Page 20 of Bite Sized Bride
I do not look at him for the rest of the night. I feel his eyes on me, heavy with a hurt and confusion that I cannot bring myself to face. I stare into the flames of the fire I build, my thoughts a churning, chaotic mess.
I am ashamed of my reaction. I am ashamed of the revulsion I should have felt, and the terrifying, undeniable truth of what I felt instead.
I touched the monster. And for a single, insane moment, I did not hate it.
12
KAEL
The sky screams.
It is a raw, furious sound, a howl of wind and a crash of thunder that makes the very rock around us tremble. Rain comes down not in drops, but in solid, grey sheets, turning the world outside our small cave into a churning chaos of water and wind.
Inside, it is dry. It is safe.
I have made it so.
I sit on my haunches near the mouth of the cave, a silent sentinel, my back to the warmth of the fire. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one that usually rages inside my head. Tonight, for the first time, the red is quiet. It is a sea of embers, not a conflagration. The reason for this quiet sits a few feet away, huddled by the fire.
Mikana.
She is shivering.
It is not a violent, panicked tremor. It is a slow, deep chill that has sunk into her bones. Her tattered tunic, still damp from our journey, offers little warmth. Her arms are wrapped around her knees, her small frame curled in on itself, trying to conservewhat little heat she has. Her teeth chatter, a soft, clicking sound that is a spike of ice in the hollow, empty place inside me.
Cold.
The word is a threat. Cold is an enemy. It weakens. It kills.
My primary command, the one that has overwritten every curse and every memory, is a single, burning imperative:Protect Mikana.
The fire is not enough.
I push myself to my feet, my massive form casting a long, flickering shadow across the cave wall. She flinches, her dark eyes snapping to me, wide with a familiar, reflexive fear. The scent of it, sharp and electric, fills the small space. It always does when I move too quickly.
I ignore it. I have to.
I cross the space between us in two strides. I kneel before her. It is an awkward, clumsy movement for a body built for charges and stomps. My knees crack like splitting logs. I am a mountain trying to bow.
She shrinks back, pressing herself against the stone wall, making herself smaller, as if she could disappear into the rock itself.
I do not speak. The words I have are too few, too rough for this. I must use my hands. My hands, which have crushed skulls and torn flesh. My hands, which are weapons of nightmare. I must make them gentle.
Slowly, deliberately, I reach for her.
She squeezes her eyes shut, a soft, whimpering sound escaping her lips. She is expecting a blow. She is expecting the end.
My hand, a slab of scarred hide and thick, black claws, does not strike. It settles on her shoulder. I do not grab. I do not squeeze. I simply… rest it there.
Her skin is so fragile beneath the thin, damp cloth. I can feel the sharp, bird-like bones of her shoulder, the tremor that runs through her entire body. She is a leaf in the storm of my presence.
I tug, a gentle, insistent pressure.Come.
She does not resist. She is too terrified, or perhaps too cold, to fight. She allows me to pull her away from the wall, away from the cold stone. I shift my position, sitting back on my haunches, and guide her into the space between my legs, turning her so her back is pressed against my chest.
The moment her small, shivering body makes full contact with mine, a jolt, hot and powerful, shoots through me. It is not the pain of the curse. It is something else entirely. It is the feeling of a key sliding into a lock that has been rusted shut for an eternity.
She is so small. Her head barely reaches the center of my chest. My legs, bent at the knee, form a protective wall on either side of her. I wrap my arms around her, my massive forearms crossing over her stomach, my hands resting on her far side. I have made a cage for her. A cage of flesh and bone to keep the cold out.
