The rumors arrived before the suitors, and the suitors arrived like a plague.
Marx leaned against the iron gatepost, arms crossed, watching the line stretch down the winding dirt road toward Bowral’s crumbling main street, and it was a line, an actual physical queue of beastn forming in the apocalyptic wasteland like they were waiting for concert tickets. Except the concert was his Felicity, and the tickets were marriage proposals, and every single one of these idiots was about to learn what it felt like to be emotionally dismantled by a panther beastman who hadn’t slept properly in three days because a certain blonde fennec fox had smiled at him over breakfast, and his brain had simply stopped functioning.
He counted silently. Thirty-seven so far this morning, and the sun hadn’t even hit its peak.
Thirty-seven n who thought they deserved to breathe the sa air as her.
The possessiveness sat low in his gut, hot and constant, a feeling he’d spent months pretending didn’t exist. Marx was good at pretending. Champion-level, really. He could charm his way through any conversation, deflect any question, and smile through any pain. But watching these n line up with their pathetic offerings, each one imagining they could stand where he stood, close enough to catch the drift of peach and vanilla from her hair when she walked past.
His jaw tightened beneath that easy grin.
"Next," Marx called, not bothering to uncross his arms.
The man who stepped forward was enormous, a grizzly beastman with shoulders that could double as load-bearing walls, wearing armour cobbled together from old car parts and what looked suspiciously like a stop sign strapped across his chest. He carried a leather satchel clutched against his ribs like it held the cure for mutation itself.
"I am Varlock, Alpha of the Steel Tooth group," the grizzly announced, chest puffing so wide his armour creaked. "Level seventy-three. Earth magic, I’ve brought a gift, a relic from the old world. A diamond the size of a quail egg, pried from the vault of..."
"Yeah, sorry, buddy," Marx said, not looking at him.
Varlock blinked. "I beg your-"
Because looking at him would an acknowledging that this grizzly genuinely believed a rock, a shiny rock, would be enough to win a woman who noticed when Ash hadn’t eaten. Who rembered that Sarge’s left knee ached in the cold? Who touched Marx’s wrist once, just once, three weeks ago, and he could still feel the exact temperature of her fingertips against his pulse.
A diamond? Please.
"Our boss Victor said if you step on the grass, you turn into an afterimage on the lawn." Marx finally tilted his head, giving the grizzly a lazy once-over. His tail flicked behind him, casual, dismissive. "Also, level seventy-three? I’m level ninety-one, and you’re a stinky poo head."
The grizzly’s jaw dropped open.
Besides Marx, Tommy took another bite of honey cake, crumbs tumbling down the front of his shirt. He chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed. "He’s right. You sll bad. Like old motor oil and crushed dreams."
Varlock’s face went through approximately six shades of red before settling on a colour that matched his clan banner. "You dare...!"
"Next!" Marx sang out, bright and cheerful, because if he couldn’t have her, if he had to stand here and guard the gate instead of telling her that the sound of her laugh made his chest crack open like sothing feral trying to claw its way free, then he could at least enjoy the small pleasure of crushing every single one of these n’s hopes with surgical precision.
The line shuffled forward.
A lean jackal beastman in a tailored suit, in the apocalypse, which was either impressive or deeply unhinged, stepped up with a polished wooden box tucked under one arm. Marx could sll the pheromones rolling off him from three feet away. Desperation and expensive cologne, the kind that probably cost soone’s life to acquire from a ruined departnt store.
Marx’s nostrils flared. His tail curled tight against his leg.
"Let guess," Marx drawled, pushing off the gatepost with fluid grace. "You’ve brought her jewellery or perfu, or..." He sniffed dramatically. "So kind of preserved flower arrangent that you think communicates deep emotional sensitivity."
The jackal’s composure flickered. His grip on the box tightened.
"Close." Marx grinned all teeth, no humour. "Here’s the thing, friend, she doesn’t care about gifts. She cares about whether you’d carry a dying cat through a rainstorm. Whether you’d notice that the person next to you skipped a al. Whether you’d stay when staying costs you everything you’ve hoarded for yourself."
His chest ached. Ah, the truth of it burned.
Because Marx knew, he knew with absolute, miserable certainty that he was describing the exact kind of man he’d spent his entire life failing to be. The opportunist. The runner. The one who always found the exit before the building collapsed.
Except now there was a fennec fox beastwoman with gold hair and soft ears that twitched when she was embarrassed, and Marx hadn’t looked for an exit in months.
Tommy leaned over. "You’re monologuing again."
"I’m gatekeeping," Marx corrected smoothly. "There’s a difference."
"You’re gatekeeping with feelings."
"Shut up and eat your cake."
The jackal cleared his throat. "If I could just..." he tried to crane his neck around Marx, trying to spot her.
"You can’t." Marx’s grin returned, sharp and lazy. "But I admire the suit. Really. Where’d you find a tailor in the apocalypse? Did you threaten a seamstress, or is there genuinely a bespoke clothing operation running out of a bunker sowhere? Because honestly, that’s the most interesting thing about you, and I’d love to know for future shopping purposes."
The jackal stared at him.
Marx stared back.
Behind them, from sowhere inside the manor, Felicity’s laugh drifted through an open window bright, startled, probably at sothing ridiculous Voss had said, and Marx’s entire body went still. Every muscle, every nerve, every instinct trained on that sound like a compass needle swinging north.
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