Page 12 of Monster's Obsessive Hunger
I do not flee. I lunge.
My mouth crashes down on hers, but it is not a kiss. It is a claiming. A desperate, savage fusion of bone and soft flesh, of death and life. It is all pressure and the scrape of my fangs against her lips, a desperate attempt to absorb her, to pull her into the hollowness inside me and make her a permanent part of my being. Her gasp is swallowed by my mouth, and her scent fills my senses, a heady perfume of terror and a desire that rises to meet my own. My arms come around her, pulling her flush against my skeletal frame, and the feeling of her soft, warm body against mine is the final undoing. My restraint, the dam I have maintained for centuries, does not just crack. It shatters into dust.
18
LYSSA
The world narrows to a single point of impact. His kiss is not a gentle exploration; it is a brutal claiming, a desperate, hungry fusion of bone and flesh. The cold, hard pressure of his skull-face against mine is a shock, the taste of him one of ancient stone and the clean, sharp bite of the winter air. A guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a vibration that travels through my own ribs and seems to shake me to the very core of my being. He pushes me back, my body hitting the rough bark of a massive pine tree. The scent of crushed pine needles reminds me of him.
This should be terrifying. I should be screaming, fighting, clawing at him. But a wild, reckless heat floods my veins, a fire that matches his own. My fear has burned away, leaving behind a pure, unadulterated need. This is what I ran into the woods for. This raw, honest, terrifying connection. His claws, long and sharp as daggers, sink into the wood of the tree on either side of my head, the sound of splintering bark a testament to the incredible restraint he is showing. He is caging me, pinning me with his body, and I have never felt more free.
My hands find the sides of his skull, my fingers tracing the jagged, alien lines. He is so much more solid, more real,than the ghosts I have been chasing. I pull his face back to mine, demanding another kiss, and he gives it to me without hesitation. It is a battle, a desperate clash of teeth and pressure, a fight to see who can get closer, who can consume the other first. I respond with a ferocity that seems to come from a stranger, a wild creature that has been dormant inside me. My legs wrap around his waist, an instinctive, primal act, my bare feet pressing against the cold, hard muscle of his back. I urge him closer, my body arching against his, a silent plea for him to erase the last agonizing inch of space between us. This isn’t a courtship. It’s a storm. And I am ready to be broken by it.
Our movements become a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs and ragged breaths. His mouth leaves mine to trail a burning path down my throat, across my collarbone. I can feel the sharp points of his fangs graze my skin, a constant, thrilling threat that he holds in check by a thread of will I can feel vibrating through his entire body. The cold air is a shock against my skin as his claws, impossibly careful, find the hem of my tunic and tear it away, the sound of ripping cloth a savage counterpoint to the wild beating of my heart. My clothes are a hindrance, an unwanted barrier, and I help him, my own hands clumsy and shaking as I push the tattered fabric away.
The cold snow against my heated skin should be painful, but it is a clarifying shock, heightening every sensation. He is everywhere at once, his mouth, his hands, the cold, smooth bone of his body pressing against me. He worships me with a desperate, savage reverence, his growls a litany of my name, a prayer to a goddess he is in the process of devouring.
As the pressure inside me builds, a tight, coiling knot of need that demands release, his control finally slips. The intensity becomes too much, the hunger too sharp. His mouth closes over my shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, his fangs, which had been so carefully held back, sink into my flesh. The pain isa sharp, clean sting, a surprising jolt in the sea of pleasure. I cry out, half-pain, half-ecstasy. The moment the sound leaves my lips, he freezes. He pulls back as if he’s been burned, his chest flickering with panicked horror. I see the self-loathing crash over him, the immediate, devastating belief that he has failed, that he has proven himself to be nothing more than the monster I should have feared all along. He starts to pull away, to retreat into his shell of shame. But no.
“No,” I gasp, my hands finding his skull, my fingers gripping the bone with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. “Don’t you dare stop.”
I pull his face back to mine, my eyes locking with the frantic. I can taste my own blood on his lips, a coppery tang that only seems to heighten the desperate need between us. I kiss him again, a messy, open-mouthed kiss that is not about forgiveness, but about acceptance. He is a monster. He is dangerous. And he is mine.
My acceptance, my refusal to be afraid of the part of him that just hurt me, seems to shatter the last of his hesitation. He comes back to me with a low growl, it is no longer just hunger, but a kind of desperate, grateful worship. The final, frantic moments are a blur of sensation. The feel of his powerful, strange body moving against mine, the chaotic light show from his chest painting the world in violent, beautiful colors, the sounds of our ragged breaths and broken moans the only music in the silent, frozen forest.
The release is a cataclysm. A shared, shuddering explosion that rips through both of us, leaving me limp and boneless in his arms, my own name a shattered cry on my lips. He follows me over the edge, his massive frame convulsing, a deep, guttural roar torn from the depths of his being as he finds his own release.
We collapse together in the snow, a tangled mess of limbs, our bodies steaming in the frigid air. The silence that follows is profound, broken only by the sound of our own heaving chests. His heavy arm is draped over me, a possessive, protective weight. My head is pillowed on his shoulder, the hard, cold bone a strange but welcome comfort. For a long, breathless moment, the world is still. There is no village, no sister, no grief. There is only the silent forest, the cold moon, and the monster who holds me as if I am the most precious thing in his world. For this one moment, lying in the snow, claimed and cherished by a nightmare, everything feels perfect.
