Page 15 of Bought by the Broken Beast

BELLA

T omorrow, we go to war.

The thought is a cold, hard stone in my gut. Tomorrow, we will take our tiny, cobbled-together army of forgotten souls and throw them against the might of a Vakkak Lord. We will likely die.

But tonight, in the quiet, smoky confines of the abandoned forge, there is a strange and fragile peace.

The rain has stopped. The city outside is a distant murmur.

A small fire crackles in the hearth, a defiant spark of warmth against the cold iron and stone.

Votoi sits across from me, the firelight dancing on the planes of his face, turning his scars into a map of shadows.

He has been cleaning the sword he took from Kairen’s guard, his movements slow, methodical, hypnotic.

We have not spoken of what happened between us after the fight. The raw, desperate claiming against the wall. It lingers in the air, an unspoken truth, a territory we are both too afraid to explore. The memory of it sends a shiver of heat through me, a deep, aching throb between my legs.

“We should eat,” I say, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet. It’s a mundane, practical thing to say when death is waiting for us at dawn, but it’s all I have.

He gives a slow, deliberate nod and sets the sword aside.

I divide the last of the bread and cheese Lyra brought us.

We eat in silence, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the soft chew of bread.

The silence is different now. It’s not the angry, resentful quiet of our first few days together.

It’s a shared space, heavy with unspoken thoughts, with the weight of what is to come.

“Before I was a slave,” I say, the words tumbling out of me before I can stop them, “I lived in a small settlement on the coast of Tlouz. My father was a scholar. He taught me to read, to love the weight of a book in my hands.”

Votoi stops chewing, his amber eyes fixed on me, listening.

“Our house was small,” I continue, a phantom ache in my chest for a life that feels like it belonged to someone else.

“But it was filled with scrolls and parchments. I didn’t have toys.

I had stories. Stories of ancient heroes, of faraway lands.

I thought the world was as orderly as the words on a page.

” A short, bitter laugh escapes me. “I was a fool.”

“It is not foolish to believe in order,” he says, voice a deep rumble. “It is the foundation of honor.”

“There was no honor in the raid that took my family,” I whisper, the memory a sharp, sudden pain. “Just fire, and screaming, and the butt of a slaver’s rifle against my temple.” My fingers drift to the small, faint scar he cannot see in the dim light. “I have not spoken of this to anyone.”

“And I have not spoken of my home,” he counters, his gaze dropping to the fire.

“Not since I lost the right to bear its name.” He’s silent for a long moment, and I think that is all he will say.

But then, he speaks again, his voice softer than I have ever heard it.

“The Saru estate is on the western coast of the island. It is built into the cliffs, a fortress of white stone that has withstood a thousand years of storms. From my window, I could see nothing but the endless expanse of the sea. The sound of the waves… it was the first sound I heard when I was born, and the sound I thought I would hear when I died.”

I can see it. I can see him, a young, proud Vakkak, his horn unblemished, his heart full of the honor of his name, standing at a window and looking out at a future that was as vast and as limitless as the ocean.

The image is so clear, so painful, it makes my own loss feel sharper.

We are two ghosts, haunted by the lives we were supposed to have.

“We will get it back for you,” I say as a fierce, impossible promise. “Your name. Your home.”

He looks at me then, and the distance between us collapses. The air grows thick, heavy with a profound, aching vulnerability. The firelight catches the moisture in his eyes, and I realize with a jolt that he is not just a monster, not just a warrior. He is a man who has lost everything.

“Bella,” he says, my name a rough, beautiful sound on his tongue.

He reaches across the small space between us, his massive, calloused hand cupping my cheek. His touch is not possessive, not demanding. It is impossibly, heartbreakingly gentle. A thumb strokes the line of my jaw, sending a shower of sparks down my spine.

This is more dangerous than any assassin’s blade. This quiet, tender intimacy. It is the promise of a future we will likely never see. And I want it. Gods, how I want it.

I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. My hand comes up to cover his, holding him to me. The rough texture of his skin, the sheer size of him, it is no longer a source of fear. It is a source of comfort. Of safety.

He rises, pulling me to my feet with him. He leads me to the pile of soft leather aprons that has become our bed. He kneels, pulling me down with him, his gaze never leaving mine.

“Last time…” he begins, his voice a low, guttural thing, “was about survival. About rage.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“Tonight,” he says, his hand coming up to trace the line of my lips, “is not about that.”

He kisses me. And this kiss is nothing like the brutal, claiming collision against the wall. It is a slow, deliberate exploration, a question and an answer all in one. It is a taste of woodsmoke, and sorrow, and a desperate, fragile hope.

My hands are in his hair, which is surprisingly soft, thick and coarse like a horse’s mane.

My fingers trace the elegant, deadly curve of his horns, the unbroken one smooth and cool, the splintered one a landscape of jagged edges.

He is magnificent. A creature of myth and legend, and he is here, with me, his mouth a gentle, devastating fire on mine.

The kisses deepen, becoming more urgent, more hungry. He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure, undiluted need, and pushes me back onto the soft leather, his massive body covering mine, a mountain of heat and muscle.

“I need to feel you, Bella,” he rasps against my skin, his lips trailing a path of fire down my throat, across my collarbone. “All of you.”

