Page 16 of Bite Sized Bride

KAEL

T he human, Fenris, calls this place safe.

He found it for us—an old hunter’s cabin, tucked away in a fold of the hills, its roof sagging, its walls covered in a thick blanket of moss that makes it all but invisible from a distance.

It is a good hiding place. The scent of old wood and animal musk is strong here, a thick cloak that masks our own trail.

But it is not safe.

Nowhere is safe. Not while the master breathes. Not while the ghost of the orc inside me remembers what it is to be hunted.

I watch Fenris from the dark corner of the cabin that I have claimed as my own.

He sits by the small, smoky fire he built, sharpening his pathetic wooden stake with a shard of flint.

He is wiry and quick, his bright blue eyes constantly moving, assessing.

He smiles too easily. His story about his daughter, Elara, is a well-crafted thing, full of a grief that feels almost real.

Almost.

My primal instincts, the ones that have been honed by the curse into a razor’s edge, scream that he is a threat.

He is a variable I cannot control. He looks at Mikana when he thinks I am not watching.

He looks at her with a hunger that is not for food.

It is the hungry look of a starving man seeing a feast he knows he cannot have. It makes me want to rip his throat out.

Mikana, however, seems to blossom in his presence.

She talks to him, another human, another survivor.

Her voice, usually so quiet and measured, has a lighter cadence.

She even laughs once, a soft, startled sound that is the most beautiful and painful thing I have ever heard.

Painful, because I am not the one who caused it.

I do not like it. I do not like him. But I tolerate his presence. For her. Because she believes we need him. And her belief is a chain I am only just learning how to wear.

When night falls, Fenris announces he will take the first watch outside. “You two get some rest,” he says, his smile too wide, too friendly. “You look like you’ve been through the Thirteen Hells.”

He has no idea.

He slips out of the cabin, leaving us alone in the flickering firelight. The small space is suddenly charged, the air thick with the memory of our last night together in the cave. The memory of her touch.

Mikana does not look at me. She busies herself by the fire, tending to a small pot of water she is boiling with some herbs she found. My herbs. The ones I pointed out to her, my rough grunt of a word— Heal —the only instruction. She is making a poultice for my wounds.

She approaches me, her movements hesitant. The scent of her—of clean water and crushed fylvek grass—is a balm to the simmering rage that Fenris’s presence ignites.

“This will help,” she says softly, holding a small, damp cloth filled with the mashed green paste. “The arrow wound… it looks angry.”

She kneels before me. I am sitting on the floor, my back against the rough-hewn wall, and still I tower over her. She has to reach up to touch my shoulder. Her fingers are so small, so delicate against the scarred ruin of my hide.

Her touch is a quiet fire. It does not burn with the raw desperation of the cave. It is a slow, deliberate warmth that sinks past the skin, past the muscle, and into the very core of my being. It is a conscious choice. She is choosing to touch the monster.

She works in silence, her brow furrowed in concentration as she cleans the wound and applies the poultice. Her touch is firm, professional, but every brush of her fingers against my skin is a spark that threatens to ignite a forest fire inside me.

The orc ghost inside me is stronger now. It remembers things. It remembers the quiet intimacy of a mate tending to her warrior’s wounds after a battle. It remembers the pride, the honor, the profound connection of it. This is a ritual as old as my lost clan.

When she is done, her hand lingers on my shoulder. Her thumb strokes the edge of one of the hardened, cursed plates of my skin.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers, her gaze fixed on the wound.

Everything hurts, I want to say. Being in this body is a constant agony. Remembering is a torture. Forgetting is a void. The only thing that does not hurt is you.

But the words are too complex, a tangled knot in my throat.

“No,” I manage to grunt. A lie.

She looks up at me then, her dark eyes searching my face in the firelight. She sees the lie. She sees the pain behind it.

And she doesn’t pull away.

Instead, she leans in.

My entire being goes still. The world narrows to the space between us, to the scent of her, to the warmth of her breath on my skin.

Her lips, soft and hesitant, press against the scarred flesh of my cheek. It is not a kiss of passion. It’s a kiss of comfort. Of compassion. It is a gesture so full of a gentle, heartbreaking bravery that it shatters the last of my defenses.

The ghost of Kael, the warrior, the orc, rises up and takes control.

My hand, the one that is not wounded, comes up to cup the back of her head, my massive fingers tangling in the silken river of her dark hair. I do not pull her closer. I simply hold her there, anchoring her to me. I am giving her a choice. A chance to retreat.

She does not. She leans into my touch, a silent surrender that is anything but weak. It is a choice.

The firelight dances across her skin as I lower myself beside her, my massive frame careful not to overwhelm her delicate form.

Every breath I take is measured, controlled—the beast within me leashed by something far more powerful than chains or magic.

Love. The word echoes in the hollow chambers of my cursed soul, foreign yet achingly familiar.

"Mikana," I rumble again, savoring the shape of her name on my tongue. My hand, scarred and monstrous, trembles as I trace the elegant line of her jaw. She turns into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed, trust written in every line of her body.

