts a steely gaze. "I ain't a good man, ma'am, but I ain't gonna hurt you."

"And you think that convinces me to trust you?"

"Let me put it this way," he takes a step forward, lessening the space between you. Your heart pounds in your chest, but you don't know if it's from fear or something else. "If I wanted to, you'd be dead already." He has a point. Before you can reply, he lays a gloved finger against the blade. "I just need to wait out the storm, and you'll never see me again."

He sounds like he's negotiating, not just stating so, as though you still can kill him with the very blade his finger touches. And you can, if you're quick enough.