Page 15 of Burned Alive to Be His

JUDITH

T he return to the settlement is a blur of pain and a strange, terrifying intimacy.

Xvitar leans on me, a mountain of wounded pride and muscle, and I, a creature he could snap in two, am the pillar holding him up.

The clan watches us, their eyes wide with a mixture of shock, fear, and a dawning, grudging respect.

They see their wounded warrior, a victor, but they also see the human slave who walked into the Bone Yard with their enemy and walked out with their champion.

He doesn’t take me to my cold, empty cave.

He bypasses it without a glance, his long, pained strides leading us directly toward the dark, imposing entrance of his own cavern. The message is a silent, brutal declaration to the entire clan. I am no longer the creature to be kept at the outskirts. I am his. And his hoard is now my cage.

The inside of his cavern is nothing like my small, cold prison. The air is warm, permeated with the scent of hot stone, old leather, and a wild, musky scent that is uniquely him. The space is immense, the ceiling lost in shadows far above. And everywhere, things glitter.

My eyes, accustomed to the dim light of my cave, are momentarily dazzled.

Piles of treasure are heaped against the walls, not with the organized precision of a dark elf noble, but with the chaotic, possessive abandon of a predator.

Smooth, multi-colored sea glass lies in shimmering mounds next to the iridescent, rainbow shells of massive sea creatures.

Strange, metallic ores pulse with a faint, inner light, casting an ethereal glow on the fossilized, bone-white skeletons of beasts I cannot name.

It is a dragon’s hoard, a collection of beautiful, broken things stolen from the world. Like me.

Xvitar grunts, his weight slumping against me more heavily. He is losing strength, his face pale beneath his dark, scaled skin. The gashes on his side are deep, welling with dark, sluggish blood.

“Sit,” I say, the command soft but firm. I guide him toward a large, flat ledge covered in a mountain of black and grey furs.

He collapses onto the furs with a groan, the sound a low rumble of pain and frustration. He glares at his broken arm, at the unnatural angle of the bone beneath the skin, and a savage snarl rips from his throat.

I ignore his temper. I have lived my entire life in the orbit of male rage.

It is a familiar, predictable storm. I move through his cavern, my eyes scanning for what I need.

I find a basin of clean water, a stack of what looks like clean, soft cloths, and a small, lidded pot that smells of medicinal herbs.

I bring them to him. “Let me see your side,” I say.

He looks at me, his violet eyes narrowed in suspicion and pain. “You think to play healer, human? You will poison me with your touch.”

“I survived the Serpent’s Maw,” I retort, my voice sharper than I intend.

“I think I can manage a few cuts without killing you.” I dip a cloth into the water.

“Unless you would prefer to let them fester. I am sure Grakar would be pleased to hear that his claws accomplished what his strength could not.”

The mention of his rival’s name is a lash. A muscle works in his jaw, and with a low growl, he rips the side of his tunic, exposing the deep, ugly gashes.

I kneel beside him, my heart a nervous flutter in my chest. This is the closest I have been to him since… that night. But this is different. I am not a victim here. I am a participant.

I gently clean the wounds, my touch as light as I can make it.

The blood is hot and dark against the white cloth.

His skin is a strange, fascinating texture, smooth and warm in the places between the fine, obsidian scales.

He is utterly still beneath my touch, his body a coiled spring of tension, but he does not pull away.

“You are… surprisingly gentle,” he grunts, the words sounding as if they are being torn from his throat.

“I have had to tend to my own wounds for a long time,” I say quietly, not looking up from my task.

As I finish cleaning the last cut, my eyes catch on a smaller, shallower scrape on my own forearm, a raw, red line where I must have hit the sand when Grakar threw me. It is nothing, a minor injury compared to his.

But he sees it.

Before I can react, he reaches out with his good hand and takes my arm.

His grip is firm but not painful, his large, clawed hand engulfing my own.

He turns my arm over, his thumb gently tracing the line of the scrape.

His touch is a shock, a spark of heat that travels up my arm and settles deep in my belly.

It is the same hand that has bruised me, the same hand that has claimed me, but this touch…

this is different. It is careful. It is… tender.

