Page 21 of Bite Sized Bride
She is rigid in my grasp, a statue of pure terror. I can feel the frantic, hammering beat of her heart against my ribs. I remain perfectly still, my own breathing a slow, deep rhythm. I am a mountain. I am a wall. I will not hurt her.
Minutes pass. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and the roar of the storm outside. Slowly, ever so slowly, the tension begins to drain from her body. The frantic drumming of her heart slows. The shivering subsides, replaced by the steady warmth radiating from my body. She lets out a long, shuddering sigh, and her head lolls back, resting against my shoulder.
The scent of her fills my senses. Rain and damp earth, yes, but beneath it, the smell of her skin, of her hair. The scentof summer grass and quiet strength. It floods the hollow space inside of me, and at last, I feel… full.
The crimson storm is gone. Not just quiet. Gone. There is only a profound, absolute peace.
My curiosity, the new, childlike thing she has awakened in me, is a powerful urge. I want to know the texture of her. I want to learn the landscape of her.
My hand, the one resting on her side, moves. I do it slowly, a glacier’s pace, giving her time to protest, to pull away. She does not. She is pliant in my arms, warm and trusting.
My clawed fingertip, a tool made for rending, traces the line of her jaw. Her skin is impossibly soft. I have never touched anything so soft. I run my thumb over her cheek, feeling the fine, downy hair there. I touch her hair, a spill of dark silk against my rough, scarred knuckles. It is a river of shadow, cool and smooth.
She makes a soft sound in her sleep, a murmur of contentment, and shifts, pressing herself deeper against me.
The sound is my undoing.
It is permission. It is acceptance. It is a spark falling on the dry tinder of an instinct I didn’t know I possessed. The ghost of the orc inside me, the warrior, the hunter, awakens. And it knows this. It knows this feeling. It knows this ritual.
Mate.
The word is a brand on my soul. A truth that eclipses every command, every curse.
My body moves on its own, driven by a need so deep, so primal, it is a geological force. I shift, turning her to face me, my hands gentle, so gentle, as I lay her down on the pallet of furs and moss I made for her earlier.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and dazed in the firelight. She looks at me, looming over her, and the fear returns, but it is a confused, sleepy fear. It is not the stark terror of the hunted.
“Kael?” she whispers, her voice thick with sleep.
The sound of my name on her lips is a prayer. It is an absolution.
I lower my head. My lips, rough and clumsy, find hers. It is not like the first time, the awkward, hesitant question in the fissure. This is a claiming. It is a statement.Mine.
Her lips are soft and warm. They part with a soft gasp of surprise. I do not know what I am doing. I only know the overwhelming urge to taste her, to know her. I am a creature of instinct, and my every instinct screams that she belongs to me, and I to her.
My hands, those clumsy, destructive things, begin to explore. I run a hand down her side, over the sharp angle of her hip, the soft curve of her thigh. She is all delicate lines and fragile strength. I am someone with brute force and jagged edges. I am terrified I will break her.
I pull back, a low growl of frustration and self-loathing rumbling in my chest. I cannot do this. I am a monster. I will ruin her.
Her hand, small and warm, comes up to cup my jaw. Her thumb strokes the rough, scarred skin beside my broken tusk.
“It’s all right,” she whispers, her voice a fragile thread in the darkness.
I do not know if she is talking to me or to herself. It does not matter. It is permission.
I move with a reverence I had no idea I possessed. My claws, so recently stained with the blood of my enemies, are now tasked with the delicate work of her ruined tunic. I tear the fabric, but with a slow, deliberate care, exposing the pale skin beneath.
Her body is a revelation. A landscape of soft hills and gentle valleys, starkly beautiful in the flickering firelight. I trace the line of her collarbone, the curve of her breast, the gentle swell of her stomach. My touch is a question.Am I hurting you?
She answers by arching into my touch, a silent, breathtaking surrender.
The last vestiges of my control shatter. The primal need, the orc’s instinct to bond, to seal this claim, is overwhelming. I move between her legs, my massive body a stark, monstrous contrast to her pale fragility. I am a shadow falling over the moon.
I look at myself, at the thick, monstrous reality of my flesh, and then at her, so small, so perfect. A wave of revulsion for my own form washes over me. How can this be? How can a thing like me touch something so pure?
But her eyes hold no revulsion. They hold fear, yes, but also a deep, unwavering trust that I have done nothing to earn. She trusts me not to break her.
I will not.