I begin my worship at her throat, pressing reverent kisses to the pulse that flutters beneath her skin.

She tastes of life itself—salt and sweetness, herbs and hope.

My lips travel lower, mapping the delicate architecture of her collarbones, the soft valley between her breasts.

Each kiss is a promise, each caress an oath sworn in the ancient language of touch.

Her hands tangle in my hair, not pulling, just holding, anchoring herself to this moment.

When I glance up, her eyes are open, watching me with an intensity that steals what little breath I have.

In those dark depths, I see no fear, no revulsion at the monster loving her. I see only acceptance. Only desire.

"Please," she whispers, and the single word breaks something inside me. The last wall. The final defense.

I continue my journey down her body, taking my time, memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp.

The orc in me remembers this ritual—the claiming of a mate is not just about possession, but about knowledge.

To know every inch of her, to understand what brings her pleasure, what makes her sing.

When I settle between her thighs, she tenses slightly, uncertainty flickering across her features. I pause, meeting her gaze, asking silent permission. She nods, a flush spreading across her skin that has nothing to do with the fire's heat.

I part her gently, reverently, and lower my head to taste her essence.

The first touch of my tongue on her pussy draws a sharp gasp from her lips, her back arching off the furs.

I work slowly, learning her rhythms, her needs, the particular pressure and pace that makes her fingers tighten in my hair and her breath come in short, desperate pants.

“Kael… Kael… Yes…”

The sounds she makes—soft whimpers, breathless moans, my name falling from her lips like a prayer—they heal something broken inside me. Each one is a thread, weaving us together, binding us in ways that go beyond the physical.

Her pleasure builds like a storm, her body tensing, trembling on the edge of release. When she finally shatters, crying out my name, I feel it echo through my own soul. I hold her through the aftershocks, pressing gentle kisses to her inner thighs, her hip bones, the soft plane of her stomach.

When I move back up her body, she pulls me down for a kiss that tastes of desperation and need.

Her hands roam my scarred chest, no longer tentative but demanding.

The warrior in me recognizes another warrior—she is not some fragile thing to be protected, but a survivor, a fighter, my equal in all the ways that matter.

"I need you," she breathes against my lips, and those three words undo me completely.

I position my hard cock at her entrance, fighting for control. The beast wants to claim, to take, to mark. But Kael—the ghost of who I was, who I'm becoming again—knows better. This joining is sacred. It must be honored.

I enter her slowly, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

Her eyes lock with mine, and in them I see my own wonder reflected.

How is it possible that in this broken world, in these monstrous forms, we have found this?

This connection that transcends flesh, that reaches into the very essence of what we are?

We move together in an ancient rhythm, bodies learning each other's cadences.

Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I have to close my eyes against the overwhelming sensation.

Not just the physical pleasure—though that threatens to consume me—but the emotional weight of it.

Of being accepted. Of being chosen. Of being seen not as the Urog, not as a weapon, but as Kael.

“Kael… yes, take me!” she moans, her body convulsing in pleasure. She holds me so tight as if she’s afraid the waves will take her away.

I let out a growl begging her to look at me, echoing my earlier command, but this time it's a plea. I need to see her, need to know this is real.

Her eyes open, locking with mine, and what I see there nearly breaks me. Not just desire, not just pleasure, but something deeper. Something that mirrors the vast ocean inside my own chest.

"Mine," I grunt, the possessive word torn from the deepest part of me.

"Yours," she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders as her pleasure builds again. "And you're mine."

The truth of it hits me like a physical blow. I am hers. This broken, cursed creature that I am—I belong to her as surely as she belongs to me.

Our pace increases, driven by mutual need, by the desperate desire to merge completely, to become one being forged in firelight and shadow. When her second release takes her, her inner muscles clenching around me, my own control shatters.

Her pussy convulses around my cock, like a hand suctioning me and taking out my life giving essence. Words refuse to form on my throat, and I can only roar

My climax crashes over me like a tidal wave, washing away years of pain, of isolation, of believing I was nothing more than a monster. In this moment, buried deep inside her, feeling her heart beat against mine, I am reborn.

We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and racing hearts.

I pull her against me, tucking her small form into the protective cage of my body.

Outside, I can hear Fenris moving around, keeping watch.

Tomorrow will bring new dangers, new challenges.

The master's hunters draw closer with each passing hour.

But tonight, in this stolen moment of peace, I am not the Urog. I am not a weapon forged in darkness and pain.

I am Kael. I am her mate. And finally, I feel whole.

And as my release shudders through me, a wave of pure, unadulterated light in the darkness of my soul, I know that this moment of peace, this fragile, stolen sanctuary, is worth any battle, any pain, any hell that is to come.

I hold her in the aftermath, her warm, sleeping body a perfect fit against my own. The storm is coming. I can feel it in the air. I can smell it on the wind. Fenris is a lie, and the master’s hunters are not far behind.

But for tonight, in this small, broken-down cabin, the world is just her. And that is enough.