Page 23 of Bound By the Beast Man
CORVAK
W e have a new routine. By day, we travel, pushing ever northward through the bleak and unforgiving mountains.
But when night falls and we make camp, I watch her now as she sits before our small fire, her eyes closed in concentration, a small, steady ball of light held perfectly in the palm of her hand.
A week ago, this same power exploded from her in a chaotic, terrifying burst. Now, she commands it with a quiet, growing confidence that stirs a deep sense of pride within me.
She is a remarkable student. Her will is a thing of iron, and she absorbs every lesson with a fierce, unwavering determination.
I teach her as I would any new warrior of Osiris: with patience, but with an expectation of discipline and control.
We work on holding the light, on shaping it, on creating small, defensive shields of force that shimmer in the air for a few heartbeats before collapsing.
Each small success brings a spark of triumph to her eyes, and with it, I see the survivor she was forced to be giving way to the warrior she is choosing to become.
The training is a new source of torment for me.
It requires a proximity, contact that is a constant, agonizing test of my discipline.
I have to correct her stance, my hands on her shoulders, feeling the surprising strength in her small frame.
I guide her hands, my fingers brushing against hers, and a jolt of pure, possessive fire shoots up my arm.
The scent of her—of woodsmoke, and pine, and something uniquely her own—fills my senses, a distraction that is far more dangerous than any physical threat.
I am fighting a losing battle against my own desires, a battle I am not accustomed to, a battle I no longer wish to win.
The weather in these mountains turns with a sudden, vicious speed.
One moment, the sky is a clear, cold grey; the next, a fierce wind is howling down from the peaks, carrying with it a blinding wall of snow.
The temperature plummets, and the blizzard is upon us in minutes.
Our small, open cave offers little protection from the driving snow and the biting cold.
I know that if we stay here, exposed to the elements, Diana’s fragile, recovering strength will not last the night.
We must find better shelter, and we must find it now.
I pull her close, my body shielding her from the worst of the wind, and we push on through the storm.
It is a desperate, stumbling journey, the world reduced to a maelstrom of white.
Just as my own hope begins to falter, I spot it through the swirling snow: a dark, unnatural shape against the side of the mountain.
It is a small, abandoned hut, likely built by a hunter or trapper long ago.
It is a godsend. I force the crude wooden door open, and we stumble inside, collapsing into the relative quiet and stillness of the small, one-room shelter.
The hut is small, intimate, and it forces us even closer together.
I manage to get a fire started in the crumbling stone fireplace, its warmth slowly pushing back the life-threatening chill.
The storm rages outside, a wild symphony of wind and snow, trapping us together in the small, flickering bubble of firelight.
The cramped space magnifies everything between us.
The unspoken attraction, the charged glances, the accidental brushes of skin as we move around the small space—it all becomes a palpable, heavy tension in the air.
I watch her as she huddles by the fire, her face illuminated by the flames, and my internal conflict reaches a fever pitch.
My mission, my duty, my King—they are all abstract concepts, a world away.
She is here, she is real, and she is becoming my entire world.
The tension finally breaks. She looks up at me from across the fire, her green-gold eyes full of a question she does not dare to speak.
I see my own fierce, desperate longing reflected there.
In that moment, the war within me ends. My discipline, my guilt, my sacred duty—they all fall away, defeated by a need so profound it eclipses everything else.
I cross the small space between us in two strides and kneel before her.
I reach out and cup her face in my hand, my thumb gently brushing across her cheek.
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering shut, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
This time is different. The first time, in the cave, was a chaotic collision born of shock and desperation. This is a choice. It is a conscious, deliberate surrender to the bond that has been pulling us together since the moment I first saw her.
I kiss her, not with the frantic desperation of our earlier moments, but with a deep, consuming tenderness that lays bare every unspoken feeling in my heart.
Her lips are soft, warm, yielding under mine, tasting faintly of the wild berries we shared by the fire.
The kiss is a confession, a vow, each slow brush of my tongue against hers a testament to the depth of my love.
She responds with a passion that mirrors my own, her arms wrapping around my neck, fingers threading into my hair, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us.
This is no longer the touch of a rescuer and a victim—it’s raw, real, the touch of a man and his mate, bound by something deeper than words.
Her body presses against mine, soft curves against hard muscle, and the heat of her seeps through the layers of our clothing, igniting a fire in my blood.
I lift her into my arms, her weight a perfect fit against my chest, her breath catching as I carry her to the bed of furs in the corner of the hut.
The storm rages outside, wind howling, but the fire’s warmth wraps us in a cocoon of flickering light and shadow.
I lay her down on the soft furs, her hair spilling like a dark halo, her eyes locked on mine, burning with trust and desire.
The sight of her—strong, resilient, open to me—stirs something primal, a need to claim her, to worship her, to make her mine in every way.
I kneel beside her, my hands trembling with reverence as I peel away her clothes, layer by layer.
Her skin glows in the firelight, smooth and warm, a canvas of strength and softness.
My lips find her throat, tracing the pulse that races beneath, then lower, kissing the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts.
She arches into me, a soft moan escaping her lips, and the sound sends a jolt of hunger through me.
Her hands tug at my shirt, impatient, and I help her, shedding my clothes until we’re bare to each other, the heat of our bodies a stark contrast to the storm’s chill beyond the walls.
My hands explore her, reverent but hungry, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the silky warmth between her thighs.
She’s wet, ready, and the discovery draws a low groan from my throat.
I kiss her again, harder, my tongue claiming her mouth as my fingers tease her, stroking until her breath comes in sharp gasps, her hips lifting to meet my touch.
She’s fire and strength, and I’m in awe of her, of the trust she’s giving me, of the way she opens to me completely.
I settle between her thighs, her legs parting to welcome me, and when I enter her, it’s slow, deliberate, savoring the way her warmth envelops me, tight and perfect.
She gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I pause, letting her adjust, letting the moment pulse between us.
But the tenderness shifts, a spark catching into flame.
Her hands clutch my back, urging me deeper, and I feel the hunger in her, a need that matches my own.
I thrust harder, deeper, the rhythm building as her moans fill the hut, raw and unfiltered, drowning out the storm outside.
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in her—the slick heat, the way she moves with me, the fierce connection that binds us.
The reverence gives way to something wilder, a fierce possession that consumes us both.
I grip her hips, angling her to take me deeper, each thrust a claim, a vow, a fucking declaration of everything she means to me.
She meets me with equal fire, her nails raking my back, her cries sharp and desperate, urging me on.
“More,” she gasps, her voice raw, and I give it to her, pounding into her with a rhythm that’s relentless, primal, our bodies slamming together in a frantic, perfect dance.
The furs shift beneath us, the firelight painting her skin with gold as sweat glistens, her body arching, taut and trembling under me.
She tightens around me, her breath hitching, and I feel her break, her cry wild and unrestrained as her body clenches, pulling me deeper into her release.
It’s too much—the heat, the sound, the way she clings to me—and I follow, my own climax tearing through me, raw and blinding, as I spill into her with a groan that feels ripped from my soul.
For a moment, there’s nothing but her—her warmth, her pulse, her trembling body beneath mine.
We collapse into the furs, panting, tangled together in the fire’s glow.
Her head rests on my chest, her breath warm against my skin, and I hold her close, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on her back.
The storm rages on outside, but here, in this moment, there’s only peace, only her.
The sense of rightness, of completeness, is absolute.
She is my mate, my heart, my home, and in the quiet, I whisper the truth that anchors me: I am hers, wholly and forever.