Page 19 of Bite Sized Bride

MIKANA

T he world has become small. It has shrunk to the size of this damp, hidden cave, to the flickering circle of firelight, to the quiet, steady rhythm of Kael’s breathing as he sleeps.

It has been three days since the ambush.

Three days of a tense, fragile peace, of listening to the forest for the sound of our hunters, of watching Kael heal.

He is different. The change is not just in his wounds, which, thanks to the strange, latent power I’d exhausted myself to summon, are closing with an unnatural speed.

The change is behind his eyes. The Urog, the mindless, raging beast, is a ghost now, a faint shadow that only flickers in moments of extreme pain or stress.

The soul of the orc, the being who calls himself Kael, is at the forefront. He is awake.

And his awakening is the most beautiful and heartbreaking thing I have ever witnessed.

He sits by the fire, his massive form folded into a space that is too small for him.

He is trying to carve a piece of wood with the small, sharp blade I took from the dead Miou warrior.

His hands, gargantuan things made for wielding axes and breaking shields, are clumsy and slow.

His tongue is poked out from between his lips in concentration, a strangely childlike gesture on that monstrous, scarred face.

He is carving a bird. A Pavo, like the one I pointed out to him days ago. The result is a crude, lopsided thing, but it is undeniably a bird. He holds it up, turning it over and over, a low growl of frustration rumbling in his chest at its imperfections.

“It’s beautiful, Kael,” I say softly from my spot where I am mending my tattered tunic with a bone needle and a thread pulled from a spider’s web.

He looks at me, his golden amber eyes, so clear now, holding a flicker of doubt. “Wood… wrong. Hands… big.”

“No,” I say, my heart aching with a tenderness that is becoming frighteningly familiar. “It’s perfect. You made it.”

He looks back at the wooden bird, then at his own hands, at the thick, black claws that tip his fingers. A shadow passes over his face, the ghost of the Urog, the memory of what these hands have done. I see the self-loathing that twists his features.

I put down my sewing and move to kneel before him.

I take his hand in mine. It is a terrifying, magnificent thing, my own hand completely lost in his grasp.

The skin is a landscape of rough, calloused hide and unnaturally hard plates, crisscrossed with a web of white scars.

I run my thumb over his knuckles, feeling the immense, dormant power beneath the skin.

“These hands,” I say in a quiet murmur. “These hands saved my life. These hands keep me warm. They make me… safe.”

He looks at our joined hands, then at me, his gaze so full of a raw, wounded vulnerability that it feels like I am looking directly into his soul. He does not understand how I can touch him without flinching, how I can look at him without seeing the monster.

He doesn’t realize that I no longer see the monster.

I see the prisoner trapped inside. I see the warrior who fights a battle every single day against the darkness that was forced upon him.

I see the gentle, grieving soul who carves clumsy wooden birds because he remembers a moment of simple beauty.

I am in love with him.

The realization is not a lightning strike.

It is a slow, creeping dawn that I have been trying to ignore for days.

It is terrifying. It is insane. It is the truest thing I have ever known.

I am in love with a creature that the world sees as a monster, a being whose very existence is a crime. And I would not have it any other way.

He brings my hand to his face, pressing my palm against his rough, scarred cheek. He closes his eyes, a low, shuddering sigh escaping his lips. He is not just touching me. He is anchoring himself to me.

“Grak,” he whispers, his voice thick with a memory so painful it is a physical presence in the cave.

“Who is Grak?” I ask softly.

“My brother,” he says, his eyes still closed. “He… we hunted. In the snow. He laughed. The sound… it is gone.”

The grief that pours from him is a palpable thing, a wave of cold that makes the small hairs on my arms stand up. He is sharing his pain with me, offering me the broken pieces of his past.

I lean in, my other hand coming up to cup his face, my fingers tangling in the rough, black hair at his temple. “I’m sorry, Kael,” I whisper.

My lips find his.

This kiss is not born of desperation or a primal claiming.

It is a conscious choice. A comfort. A quiet, deliberate act of love.

His lips are rough, chapped, but they are gentle against mine.

The kiss is slow, deep, a silent conversation that says everything we do not have the words for.

It says, I see you. I accept you. You are not alone.

He pulls back, his amber eyes searching mine. The question in them is clear. Are you sure?

I answer by leaning in again, my kiss more demanding this time. I pour all of my fear, my gratitude, my impossible, terrifying love into it. I am no longer the frightened slave girl. I am a woman who has chosen her fate. And my fate is him.

A low growl, not of aggression, but of pure, possessive need, rumbles in his chest. He lifts me as if I am made of air and carries me to the pallet of furs that has become our shared bed. He lays me down with a reverence that makes my heart ache.