He says nothing. He simply picks up a clean cloth, dips it in the water, and begins to clean the small wound, his movements impossibly gentle for a creature of his size and power.

I watch, mesmerized, my breath caught in my throat.

I watch his large, dangerous hands, the fine, shimmering scales, the sharp, black claws, perform this small, intimate act of care.

When he is finished, he does not release me.

He keeps hold of my arm, his thumb stroking the soft skin of my inner wrist. He looks up, his violet eyes meeting mine, and the world seems to fall away.

The cavern, the hoard, the pain… all of it fades into the background, and there is only the intense, searching look in his eyes.

The arrogance is gone. The cruelty is gone.

In its place is something raw, something desperate, something that looks shockingly like need.

“Judith,” he whispers, my name a rough, broken sound on his tongue.

And in that moment, the last of my fear shatters. It is not a conscious decision. It is a surrender. A yielding to the strange, undeniable pull that has been humming between us since the moment I first saw him on that black sand beach.

I lean forward, my free hand coming up to cup his jaw. He flinches, a subtle, surprised jerk, but he does not pull away. His skin is hot beneath my palm, the rough texture of his short beard a pleasant friction.

“You said my name like normal, not in the your anger or in the throes of passion,” I whisper.

“It is a sound,” he growls, but there is no heat in it. His eyes are fixed on my mouth.

“It is my name,” I correct him softly.

Then I kiss him.

It is not like the first time. There is no invasion, no brutal claiming. It is a soft, hesitant press of my lips against his. A question. An offering. For a heart-stopping moment, he is utterly still, and I think I have made a terrible mistake.

With a low groan that seems to be torn from the very depths of his soul, he answers.

His mouth softens against mine, and he kisses me back.

It’s a kiss of raw, desperate hunger, of a thirst he has only just realized he has.

His good arm comes up, his hand tangling in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.

His tongue, forked and strange, slides into my mouth, and this time, I do not resist. I meet it with my own, a silent, willing duel.

The kiss is a fire, a conflagration that consumes all thought, all reason. It is the release of a tension that has been building between us for days, a tension forged in fear and defiance, in cruelty and a strange, reluctant care.

He breaks the kiss, his breath coming in harsh, broken gasps. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, the muscles in his jaw knotted tight.

“This is a madness,” he rasps.

“Yes,” I breathe, my own voice trembling.

He pulls back, his eyes searching mine, a wild, desperate light in their depths. “I hurt you.” It is not a question. It is a statement of fact, a confession.

“Yes,” I say again, my voice quiet but firm.

“And yet…” he begins, his gaze dropping to my mouth again.

“And yet,” I finish for him.

The air between us is thick, heavy with unspoken things. The memory of that first night is a ghost in the cavern, but it is no longer a barrier. It is a part of our story, a brutal, ugly chapter that has somehow, impossibly, led us to this.

My body, the traitor, is already responding.

A slow, liquid heat is pooling in my belly, my nipples hardening against the soft fabric of my tunic.

I want him. The realization is a shock, a terrifying, exhilarating thing.

After everything he has done, after the fear, the humiliation…

I want him. I want the heat of his skin, the strength of his body, the fire in his eyes.

He must see it in my face, in the way my breath hitches, in the way my pupils dilate. A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, a sound that is no longer just a threat, but a promise.

“You feel it too,” he whispers, his voice thick with a desire that mirrors my own.

I do not answer with words. I answer by leaning in and kissing him again, my hands sliding from his face to his broad, powerful shoulders. This kiss is deeper, hungrier, a mutual claiming. I am no longer merely a survivor. I am a participant. And I am choosing this.

He lifts me as if I weigh nothing and settles me on his lap as he leans back against the pile of furs, his injured arm resting carefully at his side. I am facing him, my legs straddling his hips, a position of shocking intimacy.

“Tell me what you want, Judith,” he commands, his voice becoming a low, rough growl against my lips.

“You,” I breathe, the word a confession, a surrender, a demand. “I want you.”

The word is a key, unlocking the last of his restraint. His mouth becomes more demanding, his good hand sliding from my back down to my hip, his fingers digging in, holding me in place. He kisses me with a desperate, hungry passion, as if he is a starving man and I am his first meal.

