Page 25 of Bite Sized Bride

MIKANA

T he walk back to the cabin is a silent, sacred thing.

Our hands are still bound together by the cord Kael wove, the crushed herbs and flowers releasing a fragrant, earthy perfume with every small movement.

The circle of salt and rirzed blossoms glows behind us in the moonlight, a temporary, magical sigil marking the place where our two broken souls were finally, irrevocably, made one.

Kael’s hand, his real hand, is a warm, solid weight in mine.

There are no claws, no hardened, cursed plates of hide.

There is only the calloused skin of a warrior, the strength of an orc, the gentle, possessive grip of my mate.

He walks beside me, his massive form a comforting shadow in the silvered dark, his presence a quiet, steady hum of peace that resonates deep within my own chest.

He is no longer a storm I have to survive. He is the mountain that shelters me from the wind.

When we reach the door of our small, sturdy cabin, he stops.

He turns to face me, his amber eyes, so clear and full of a light I never thought I would see, searching my face.

The moonlight traces the harsh, handsome lines of his orcish features—the strong jaw, the proud, straight nose, the full, healthy tusks that curve past his lips.

He is a creature of breathtaking, brutal beauty. And he is mine.

“My mate,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through the soles of my feet. He says the words as if they are a prayer, a miracle he is still struggling to comprehend.

“My Kael,” I whisper back, my voice thick with an emotion so vast it has no name.

He lifts our bound hands and brings my knuckles to his lips.

He presses a soft, reverent kiss to my skin, his gaze never leaving mine.

Then, with a slow, deliberate care, he begins to unwind the cord.

The herbs and flowers fall away, scattering on the ground at our feet like a final, fragrant offering.

When our hands are free, he does not let go. He simply holds my hand in his, his thumb stroking a slow, soothing circle over the back of my wrist, right over the faded, ugly brand of the serpent. He is erasing the mark of my past with the promise of our future.

He lifts me then, scooping me into his arms as if I weigh nothing.

I don’t protest. I don’t fight. I wrap my arms around his neck, my head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and I breathe him in.

The clean, masculine scent of him, of pine and woodsmoke and the unique, earthy smell of his green skin.

He carries me over the threshold of our home, a quiet, solemn act that feels more significant than any grand ceremony.

He does not carry me to the pallet of furs that has served as our bed for months.

Instead, he walks to the hearth, where the fire has burned down to a bed of glowing, orange embers.

He sits on the large, flat stone before it, settling me gently in his lap so that I am cradled against his chest, my back to the warmth of the dying fire.

We sit in a comfortable, profound silence for a long time. The only sounds are the soft sigh of the wind outside and the steady, strong beat of his heart against my back. This is peace. A feeling so foreign, so precious, that I am almost afraid to breathe, for fear of shattering it.

“I never thought…” he begins, his voice a low, hesitant rumble. He trails off, the words lost in the vastness of what he is trying to say.

“I know,” I whisper, my hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the great, swirling scar that is a permanent reminder of the Urog’s agony. “Me neither.”

He takes my hand, his fingers lacing with my own. He brings our joined hands before his face, studying them in the soft, orange light of the embers. He looks at my hand, so small, so pale, so human, resting in his own massive, green, and undeniably orcish one.

“I am… not what you are used to,” he says, the words a quiet statement of fact, but I can hear the faint, underlying tremor of an old insecurity.

I turn in his lap, straddling his powerful thighs so that I am facing him. I take his face in my hands, my thumbs stroking the harsh, angular lines of his cheekbones.

“No,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “You are not a cruel, sadistic dark elf who finds beauty in the suffering of others. You are not a frightened, broken man who betrays people to save himself. You are Kael. You are a warrior with a soul so full of honor it survived a living hell. You are a gentle, grieving man who carves birds out of wood. You are the strongest, bravest, kindest person I have ever known. And you are my mate.”

I lean in and kiss him. It is a slow, deep, languid kiss, a kiss of absolute certainty. I pour all of my love, all of my adoration, all of my unwavering belief in the man he is into it. I feel the last of his insecurities melt away under the force of my conviction.

He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, and his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him. The kiss deepens, becoming something more, something hotter. The quiet peace of the hearth is being stoked into a roaring, passionate fire.

This is not the desperate, primal claiming of the cave. It is not the gentle, healing affirmation of our last time together. This is a celebration. This is the joyous, unbridled consummation of a vow made under the moon and stars. This is the beginning of our forever.

His hands, which have been so careful, so reverent, are now confident, possessive. They roam over my back, my sides, my hips, learning me, claiming me, loving me. I meet his passion with my own, my hands tangling in his long, black hair, my body arching against his.

