Page 10 of Bound By the Beast Man
The transition from the fiery chaos of the dream to the cold, quiet reality of the cave is a dizzying shock. For a terrifying moment, I do not know where I am.
Then I see him. He is a massive, dark silhouette keeping watch, his broad shoulders blocking out the pale light of the pre-dawn sky. The primal fear from the dream momentarily transfers to him, this powerful, unknown creature, before I remember. My rescuer. Corvak.
The memory of the nightmare, especially the shadowy figure, leaves me deeply shaken. It was more than just a reliving of the trauma; it felt like a revelation, a crucial piece of a puzzle I cannot begin to understand.
I have never told anyone about the shadow, not even in my own conscious thoughts. I had pushed it down, convinced it was just a figment of my grief-stricken mind, a nightmare born of terror. But seeing it again, seeing the way the Purna moved around it, I know it was real. It was there.
I hug his cloak tighter around me, its warmth and his scent a small comfort against the deep, internal chill. I look at him, his posture one of absolute, unwavering vigilance.
He is my only ally in this hostile, terrifying world. Somewhere inside, a desperate, lonely piece of me wants to tell him everything, to share the terrible burden of what I saw. Butanother part, the part that learned to survive by being silent and invisible, is terrified.
Will he believe me?
Or will he think I am mad, my mind finally broken by my long years of captivity?
The words are caught in my throat, a heavy, unspoken secret that feels as unwelcome as the stone floor beneath me.
15
CORVAK
Iremain a silent sentinel against the coming dawn. The pre-dawn air is thin and cold, carrying the strange, wild scents of the Prazh Mountains. Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig, has my senses on high alert. The Purna are out there, and they will be hunting their stolen prize with a relentless fury. But no harm will come to her. Not while I draw breath.
I look back at where she sleeps, a small, still form huddled in the depths of my cloak. The fire has died down to a bed of glowing, orange embers that cast a soft, warm light on her face. Even in sleep, she is not at peace. Her brow is furrowed, and a deep tension lines her delicate features. I feel a deep protective instinct wash over me, a feeling that is far more powerful than the simple duty to protect a survivor. It is a primal, possessive urge that is both new and overwhelming to my disciplined mind. This is what it means to find one’s mate. It is a fire in the blood, a reordering of the soul around a new center.
My mission, the fate of my King and my people, all feel like distant concerns, memories from another life. My world has narrowed to this small, cold cave and the woman sleeping within it. The sight of her soothes me. Then, a soft sound breaks thestillness. A whimper. It is a quiet, broken sound of pain that cuts through my warrior’s focus and goes straight to my heart.
Her whimpers grow more frequent, more distressed. She begins to twitch in her sleep, her hands clenching and unclenching in the thick folds of my cloak. Her breathing becomes ragged and shallow, the breaths of a hunted animal. The sight of her in such torment ignites a fresh, hot rage within me. The Purna did not just imprison her body; they branded her very soul with their cruelty, leaving nightmares that hunt her even in the safety of my protection. I will make them pay for this. I will make them all pay.
Her quiet whimpers escalate into a soft, desperate cry, a sound that tears at me. I cannot stand by and watch her suffer. I move from my post at the entrance of the cave, my heavy footsteps silent on the stone floor. I kneel beside her, my intention to place a gentle hand on her shoulder, to wake her from the nightmare that holds her in its grip. The embers of the fire cast our shadows long and distorted against the cave wall. My large form, meant to be a shield for her, instead casts a looming, monstrous shadow over her sleeping form.
As my hand reaches for her, her eyes fly open. But there is no recognition in them. There is only the raw, leftover terror from her dream, a wide, unseeing panic. In the dim, flickering light, she does not see her rescuer. She sees a threat. She sees a monster. She sees one of them. Before I can speak, before I can even process the wild fear in her eyes, she moves with a speed that is born of pure, absolute terror. A flash of movement, a sharp, tearing pain in my forearm.
I look down in stunned surprise. A deep, ragged gash runs from my wrist to my elbow, my own dark blood welling up and dripping onto the stone floor. A sharpened piece of flint, a tool for survival, is clutched in her small, white-knuckled hand. The shock and the sudden, searing pain trigger my ownprimal instincts. A low, warning growl rumbles in my chest, an involuntary response to being wounded. For a single, dangerous second, the beast within me wants to retaliate.
The growl dies in my throat as I look from my wound back to her face. The raw terror in her eyes is giving way to a new, dawning horror as she recognizes me. The fight drains out of her in an instant. The rock falls from her numb fingers, clattering softly on the floor. Her face crumples, and she is wracked by silent, hiccuping sobs of shame and fear. Tears stream down her pale cheeks, silver in the dying firelight. She is not a threat. She is a terrified, traumatized soul, lashing out from a cage of fear.
My anger vanishes, burned away by empathy and renewed, white-hot fury at her captors. This is what they have done to her. This is the damage they have wrought. Without a word, I tend to my own wound with one hand, tearing another strip from my tunic to bind the gash. With my other arm, I reach for her, gently but firmly pulling her into a steadying embrace. She resists for a moment, stiff with fear and shame, then collapses against my chest, her sobs now audible, shaking her entire body. I hold her, letting her cry, murmuring quiet, reassuring words into her hair.
“You are safe,” I said. “You are safe with me.”
I repeat the words until her sobs begin to subside, holding her tightly against me.
“They will never touch you again,” I vow, and it is the most sacred promise I have ever made. “I will give my own life before I let them harm you.”
16
DIANA
His arms are a fortress around me. The violent, shuddering sobs that wracked my body have subsided, leaving behind a hollow, aching shame. I attacked him. I wounded the one person who has shown me any kindness in years, the creature who pulled me from a living grave. The mortification is a bitter taste in my mouth, yet I do not pull away from his embrace.
I feel safe.
His promise echoes in the silence, a vow that soothes the raw edges of my soul.They will never touch you again.The words are a balm, a shield. I believe him. I press my face against the rough fabric of his tunic, inhaling his scent—pine, and cold mountain air, and something else, something warm and uniquely him. His warmth is a steady, living thing, seeping into my skin, chasing away the bone-deep chill that has been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. One of his large hands rests on my back, a solid, grounding weight that keeps the lingering terror of the nightmare at bay.
I become hyper-aware of his touch. My skin, which has known only the cold, clinical handling of the Purna for years, now registers the gentle pressure of his hand, the strength in hisarms, the steady beat of his heart against my cheek. To be held, not as a specimen, but as a person. The contrast is so stark, so overwhelming, it brings a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. I pull back slightly, not out of fear of him, but out of a complicated mix of guilt for the wound I inflicted and a sudden, unaccustomed longing for more of his gentle contact. The air in the cave is suddenly thick with unspoken things.
I look at the makeshift bandage on his forearm, at the dark stain of his blood seeping through the cloth. Guilt is a sharp, physical pain in my chest. He risked his life to free me, and I repaid him with violence. I have to say something, to explain the terror that drove me to it, but the words are tangled and insufficient. He follows my gaze to his arm, but his expression holds no anger, only a deep, quiet sorrow for what I have endured.
