Page 13 of Bound By the Beast Man

CORVAK

T he bleeding on her arm has stopped. She watches me, her green-gold eyes wide and searching in the dim moonlight.

I see exhaustion and terror in their depths, but beneath it, there is a core of strength, a flicker of defiance that calls to something deep within me.

I know we cannot stay here. The Purna’s rage will not be contained for long; they will be hunting us with all of their dark power.

My mate is weak, barely able to stand, but to remain in this hollow is to be captured, and I will not allow that.

I rise to my feet, offering her my hand.

She looks at it for a long moment, a flicker of distrust in her gaze, before her own small, cold hand slips into mine.

Her touch is a jolt, a spark of warmth that travels up my arm and settles deep in my chest. I help her to her feet, her body trembling with a combination of cold and shock.

Her legs, unused for what she tells me are years, threaten to buckle beneath her.

“We must move,” I said.

“Where?” she whispered.

“We must climb,” I said. “It is the only way to throw them off our trail.”

She does not complain. She does not plead for rest. She simply gives me a tight, determined nod, her jaw set.

I slip my arm around her waist to support her, and we take our first steps out of the hollow and into the treacherous, moon-drenched landscape of the Prazh Mountains.

Every step is an effort for her, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but she does not slow me down.

She matches my pace as best she can, her resilience a fierce and beautiful thing to behold.

Before the first light of dawn breaks, we come to a wide, frozen stream.

The ice is a sheet of black glass under the twin moons, the water rushing silently beneath it.

This is the chance I have been looking for.

Magic follows scent and heat, but the cold of the running water will mask our trail completely, at least for a time.

I explain this to her in a low voice, and she listens intently, her eyes sharp and intelligent despite her weariness.

I help her onto the ice, my arm a steadying brace as she finds her footing.

She stumbles often, her muscles weak and uncoordinated, but her will is a thing of iron.

Not once does she fall. She moves with a careful, deliberate grace, her focus absolute.

As we reach the far bank, my heightened senses pick up the scent of prey on the wind.

It is small, but it is food, and we both desperately need the strength.

“Stay here,” I whispered. “Do not move.”

She nods, understanding immediately. I melt into the pre-dawn gloom, my movements silent.

The hunt is blessedly short. I return minutes later with a small, white-furred creature, its neck broken cleanly.

I expect her to be squeamish, perhaps even frightened by the sight of the dead animal.

Many who are not warriors are. But as I lay it on the frozen ground, she simply looks at me, her expression unreadable, and holds out her hand.

“Your knife,” she said, her voice raspy but firm.

I stare at her for a second, surprised, before handing it to her hilt-first. Without the slightest hesitation, she begins to help me skin and prepare the meat, her movements economical and sure.

She has done this before. This woman, who looks as fragile as a winter flower, is a survivor in her very bones.

As the grey light of morning finally arrives, the cold deepens.

I find us shelter in a shallow cave set into the side of a cliff, a place well-hidden from the path below and with a clear view of the surrounding terrain.

It is defensible, and it is here that we can finally risk a small, smokeless fire, using the dry wood I gathered on our climb.

I get the fire started while she watches, her arms wrapped around herself, her wary gaze missing nothing.

We cook the small amount of meat on sharpened sticks, the scent of it making my own stomach clench with a hunger I have long ignored.

We eat in a silence that is not uncomfortable.

It is the quiet of two creatures who have survived, who understand the value of a warm fire and a full belly in a world determined to kill them.

The shared meal is a simple, primal act, a truce that builds a bond between us stronger than any words.

Across the flickering firelight, I watch her.

The flames cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate line of her jaw and the deep, haunted weariness in her eyes.

She is more beautiful than I first realized, a fragile strength etched into every line of her.

My mission for Osiris, my vow to find my brothers—they feel like memories from another life.

My entire world has narrowed to this small cave, to the fierce, immediate, and all-consuming duty to protect the resilient, fighting woman who is now huddled in my cloak.

She finally succumbs to an exhaustion too deep to fight, her head nodding forward before she curls up on the stone floor.

I move, my body positioned between her and the cold, dangerous world outside. I will not let anything touch her.