19
THORRIN
In the aftermath, the forest is profoundly silent. The world has been unmade and remade in a storm of our own creation, and now, in the quiet, I am left with the consequences. Lyssa sleeps against my chest, her body a warm, fragile weight. The chaotic, consuming fire of our joining has receded, leaving behind the ghost of its heat and a strange, unsettling stillness. I look down at her, at the way the pale moonlight traces the soft curve of her cheek, at the dark sweep of her lashes against her skin. She is beautiful. The thought is not a surprise anymore, but a simple, fundamental truth, as real as the stone beneath us and the stars above.
My light, which had been a raging inferno of red and purple, now dims to a low, troubled green, pulsing with an anxiety I don't immediately understand. The scent of her is all around me, a heady perfume of sweat, snow, and her own unique fragrance that has become the center of my world. But it is mingled with something else now, a sharper, more metallic note. Blood.
My gaze finds her shoulder, at the place where my control shattered, where the predator momentarily overwhelmed the protector. The bite mark is a dark, angry blemish on her paleskin, a testament to my own monstrous failure. A flicker of possessive pride rises in me—a mark of my claim—but it is immediately extinguished by a wave of cold shame. As my gaze travels over her, I see other marks, invisible in the heat of our passion but stark and ugly in the calm that follows. Dark, blossoming bruises are beginning to form on her hips and arms, ghostly imprints of where my claws held her. A long, raw scrape mottles the pale skin of her back, a gift from the rough bark of the pine tree. I was not gentle. I was a tempest, a force of pure, primal need, and she was the beautiful, fragile thing caught in my path. I was so consumed by the miracle of her touch, by the desperate need to claim her, that I forgot the fundamental difference between us. I am a creature of bone and impossible strength. She is a creature of soft flesh and breakable bones. A feeling of profound self-loathing, cold and sharp, begins to churn in the pit of my stomach.
Lyssa stirs in my arms, a soft sound of discomfort breaking the stillness of the night. Her eyelids flutter open, her gaze unfocused for a moment before finding mine. A slow, sleepy smile touches her lips, a look of such pure, trusting contentment that it is a blade twisting in my gut. And then, the smile vanishes. She shifts, a small movement to push herself upright, and a sharp, clear cry of pain cuts through the silent forest.
The sound hits me with a force that makes me physically recoil. It is not the beautiful sound of terror I once craved, nor the intoxicating sound of pleasure I am just beginning to learn. It is the ugly, grating sound of genuine, physical injury. I watch, frozen in a new kind of horror, as her face contorts in pain. She presses a hand to her side, just below her ribs, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“Thorrin?” she whispers, her voice strained, confused.
Panic, absolute and colder than any mountain winter, seizes me. The last vestiges of post-coital peace evaporate, replaced bya frantic, roaring terror. I move without thinking, my usual grace gone, replaced by a clumsy, desperate urgency. I gather her into my arms, my touch, which should be a comfort, now infused with a terror-born gentleness I did not know I possessed. My massive hands tremble as I cradle her small, broken body against my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp, the words a desperate, broken mantra. “Lyssa, I’m sorry.” I repeat the words over and over, a litany of my own failure. She is hurt. I have hurt her. The one creature I have sworn to protect, the one soul who has shown me kindness, and I have repaid that trust with my own monstrous, uncontrolled strength. The self-loathing is a physical sickness, a foul taste at the back of my throat.
I hold her, feeling the unnatural stillness of her body, the way each shallow breath she takes seems to cost her a monumental effort. She is too pale in the moonlight, her skin clammy and cold despite the lingering heat between us. I must assess the damage. I must know the extent of my crime. But my hands, which have broken the bones of countless creatures, now refuse to obey. They tremble, useless, clumsy things, terrified of causing more harm. My ancient, predatory knowledge of anatomy is a cruel mockery, a library of destruction I now must use for a desperate, fumbling attempt at healing.
With a shuddering breath that is almost a sob, I force myself to act. I run a hand gently over her side, my touch so light it is almost a ghost. I can feel the warmth of her skin, the fine tremor of her pain. Then, beneath my fingertips, I feel it. The unnatural give, the subtle, sickening grate of bone against bone.
My non-existent heart plummets into the abyss. Her ribs are fractured. Perhaps broken entirely. I didn’t just bruise her. I crushed her.
The realization is a new and profound kind of agony. For centuries, my greatest fear was the hunger of the curse, theendless, gnawing void that drove me. But this is infinitely worse. This is the horror of my own nature. This was not an enemy. This was not a hunt. This was an act of love. My desire for her, my need to claim her, the very passion she so bravely met with her own—thatis the weapon that broke her. My good intentions are meaningless. My love is a danger.
I am a creature built to break things, and I have just broken the most precious, fragile thing in the universe. I feel sick, the physical hunger of the curse completely eclipsed by a nauseating wave of guilt so powerful it makes my vision swim. I look at her small, limp form in my arms. I look at her pale face, her lips parted in a silent grimace of pain. And I understand. I am the monster from her sister’s warnings, the beast in the woods that she should have fled from. Her trust in me was a mistake, and this is the price of her faith. A snarl rips from my throat, a sound torn from the deepest, most wretched part of my soul. It is a confession of my own unforgivable failure.
