Page 7 of Bite Sized Bride

MIKANA

T he world is a blur of green and grey, a churning vortex of motion that I only vaguely register.

The monster’s arm is a cage of iron and leather around my ribs, pinning me to a chest as hard as a stone wall.

Each of his ground-shaking strides jars my teeth, my head lolling against his shoulder.

The air is ripped from my lungs in ragged gasps.

I am nothing but a parcel, a sack of bones being carried away from one nightmare and into another.

He runs for what feels like an eternity, an unstoppable force of nature that does not tire. The forest is no obstacle; it is an inconvenience he tears through. Finally, as the first hint of a bruised, grey dawn bleeds through the canopy, he slows.

We are in a small, sheltered cove, a bite taken out of a sheer rock face. A shallow cave, barely deep enough to offer respite from the persistent drizzle, is carved into the stone. It is defensible. It is a prison.

He sets me down. Not gently. My feet hit the muddy ground and my legs, weak as a newborn dae’s, buckle beneath me.

I crumple into a heap, my body a single, screaming symphony of pain.

He pays me no mind. He turns and stands at the opening of the cave, a ten-foot-tall silhouette of jagged horns and raw power against the bleak morning light.

He is a wall. A barrier between me and the world I just fled, but also a barrier between me and any hope of true freedom.

I am a slave who has simply traded one master for another. A much, much larger one.

I press a hand to my ribs, wincing as my fingers find a tender, bruised spot where his arm held me.

My tunic is in tatters, my skin is cold and clammy, and a deep, shuddering chill has taken root in my bones.

I watch him, my heart a frantic, trapped bird against my ribs.

He stands perfectly still, his massive head turning slowly from side to side, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the air.

His amber eyes, glowing faintly in the gloom, scan the treeline. He is a guardian. A warden.

He is magnificent and terrifying, and he is the only reason I am still alive.

After a long, tense silence, he turns from the cave mouth and disappears back into the forest without a sound.

My first thought is to run. To scramble back into the trees and disappear.

But where would I go? My feet are a mess of cuts and bruises, I have no food, no water, and Malakor’s hunters are everywhere.

Out there, I am prey. In here… in here, I am a captive.

It is not freedom, but it is a sliver of a chance.

I crawl deeper into the cave, huddling against the cold stone, and wait.

He returns less than an hour later. He moves with a silence that is unnerving for a creature of his size. One moment the cave entrance is empty, the next he is there, filling it completely.

He drops his latest prize at my feet.

My stomach lurches, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

It’s a suru, the rabbit-like creature of the forest, its soft brown fur matted with blood.

Its neck is snapped at an unnatural angle, and a dark, wet patch stains the ground where he dropped it.

It is a gift. It is a horror. It is his idea of provision.

He makes a low sound in his chest, a rumbling growl that is not aggressive, but expectant. He nudges the dead creature with his foot, pushing it closer to me. Eat.

I stare at the raw, bloody carcass, at the glassy, dead eyes. Bile rises in my throat. I shake my head, pressing myself further against the cave wall. “No.”

The word is a raw whisper.

His head tilts. The amber eyes narrow. The growl deepens, a note of confusion, of frustration, entering the sound. He doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. He is a beast. He hunts. He kills. He eats. The fire is a mystery to him.

But I am not a beast. And I will not eat raw flesh like one.

An idea, born of desperation, takes root. I am a slave. I am a prisoner. But in this one small thing, I can have control. I can be the one who teaches.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely control them.

I reach for the small bundle tied at my waist, the one I managed not to lose in the chaos of the escape.

My fingers fumble with the knot, and I pull out my pathetic treasures: the stolen letter opener, a small piece of flint, and a shard of steel.

The beast watches my every move, his massive form tense, his eyes tracking the glint of the letter opener’s blade. He could cross the space between us in a single step and snap my neck before I could even scream.

“It’s… it’s for the food,” I say, my voice trembling. I hold up the small blade. “To prepare it.”

He makes no move to stop me. I take that as permission.

Slowly, cautiously, I crawl toward the dead suru.

The smell of blood is thick in the air. I force myself to breathe through my mouth.

I turn my back to him, a terrifying act of trust, and begin the gruesome task of skinning the creature.

My hands are clumsy, the letter opener a poor substitute for a proper knife, but I manage.

The work is bloody and visceral, but it is also a focus, a task that keeps the terror at bay.

Once the suru is skinned and cleaned as best I can manage, I set about building a fire.

