The ache in my limbs is nothing compared to the humiliation burning inside me. My snout pokes through the bars, exposed, forced to inhale the intoxicating aroma of thyme and pastry. I try to thrash, but the chains bite deeper into my fur, and a mocking giggle floats from the other side of the room. The pig, rotund and pink, moves with gleeful precision, arranging trays and sharpening knives.

The Pig, chef and captor, grins wickedly, her voice syrupy sweet. "You smell that, wolf? That’s rosemary, just for you. I want you to savor every whiff. It’s not every day a pig gets to make wolf wellington." My stomach twists with dread as she waves a sprig of herbs beneath my nose. "I’ll make sure your snout stays free. You should know what you’re about to become—dinner."

Panic claws at my chest as I remember the forest—freedom, wild air, the taste of rain. Now I’m helpless, forced to bear witness to my own fate. The pig’s laughter rings louder, her movements precise, almost graceful. I snarl, trying to frighten her, but she only winks. "Don’t tire yourself out. You’ll need your energy for the main course."

She lays out sheets of golden pastry, murmuring to herself about spices and stuffing. I watch, helpless, as she plans each step—searing, wrapping, roasting. The oven door swings open, its cavernous heat a warning. Every breath fills me with the knowledge of how I will be consumed.

I understand now: I am prey, and she is predator. Her eyes shine with hunger and delight. "One last sniff, wolf. I want you to remember this forever. The taste of being wanted." My heart pounds, each beat a countdown. The pig’s hooves echo, and the door to my cage creaks open.

I meet her gaze, defiant even in terror. The world shrinks to the scent of rosemary and my own fear. "Bon appétit, my dear wolf," she whispers, and the knife descends. Darkness falls, and the last thing I remember is the cruel aroma of my fate.