He looms over me, a mountain of shadow and moonlight from the cave entrance.

The firelight plays over the harsh angles of his face, the jagged line of his broken tusk, the permanent, shameful brand of the fused collar at his neck.

He is a creature of nightmare. He is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

"You are… not afraid?" he asks, his voice a raw, broken whisper.

"No," I lie. I am terrified. But not of him. I am terrified of the world that will try to tear us apart. I am terrified of the hope that is blooming in my chest, because hope is a thing that can be killed.

I reach up, my hands tracing the line of his jaw, the rough texture of his skin. "I see you, Kael," I say, the sounds a vow. "Not the Urog. You."

His eyes squeeze shut, a single, hot tear escaping to trace a path through the grime on his cheek.

He lowers his head, his lips finding the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder.

His touch is a pilgrimage, a slow, reverent exploration.

His massive hands, which could so easily break me, are impossibly gentle.

They work at the ties of my tunic with careful precision, peeling away the layers between us until I lie bare beneath him.

The cool air of the cave kisses my skin, but I don't shiver from cold.

The heat in his gaze as he looks down at me is enough to set me ablaze.

His hands trace paths of fire across my skin—over the swell of my breasts, down the plane of my stomach, along the curve of my hips.

Each touch is deliberate, worshipful, as if he's memorizing me through his fingertips.

"Beautiful," he rumbles, the word thick with emotion. "Mine."

"Yes," I breathe, arching into his touch. "Yours."

His head lowers to my breast, his mouth closing over a sensitive peak. The sensation arrows straight to my core, making me gasp and tangle my fingers in his coarse hair. He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, his tongue and lips working in concert to drive me to the edge of madness.

I'm trembling by the time he moves lower, pressing kisses to my ribs, my navel, the sharp jut of my hip bones. When he settles between my thighs, looking up at me with those amber eyes for permission, I can only nod, already lost to the need coursing through my veins.

The first touch of his tongue to my pussy draws a cry from my lips that echoes off the cave walls.

He is patient, thorough, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my hips buck against his mouth.

His massive hands hold my thighs apart, keeping me open for his ministrations as he devours me with a single-minded focus that speaks of his orcish nature—when an orc claims a mate, they do so completely.

"Kael," I sob his name as pressure builds within me, a storm gathering strength. "Please, I need?—"

He knows what I need. His tongue finds that bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, and he doesn't relent until I'm shattering, my release crashing over me in waves that seem endless.

He holds me through it, gentling me with soft kisses to my inner thighs as I slowly come back to myself.

When I can finally focus again, I find him watching me with an expression of such raw wonder that it makes my heart clench. I reach for him, pulling him up my body until I can kiss him, tasting myself on his lips. My hands work at his rough-spun trousers, needing to feel all of him against me.

When he's finally bare, I can't help but stare. His cock is proportional to the rest of him—thick, heavy, intimidating in its size. But I'm not afraid. My body remembers how he filled me before, how right it felt despite the impossibility of it.

I wrap my hand around him, marveling at how my fingers don't quite meet. He groans, a sound that vibrates through his entire body, his hips jerking involuntarily at my touch.

"Mikana," he grits out, his control visibly fraying.

I guide him to my entrance, already wet and ready for him. "I need you inside me," I whisper, the words making him shudder.

He enters me slowly, so slowly, letting my body adjust to his size. The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but I breathe through it, focusing on his face above mine. The concentration there, the careful control, the love—yes, love—in his eyes makes the slight discomfort fade into nothing.

When he's fully seated within me, we both pause, overwhelmed by the sensation. I feel claimed, possessed, completed in a way that defies description. My pussy clenches around his cock, drawing a guttural groan from deep in his chest.

"Move," I urge, rolling my hips to encourage him. "Please, Kael."

He begins a slow, deep rhythm that touches places inside me I didn't know existed. Each thrust is measured, controlled, but I can feel the beast lurking beneath his skin, held in check by iron will. His hands frame my face, holding me still so he can watch my expressions as he moves within me.

I meet his thrusts, my legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. The wet sounds of our joining fill the cave, punctuated by our gasps and moans. When he shifts angle slightly, hitting a spot that makes me see stars, I cry out, my nails raking down his back.

"There," I gasp. "Right there, don't stop."

He doesn't. He drives into that spot with increasing force, his control finally beginning to crack. The bed of furs beneath us creaks with the force of his thrusts, and I glory in it, in the wildness finally breaking free.

"Mine," he growls, his voice barely human now. "My mate. Mine."

"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.