Page 17 of Bite Sized Bride
I sigh. I turn and walk to the edge of the stream. I kneel and splash the cold water on my own face, washing away the dirt and the tears. I wash my hands, my arms. I look back at him, and gesture for him to do the same.
He watches me for a long moment. Then, slowly, hesitantly, he lumbers to the water’s edge. He kneels, his massive form awkward and out of place. He copies my movements, splashing the water on his own face, on his arms. He scrubs at the dried blood, his movements clumsy at first, then more sure.
As the grime and the gore wash away, I see him. Not the Urog. Not the monster. But Kael. The scarred, tormented orc beneath. The warrior who saved my life.
He looks up at me, water dripping from his broken tusk, his amber eyes clear and startlingly lucid in the fading light.The vibrant red storm is gone. In its place is a quiet, aching vulnerability.
And in that moment, standing in the deepening twilight of a forest that wants to kill us, I am no longer afraid of him.
10
KAEL
Her touch is fire. Her touch is ice.
When her small, trembling fingers make contact with my arm, the curse inside me screams. It is a violation. A weakness. The red storm surges, demanding I throw her off, that I show her the folly of touching a monster. My muscles lock, every fiber of my being straining to obey the ancient, violent instinct.
But the ghost inside me—the warrior, the orc, the thing with my name—reaches for her touch like a dying man reaches for water.
The pain from the Nyoka’s bite is a dull, hot fire, but the pain of her gentle fingers on my hide is a new and sharper agony. It is the pain of a wound I didn’t know I had. It is the pain of being seen, not as a weapon, but as something worth tending. It is unbearable. It is everything.
I stand as still as the mountain, my claws digging into the soft earth, anchoring myself against the war raging within. I allow her to press the cold, wet cloth to the wound. The shock of it makes me hiss, a sound like steam escaping a forge, but I do not pull away. I endure. For her.
She is so close. I can smell the rain in her dark hair, the faint, clean scent of her skin beneath the grime and the fear. It is a scent that quiets the red storm, that soothes the raw, ragged edges of my broken soul. She is my peace. My safe place.
When she is done, she steps back, her dark eyes still wide, but the terror in them has been banked, replaced by a cautious, fragile trust. She has tended to the beast, and the beast has not devoured her.
She washes the blood and grime from her own face and arms in the stream. Then she looks at me, at the gore that stains my hide, and gestures for me to do the same. The command is clear.Clean.
I obey. I kneel at the water’s edge, a clumsy, monstrous thing, and mimic her actions. The cold water is a relief, washing away the physical evidence of my violence. But it cannot wash away the memory. It cannot wash away the curse.
When I am done, I am still a monster. But perhaps, I am her monster. The thought is a strange comfort.
We find a new place to shelter as night falls, a deeper cave hidden behind a curtain of thick, hanging moss. It is dry and defensible. I stand guard at the entrance while she builds a fire, her small, clever hands moving with a familiar grace. The fire blooms, a warm, orange heart in the encroaching darkness.
The hunger returns, a dull ache in my belly. But it is my hunger this time, not the curse’s. And it is my responsibility to fill it. To provide. For her.
I leave her by the fire, a silent promise to return, and melt into the forest. The hunt is different now. It is not a blind, rage-fueled pursuit. It is a task. A duty. I move with a new purpose, my senses attuned not just to prey, but to therightprey. I pass over a scrawny, half-starved dae. It is not enough. I ignore the chattering of Capuchos in the trees. They are too small.
And I finally find it. A plump, healthy suru, its brown fur thick and clean. The kill is swift, a single, powerful blow that is both efficient and, in its own way, merciful. I do not revel in it. I do not roar in triumph. I simply take my prize.
But I do not bring it to her. Not yet.
I carry the carcass to the stream where she washed me. I lay it on a flat, clean stone. I look at my hands. My massive, claw-tipped hands. They were made for crushing helmets and breaking shields. They were not made for this.
I remember watching her. The way she used the small, sharp tool. The precise, deliberate cuts. The peeling away of the skin.
I try to mimic her. My claws are clumsy, too large for the delicate work. I tear the hide more than I cut it. The process is a messy, frustrating butchery. A low growl of annoyance rumbles in my chest. I am a warrior. I am a hunter. Why is this simple task so difficult?
Because it is not a warrior’s task. It is a provider’s. It is the task of one who builds a home, who tends a hearth. It is the task of a mate.
The word surfaces from the deep, dark well of my lost memories.Mate.
The word is a brand, searing itself onto the cavernous space inside me. It is a truth so profound, so absolute, that it shakes me to my very core. She is not property. She is not a tool. She is not justmy peace.
She is my mate.
The word gives me a new patience. A new focus. I work slowly, my clumsy claws eventually finding a rhythm. I clean the carcass as best I can, washing it in the cold, clear water of the stream until the last of the blood runs clear.