His hands are on me, but this time, there is no tearing of fabric.

His touch is reverent, worshipful. He slowly, deliberately, removes my torn dress, his gaze following the path of his hands as he reveals my skin to the firelight.

I am laid bare before him, my pale, human form a stark contrast to his dark, powerful one.

I should feel vulnerable. I have never felt more powerful.

“You are beautiful,” he breathes, the words a thing of awe. “Like the heart of a pearl. So perfect it hurts to look at you.”

My fingers, trembling, find the laces of his breeches. “Then let me look at you,” I whisper.

He helps me, his movements sure, his gaze locked on mine.

He is a masterpiece of sculpted muscle and raw, masculine power.

The firelight glints off the dark, rich fur that covers his broad chest, narrowing to a line down his hard stomach.

He is not a man. He is something more. Something primal.

A web of scars crisscrosses his chest and arms, a testament to the brutal life he has lived.

I trace the largest one, a jagged line that runs from his shoulder to his hip.

“This is not you,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred skin. “This is what was done to you.”

A shudder wracks his massive frame. He pulls me to him, his mouth finding mine again, and this time, the kiss is a desperate, consuming thing.

His hand slides down my stomach, then cups my breast. His thumb circles my nipple, the rough, calloused skin a delicious friction against the sensitive peak.

I gasp into his mouth, my back arching. His touch is electric, a brand of heat and possession.

He teases the hardened nub, rolling it between his thumb and finger, and a low, needy sound escapes my throat.

His other hand slides down my stomach, through the curls between my legs, and finds the wet, aching heart of me. I cry out against his mouth, my hips bucking against his touch.

“So wet,” he growls, his fingers slipping inside me, stretching me, preparing me. “So ready for me.”

“Please, Votoi,” I beg, my voice a raw, broken thing. “Take me. Make me yours.”

He moves between my legs, and I see him.

All of him. His manhood is a thing of breathtaking size, thick and heavy, a weapon of pleasure that seems impossibly large.

But there is no fear. Not this time. Only a deep, aching, desperate need to be filled by him, to be claimed by him so completely that there’s no room for fear, no room for the ghosts of our pasts.

He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against my wet folds. The friction alone is enough to make me cry out. He pushes, just the tip, and the sensation is a slow, delicious burn. I am tight, but my body is ready, slick and yielding.

“Look at me, Bella,” he commands, his voice a low, guttural rumble.

I open my eyes. He is watching my face, his expression a mask of intense concentration, of raw, unguarded emotion.

“I will not hurt you,” he says, the words a solemn vow.

“I know,” I whisper, and I reach down, my hand closing over his, guiding him. “Take me.”

He thrusts, a single, slow, powerful movement.

He fills me completely. The feeling is… indescribable.

A perfect, stretching fullness that borders on pain but is pure, unadulterated pleasure.

I am full of him, possessed by him. My body, which has only ever been a cage, is now a temple, and he is the god I am worshipping.

He stays still inside me, letting my body adjust to the sheer size of him. I can feel the powerful throb of his cock deep within me, a second heartbeat that matches the frantic rhythm of my own.

“Magnificent,” I whisper, my hands roaming over the vast expanse of his chest, the coarse fur a delightful friction against my palms. I trace the lines of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders. “You are so magnificent.”

A low groan escapes his lips, and he begins to move. Slowly at first, a deep, rocking rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through me. There is no pain. Only a perfect, all-consuming friction.

“Fuck me, Votoi,” I moan, my hips rising to meet his thrusts. “Please, fuck me.”

His control snaps. The rhythm becomes harder, faster, a desperate, punishing pace that is a perfect match for the storm of need raging within me.

He is no longer holding back. He is claiming me, branding me, fucking me with a raw, possessive intensity that leaves no room for thought, no room for fear.

There is only this. Only him. Only the glorious, mind-shattering friction of his body moving in mine.

“Votoi! Votoi!” I scream his name, my voice a raw, broken thing. I am close, so close, my entire body a tightly coiled spring of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

“You feel… perfect,” he groans, his voice a guttural roar. “Like you were made for me.”

He drives into me, again and again, and the world dissolves into a white-hot explosion of pure sensation.

I come apart in his arms, my body convulsing around him, my scream a high, pure sound of absolute, soul-shattering release.

My climax triggers his own. He roars, a deep, primal sound of a beast unleashed, and I feel his hot seed flood me, a final, possessive claiming.

We come down from the high together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and ragged breaths. He doesn’t pull out of me. He stays buried deep inside, his heavy, comforting weight pinning me to the soft leather. He rolls onto his side, taking me with him, his arms a cage of warmth and safety around me.

We lie in silence for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my ear. The fear, the desperation, it’s all gone, replaced by a deep, profound sense of peace. Of belonging.

“Bella,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice a low, rough thing.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel the gravity of his unspoken words.

“When this is over,” he says, voice a solemn vow that echoes in the quiet of the forge, “I will take you to the sea. I will show you my home.”

It is not a declaration of love. It is something more. It is a promise of a future. A future that, in the heart of this cold, dark forge, I finally, desperately, allow myself to believe in.