Page 17 of Bound By the Beast Man
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CORVAK
Diana’s dream revelation hangs between us, a chilling new truth that has reshaped the landscape of our desperate flight. It is not just the Purna who hunt us. We are prey in a much larger, darker game, pursued by a shadowy entity that commands the very storms. The knowledge is a cold weight in my gut, but it also brings a strange clarity. Our enemies are connected, which means our fight is a shared one. We are no longer two survivors running from separate horrors; we are soldiers in the same war.
This new understanding changes our dynamic. For days, we travel with a renewed and heightened caution. Her masking spell, the fragile bubble of Purna magic she weaves around us, is now our most vital defense. I watch her practice her control each night, my mistrust of her power warring with my growing admiration for her command of it. The faint, silvery light she summons is no longer a frightening reminder of her bloodline; it is our shield, our only hope of remaining hidden. Her ward grows stronger, more stable, with each passing day, and I can feel the subtle way it seems to bend the light and muffle the sound around us.
After four days of hard travel with no sign of pursuit, a fragile sense of relief begins to take root in my chest. There have been no distant screeches, no unnatural shadows in the sky, no feeling of magical eyes upon us. Her spell, as imperfect and draining as it is for her, is working. The constant, crushing pressure of being actively hunted begins to ease, and I allow myself to breathe. The relief is a heady, unfamiliar sensation, and it allows a different kind of awareness to surface—not of danger, but of the woman who walks beside me.
That evening, I find us a perfect place to make camp. It is a secluded hollow, a natural bowl in the mountainside surrounded by a thick stand of snow-laden pines that shields it from the wind and hides it from view. A light, peaceful snow has begun to fall, the flakes drifting down through the still air, and the silence of the high mountains is a deep and profound comfort. Right now, I feel we are truly safe, if only for one night. I build a larger, more confident fire than I have dared to before, its warmth and light a defiant bastion against the encroaching darkness.
As we huddle by the fire, eating a brace of small birds I managed to hunt, the release from our constant tension allows for something new to emerge between us. A quiet conversation begins, hesitant at first.
“Tell me about the festival,” I said.
"We would hang colored lanterns in the trees," she tells me, her voice soft with a mixture of sorrow and fond memory. "And there would be music, and dancing."
As she spoke, I saw not just the traumatized survivor, but a glimpse of the young woman she was before her world was destroyed, a woman full of life and light.
“I remember one time when I was younger, I tried to race my brother Caspian. It was a disaster. I ended up covered in mud, and he laughed about it for a week.”
"We were at our grandmother's farm, and it had rained heavily the night before. The ground was slick and treacherous, but I, in my youthful exuberance, declared it the perfect track for a race. Caspian, ever the pragmatist, warned me, but I was too caught up in the thrill of potential victory to listen.” I say.
“I can believe that to be be true,” She says playfully.
“The race started” I continued, “and I immediately took the lead, splashing through puddles with reckless abandon. Caspian, more cautious, navigated the terrain with a surprising grace. Then came the turn, a particularly muddy patch near the pigsty. I went for it, thinking I could power through. Instead, my feet slipped out from under me, and I landed face-first in a glorious, squelching mess of mud.”
“Pride always comes before a fall,” she giggled.
“Caspian,” I continued delighted by the joy my story was bringing her, “who had been trailing just behind, stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he just stared, and then a slow grin spread across his face, followed by a hearty laugh that echoed across the fields. He offered me a hand, still chuckling, as I peeled myself out of the mud, a vision of brown from head to toe.”
Her laughter was a drug that washed over me.
“I tried to be annoyed, but even I had to admit it was pretty funny. The smell of mud and pigs clung to me for the rest of the day, and Caspian, true to his word, brought it up at every family dinner for the next seven days. It became a running joke, a testament to my ill-fated attempt at competitive racing. And to this day, whenever it rains, Caspian will inevitably bring up ‘the mud race,’ a mischievous twinkle in his eye.” I concluded.
The shared laughter bridges the final gap between us, extinguishing the last embers of mistrust and fear. The air in the hollow is no longer charged with danger, but with a deep, undeniable affection. I look at her across the fire, at the waythe flames dance in her eyes, and the careful walls I have built around my own heart crumble to dust. The pull I have felt toward her from the very beginning is no longer a confusing, primal instinct at war with my duty. It is a simple, profound, and all-consuming truth.