I gather dry twigs and moss from the back of the cave, my movements slow and deliberate, never turning my back on him for more than a second.

I strike the flint against the steel, again and again, my numb fingers fumbling.

A spark finally catches in the tinder. I blow on it gently, nurturing the fragile flame until it grows into a small, steady fire.

The warmth is a blessing. It pushes back the damp chill of the cave, and the cheerful crackle of the flames is a welcome sound in the oppressive silence.

I skewer pieces of the suru meat on a green stick and hold it over the fire. The smell of roasting meat soon fills the cave, a savory, comforting scent that makes my empty stomach ache with hunger.

Throughout it all, he watches. He sits on his haunches near the entrance of the cave, a silent, brooding mountain.

The firelight dances across his scarred hide, making shadows writhe in the hollows of his face.

The red glow in his eyes has faded, leaving only the deep, molten amber.

He is watching the meat cook, a look of profound, almost childlike curiosity on his monstrous face.

When the meat is cooked through, I pull it from the fire. I eat a piece, my hunger so sharp it’s a physical pain. It’s the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. I hold out the stick to him, an offering.

He stares at the cooked meat, then at me. He does not move.

“It’s for you,” I say softly. “It’s better this way. Cooked.”

He slowly reaches out a massive hand. His claws, which I have seen tear through steel armor, are gentle as they pluck the stick from my grasp.

He brings the meat to his mouth and tears off a piece with his teeth.

He chews slowly, thoughtfully. A low rumble starts in his chest. It is not a growl of aggression.

It sounds like… pleasure? Of contentment.

We eat in silence, sharing the meager meal. A truce.

When we are done, I am exhausted, but the fire and the food have brought a sliver of warmth back to my soul. I cannot live like this, though. I cannot live in silent terror, waiting for his whims to change.

I take a breath, gathering what little courage I have left. I point to the crackling flames.

“Fire,” I say, my voice clear and steady. “That is fire.”

He looks at the fire, then back at me, his head tilted.

I point to myself. “Mikana.”

I point to him. “You are…?”

He just stares, the amber eyes unblinking. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. I am about to give up when he opens his mouth. A sound comes out, a harsh, guttural rasp, like stones grinding together.

“Kael.”

The name hangs in the air between us, a fragile, impossible thing. It is the first word he has spoken. It is the first piece of himself he has given me.

The next few days fall into a strange, tense rhythm.

He hunts. I cook. I tend to the wounds he sustained in the fight at the temple, cleaning them with boiled water and crushed herbs I find in the forest. The first time I approached him with a damp cloth, he went rigid, a low growl rumbling in his chest, a clear warning.

My hand trembled, but I did not pull back.

I met his gaze, and after a long, heart-stopping moment, he allowed it.

Touching him is terrifying. His hide is a landscape of scars and unnaturally hard plates, his muscles like coiled steel beneath. But it is also warm, alive.

He shadows my every move. When I go to the stream to fetch water, he is there, a silent sentinel on the bank.

When I search for edible plants, he follows a dozen paces behind, his eyes constantly scanning our surroundings.

I am his prisoner, but I am also the most well-protected creature in all of Protheka.

I continue the lessons. I point to a tree. “Tree.” I hold up a stone. “Stone.” I touch the fused iron collar on his neck. He flinches violently, a roar of pure agony ripping from his throat, and I never touch it again.

He is a slow student. His voice is a rough, barely used thing, and the words come out as harsh, one-syllable grunts. But he learns. He watches my mouth as I form the words, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

On the fourth day, I wake from a fitful sleep to find him sitting by the dying embers of the fire, watching me.

This is not unusual. I have woken to find him watching me every night.

But this time is different. The ever-present tension in his massive shoulders is gone. The red storm in his eyes is calm.

He sees that I am awake. He looks at the entrance of the cave, where the morning light is beginning to filter through the trees. Then he looks at me.

“Safe,” he rumbles, his low voice a vibration that I can feel in my bones.

And in that moment, I realize the most terrifying, impossible truth of all. He is right.

Out there, beyond the mouth of this cave, is a world of refined cruelty, of elegant torture, of men who smile while they break you.

A world ruled by my former master. In here, with this silent, scarred monster, this broken warrior who speaks in grunts and eats burnt meat from a stick, I am safe.

The peace I feel in his presence is more real, more profound, than any I have ever known.

I am the captive of a monster. And finally, I feel something akin to home.