The rough, homespun fabric of our clothes is a barrier, a nuisance. We shed them with a clumsy, laughing haste, our movements eager, impatient. And then, we are skin to skin.

His body is a revelation. It is a landscape of pure, masculine power.

The muscles of his chest and abdomen are hard as carved stone, his skin warm and surprisingly smooth.

The scars are a part of him, a testament to his survival, and I trace them with my fingertips, not as wounds, but as the lines of a map that has led him home to me.

He looks at me, his amber eyes blazing with a fire that is not of the curse, but of a pure, undiluted desire. He sees me, all of me, and there is only adoration in his gaze. He makes me feel beautiful. He makes me feel cherished. He makes me feel… whole.

"My Mikana," he breathes, his voice a raw, reverent whisper.

He lays me back on the soft furs before the hearth, the warmth of the embers a pleasant heat against my skin. He follows me down, his massive body covering mine, but he doesn't enter me immediately. Instead, he begins a slow, worshipful exploration of my body with his hands and mouth.

His lips trace a path down my throat, pausing at the hollow where my pulse flutters like a caged bird.

His tusks graze my skin lightly, sending shivers through me.

When he reaches my breasts, he lavishes attention on each one, his tongue circling the sensitive peaks until I'm gasping and arching beneath him.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "My beautiful mate."

His hands are everywhere—stroking, caressing, claiming. When one large hand slides between my thighs, finding me already wet and ready for him, we both groan at the contact. His fingers are gentle but sure as they explore me, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan his name.

"Please," I whisper, my hips moving against his hand. "I need you."

But he's not done worshipping me. He moves lower, settling between my thighs with an intent that makes my breath catch.

When his mouth finds my most sensitive flesh, I cry out, my hands tangling in his long black hair.

He takes his time, using his tongue and lips to drive me to the very edge of madness before pulling back, again and again, until I'm trembling and pleading.

"Kael," I sob, tugging at his hair. "Please, I need you inside me. Now."

He rises above me, his impressive length hard and ready. In the firelight, I can see the evidence of his desire, and it makes my own need spike even higher. I reach between us, wrapping my hand around him, marveling again at his size, at the velvet-over-steel feel of him.

He groans at my touch, his hips jerking involuntarily. "Mikana," he grits out, his control visibly fraying.

I guide him to my entrance, already slick with need. He enters me slowly, so slowly, letting me adjust to his size. The stretch is exquisite, the feeling of fullness exactly what I've been craving. When he's fully seated within me, we both pause, overwhelmed by the perfection of this moment.

"My mate," he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. "My everything."

"Yes," I breathe, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Always."

He begins to move, a deep, powerful rhythm that touches the very core of me.

Each thrust is deliberate, measured, designed to bring us both the maximum pleasure.

The sound of our joining fills the cabin—skin against skin, breathless gasps, whispered endearments in both Common and what I recognize as Orcish.

I meet him thrust for thrust, my body moving in perfect harmony with his. When he shifts angle slightly, hitting a spot deep inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids, I cry out, my nails digging into his broad shoulders.

"There," I gasp. "Right there."

He maintains that angle, that perfect pressure, as he drives into me with increasing passion. The pleasure builds like a storm, wild and unstoppable. I can feel him getting close too, his movements becoming less controlled, more primal.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with need.

I open my eyes, meeting his blazing amber gaze. The love I see there, the complete adoration and possession, pushes me over the edge. I come with his name on my lips, my body clenching around him in waves of ecstasy.

He follows me over, his own release a powerful thing that has him roaring his completion to the rafters. I feel him pulse within me, marking me as his in the most primal way possible.

In the aftermath, we lie tangled together, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing slowly returning to normal. He's still inside me, and neither of us makes any move to separate. This connection is too precious, too perfect.

He holds me close, his hand stroking my hair, his lips pressing soft, gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, my lips.

"I love you," he murmurs, the words coming easier now. "My mate. My Mikana. My everything."

"I love you too," I whisper back, tears of joy sliding down my cheeks. "My Kael. My heart. My home."

The fire has burned down to a soft, pulsing glow. The silence of the valley is a comforting blanket around us.

“I will plant you a garden in the spring,” he murmurs, his voice a sleepy rumble against my ear. “With fijus berries. And rirzed. You will have a place to read your books in the sun.”

Tears well in my eyes, but they are not tears of sorrow. They are tears of a joy so profound, so overwhelming, it has no words. He is not just talking about survival. He is talking about a life. A future.

I snuggle deeper into his embrace, my head resting on his chest, right over the steady, powerful beat of his heart.

“I would like that,” I whisper.

And as I drift off to sleep, held safe in the arms of the orc who saved my soul, I know that our story is not over. It has just begun.