Page 37 of Bite Sized Bride
"Yes," I sob, feeling another orgasm building. "Yours. Always yours."
When I come again, it's with his name on my lips and his cock buried deep inside me. My pussy contracts around him in waves, and I feel him lose the last of his control. His thrusts become erratic, powerful, almost brutal in their intensity, but I welcome it, craving the proof of his need for me.
He comes with a roar that shakes dust from the cave ceiling, his cock pulsing inside me as he fills me with his seed. The sensation triggers another, smaller orgasm in me, leaving us both gasping and shuddering in the aftermath.
He collapses beside me, immediately pulling me against his chest, as if he can't bear even an inch of separation. His cock is still semi-hard inside me, and neither of us makes any move to separate. This connection is too precious, too necessary.
"Love," he murmurs into my hair, the word clumsy on his tongue but beautiful for its truth. "Love Mikana."
Tears prick my eyes as I press closer to him. "I love you too, Kael. Gods help us both, I love you too."
The world outside, with its hunters and its masters, feels a universe away. In this small, hidden cave, we have created a sanctuary. A fragile, impossible peace.
I know it cannot last. I know that Malakor and his sorcerer are still out there. I know that the path to the Wildspont is a fool’s errand that will likely get us both killed.
But as I lie here, held safe in the arms of the monster I have fallen in love with, I do not care. For the first time in my life, I am not just surviving.
I am living.
20
KAEL
The air is wrong.
It is thin and sharp in my lungs, carrying a scent like ozone after a lightning strike, a constant, low-level hum of raw power that makes the teeth in my jaw ache. The curse inside me, the Urog’s rage, is a restless, snarling thing in this place. It hates the untamed magic. It feels threatened by a power it cannot dominate.
But the orc, the ghost of Kael, feels something else. A pull. A resonance. It is like hearing the faint, distant echo of a clan horn from a life I can barely remember. It is a call home.
“This is the place,” I grunt, my voice a low rumble. We stand on a ridge, looking down into a valley choked with a forest unlike any I have ever seen. The trees are not merely twisted; they are sentient in their wrongness. Their bark shimmers with an oily, rainbow sheen, and their branches reach for the sky not in supplication, but in agony. The moss on the ground glows with a brighter, more insistent green light, pulsing in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
“It feels…” Mikana whispers from beside me, her hand instinctively finding my arm. Her skin is cold. “It feels like it’s watching us.”
She is right. This place is alive. This is the borderland of the Wildspont. We are close.
The knowledge does not bring relief. It brings a new, sharper fear. The path ahead is a descent into madness, into a storm of pure creation. I do not know if I will survive it. I do not know if the thing that emerges on the other side will still be me.
And if I do not survive, she will be alone.
The thought is a spear of ice in my gut.
“No,” I say, turning to face her. My gaze falls on the small, pathetic letter opener she still keeps tucked in her belt. A scribe’s tool against a world of swords and claws. It is not enough.
I unbuckle the sheath from my own hip. The blade I took from the Miou warrior is a beautiful, deadly thing, its curved edge still sharp enough to shave hair. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, the pommel a heavy, solid weight. It is a warrior’s weapon.
I hold it out to her.
She stares at the knife, then at me, her dark eyes wide with confusion. “What is this?”
“Yours,” I say. “You fight.”
She shakes her head, taking a step back. “Kael, no. I’m not… I can’t…”
“You will,” I say, my voice harder than I intend. I step forward, closing the space between us. I am a mountain of scarred flesh, and she is a sapling in my shadow. The old power dynamic, the one of monster and prey, rears its ugly head, but I shove it down. This is not about dominance. This is about survival. Her survival.
I take her hand, her small, ink-stained fingers cold in my massive grasp. I press the hilt of the knife into her palm and curl her fingers around it.
“Hold it,” I command, my voice a low growl. “Feel the weight. It is not a part of you. It is a tool. Like your needle. Like your flint.”