I move to her side as I settle beside her in the secluded hollow. The fire nearby flickers, casting a warm glow against the falling snow, a silent curtain shielding us from the world. She turns to me, her eyes soft, unguarded, shimmering with a warmth that pulls me in like a tide.
I lean closer, my breath catching, and press my lips to hers. This kiss is different—not fueled by desperation or loss, but by a deep, unspoken promise. It’s slow, tender, a gentle exploration of lips and breath, tasting faintly of the mint tea we shared earlier. Each brush of her mouth against mine sends a quiet spark through me, grounding me in her presence.
Her hands rise, fingers soft but steady, cupping my face with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. I deepen the kiss, my tongue tracing her lips, seeking more. She opens to me with a soft moan, her tongue meeting mine in a slow, sensual dance that feels like a vow. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer, her body pressing against me, soft curves molding to the hard lines of my chest. Her heartbeat thrums against me, quick and alive, mirroring my own. The layers of our clothing—scarves, coats, sweaters—feel like a barrier I’m desperate to breach, but I savor the anticipation, the heat building between us.
We sink to the blanket spread on the snow-dusted ground, the fire’s warmth a faint counterpoint to the chill. I peel away her coat, her scarf, my fingers trembling with reverence as I uncover her. Her skin glows in the firelight, pale and luminous, a canvas begging to be touched. I kiss her jaw, her throat, lingering at the pulse point where her heartbeat flutters under my lips. Her breath hitches as I nip at the sensitive hollow of her collarbone,and her hands tug at my shirt, pulling it free. Her fingers explore my chest, tracing scars and muscle with a hunger that mirrors mine, her touch igniting a fire under my skin.
Our clothes fall away, piece by piece, until we’re bare to each other, the cold forgotten in the heat of our bodies. I pause to drink her in—her hair fanned out on the blanket, her eyes dark with desire, her lips parted in invitation. My hands roam her body, mapping the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the softness of her thighs. She arches into my touch, her breath a soft moan that stokes the growing need inside me. I kiss her again, harder this time, my tongue claiming her mouth as my fingers slip between her thighs, finding her wet and ready. She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders, and the sound sends a jolt of raw desire through me.
I settle between her legs, her thighs parting to welcome me, and when I enter her, it’s slow, deliberate, savoring the way her warmth envelops me, tight and perfect. She gasps, her body yielding, and I pause, letting her adjust, letting the moment stretch. But the tenderness begins to shift, a spark catching fire. Her hands clutch my back, urging me deeper, and I feel the shift in her— a hunger that matches my own. I thrust deeper, harder, the rhythm building as her moans grow louder, raw and unfiltered. Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in the heat of her, the slick friction driving us both higher.
The slow reverence gives way to something fiercer, a primal need that consumes us. I grip her hips, angling her to take me deeper, each thrust a claim, a promise, a fucking affirmation of life in this frozen, death-haunted world. She meets me thrust for thrust, her nails raking my back, her cries sharp and desperate in the quiet night. The firelight dances over her skin, sweat glistening as her body arches, taut and trembling. “Harder,” she gasps, her voice a raw plea, and I give her what she wants,pounding into her with a rhythm that’s relentless, unyielding, our bodies slapping together in a frantic, perfect cadence.
She tightens around me, her breath hitching, and I feel her shatter, her cry sharp and wild as her body clenches, pulling me deeper into her release. It’s too much—the heat, the sound, the way she clings to me—and I follow her, my own release crashing through me, raw and blinding, as I spill into her with a groan that feels ripped from my core. For a moment, the world is nothing but her—her warmth, her pulse, her trembling body beneath mine.
We collapse together, panting, tangled in each other’s arms. Her head rests on my chest, her breath warm against my skin, and I hold her close, the fire casting a golden glow over her face, peaceful now in the aftermath.
“I think I may be in love with you,” I confess.
Her breath catches in her chest. She does not speak. She does not pull away. Instead, she holds me tighter, a silent, powerful answer that is more than enough.
