Page 11 of Bite Sized Bride
I do not slow. I crash through the forest, a ten-foot engine of destruction, the small, warm weight of the property held tight against my chest. The shouts and howls of our pursuers fade behind us, swallowed by the darkness and the trees.
My lungs are burning, my wounds screaming, the red storm in my head a roaring inferno. But for the first time, the fire is not burning me. It is fueling me.
And in the calm of the storm, held safe and close, is the small, quiet thing. The source of the peace. The reason for the fight.
My property.
7
MIKANA
The world is a blur of green and grey, a churning vortex of motion that I only vaguely register. The monster’s arm is a cage of iron and leather around my ribs, pinning me to a chest as hard as a stone wall. Each of his ground-shaking strides jars my teeth, my head lolling against his shoulder. The air is ripped from my lungs in ragged gasps. I am nothing but a parcel, a sack of bones being carried away from one nightmare and into another.
He runs for what feels like an eternity, an unstoppable force of nature that does not tire. The forest is no obstacle; it is an inconvenience he tears through. Finally, as the first hint of a bruised, grey dawn bleeds through the canopy, he slows.
We are in a small, sheltered cove, a bite taken out of a sheer rock face. A shallow cave, barely deep enough to offer respite from the persistent drizzle, is carved into the stone. It is defensible. It is a prison.
He sets me down. Not gently. My feet hit the muddy ground and my legs, weak as a newborn dae’s, buckle beneath me. I crumple into a heap, my body a single, screaming symphony of pain. He pays me no mind. He turns and stands at the opening ofthe cave, a ten-foot-tall silhouette of jagged horns and raw power against the bleak morning light. He is a wall. A barrier between me and the world I just fled, but also a barrier between me and any hope of true freedom.
I am a slave who has simply traded one master for another. A much, much larger one.
I press a hand to my ribs, wincing as my fingers find a tender, bruised spot where his arm held me. My tunic is in tatters, my skin is cold and clammy, and a deep, shuddering chill has taken root in my bones. I watch him, my heart a frantic, trapped bird against my ribs. He stands perfectly still, his massive head turning slowly from side to side, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the air. His amber eyes, glowing faintly in the gloom, scan the treeline. He is a guardian. A warden.
He is magnificent and terrifying, and he is the only reason I am still alive.
After a long, tense silence, he turns from the cave mouth and disappears back into the forest without a sound.
My first thought is to run. To scramble back into the trees and disappear. But where would I go? My feet are a mess of cuts and bruises, I have no food, no water, and Malakor’s hunters are everywhere. Out there, I am prey. In here… in here, I am a captive. It is not freedom, but it is a sliver of a chance.
I crawl deeper into the cave, huddling against the cold stone, and wait.
He returns less than an hour later. He moves with a silence that is unnerving for a creature of his size. One moment the cave entrance is empty, the next he is there, filling it completely.
He drops his latest prize at my feet.
My stomach lurches, and a wave of nausea washes over me. It’s a suru, the rabbit-like creature of the forest, its soft brown fur matted with blood. Its neck is snapped at an unnatural angle,and a dark, wet patch stains the ground where he dropped it. It is a gift. It is a horror. It is his idea of provision.
He makes a low sound in his chest, a rumbling growl that is not aggressive, but expectant. He nudges the dead creature with his foot, pushing it closer to me.Eat.
I stare at the raw, bloody carcass, at the glassy, dead eyes. Bile rises in my throat. I shake my head, pressing myself further against the cave wall. “No.”
The word is a raw whisper.
His head tilts. The amber eyes narrow. The growl deepens, a note of confusion, of frustration, entering the sound. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. He is a beast. He hunts. He kills. He eats. The fire is a mystery to him.
But I am not a beast. And I will not eat raw flesh like one.
An idea, born of desperation, takes root. I am a slave. I am a prisoner. But in this one small thing, I can have control. I can be the one who teaches.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely control them. I reach for the small bundle tied at my waist, the one I managed not to lose in the chaos of the escape. My fingers fumble with the knot, and I pull out my pathetic treasures: the stolen letter opener, a small piece of flint, and a shard of steel.
The beast watches my every move, his massive form tense, his eyes tracking the glint of the letter opener’s blade. He could cross the space between us in a single step and snap my neck before I could even scream.
“It’s… it’s for the food,” I say, my voice trembling. I hold up the small blade. “To prepare it.”
He makes no move to stop me. I take that as permission.
Slowly, cautiously, I crawl toward the dead suru. The smell of blood is thick in the air. I force myself to breathe through my mouth. I turn my back to him, a terrifying act of trust, and begin the gruesome task of skinning the creature. My hands areclumsy, the letter opener a poor substitute for a proper knife, but I manage. The work is bloody and visceral, but it is also a focus, a task that keeps the terror at bay.