My own hands are not idle. I explore the landscape of his body, my fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, the smooth, cool texture of his scales, the heat of his skin. I run my hand over the deep gashes on his side, and he groans, a sound of pain and pleasure entwined.

The sound is a spark, igniting the tinder of my own desire. I begin to move my hips, a slow, instinctive rhythm against his lap. I feel the thick, hard length of his cock pressing against me through the leather of his breeches, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust shoots through me.

He groans again, his head falling back against the furs, his eyes closing. “By the Thirteen…” he rasps.

“Is this not what you wanted?” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “To have me beg?”

His eyes snap open, the violet depths blazing with a fire that takes my breath away. “Are you begging, little human?”

“Yes,” I say, the word a shameless, desperate truth. I press myself against his hardness, a broken moan escaping my lips. “Please, Xvitar. Don’t make me wait. Fuck me.”

The word, so raw, so vulgar, is the final blow to his control.

With a savage snarl, he grabs the front of my tunic and rips it open, the sound a satisfying tear in the charged silence.

My breasts, full and aching, spill free.

He looks at them, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my entire body tremble.

He lowers his head and takes a nipple into his mouth, his tongue and teeth a torment of exquisite pleasure. I cry out, my back arching, my fingers tangling in his long, dark hair. He suckles me with a desperate, greedy intensity, his good hand fumbling with the laces of his breeches.

I help him, my own fingers clumsy with need. He is thick, and hot, and impossibly long. The sight of him, dark and powerful, sends another wave of liquid heat through me.

He pulls back from my breast, his mouth wet, his eyes blazing. “You are sure?” he asks, his voice a raw, guttural rasp.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Now.”

He positions the tip of his cock at my entrance, and I gasp as he nudges against my slick, wet folds. I lift my hips, eager, desperate, and take him inside me.

He is so much bigger than I remember, so much hotter. He fills me completely, stretching me, a feeling of exquisite pain and pleasure that makes me cry out. He stays still for a moment, buried deep inside me, his hand gripping my hip, his eyes locked on mine.

“Mine,” he growls.

“Yours,” I whisper, and I begin to move.

I ride him, my body finding a rhythm that is all its own. He lets me set the pace at first, his eyes dark and hooded as he watches me, his hand on my hip a steadying anchor. The cavern is filled with the labored sound of our breathing, the soft slide of our bodies, the whisper of my moans.

“Faster,” he commands, his voice a rough growl.

I obey, my movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. He meets my rhythm, his hips beginning to thrust up, meeting my downward strokes with a powerful, driving force. The pleasure is immense, a tidal wave that is building and building, threatening to shatter me.

“Please…” I sob, my head falling back, my body slick with sweat. “Xvitar, I’m going to…”

“Yes,” he snarls, his own control gone. He grabs my hips, his grip bruising, and takes over, his thrusts deep, and hard, and savage. “Come for me, Judith. Let me feel you break.”

And I do. The pleasure crests, a blinding, white-hot explosion that rips a scream from my throat.

My body convulses around him, my inner muscles clenching and milking him, and with a final, guttural roar that echoes the one he made in the Bone Yard, he shatters with me, his hot seed flooding me, a brand of fire and possession.

I collapse against him, my body boneless, my mind a blissful, empty void. He holds me, his good arm wrapped tight around me, his breathing a harsh, ragged sound against my ear. We stay like that for a long time, our bodies still joined, our hearts beating a frantic, synchronous rhythm.

The haze of pleasure slowly recedes, leaving in its wake a profound, terrifying intimacy. He shifts beneath me, his hand coming up to gently trace the line of the scars on my back. It is not a gesture of pity. It is a gesture of acknowledgment. Of seeing.

I lift my head and look at him. The arrogance, the cruelty, the rage… it is all gone. In its place is a raw, unguarded vulnerability that takes my breath away.

He has claimed my body, yes. But in this cavern, surrounded by his treasures, in this act of mutual, desperate surrender, I have somehow, impossibly, claimed a piece of his soul. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that nothing between us will ever be the same again.