Page 10 of Chained to the Horned God

Soft lips brush mine in a kiss that’s more sunlight than skin.

I feel her fingers curl into my mane like they belong there.

My hands cradle her waist like I’ve always known how.

The ache that pulses through my gut isn’t lust, not exactly—it’s something older, deeper.

Like wanting to be known, truly known, and not found lacking.

I wake in the dark, biting my tongue to keep from groaning.

My cock’s hard as steel, pressed awkwardly against the inside of my thigh beneath the threadbare blanket. I curse under my breath, dragging a hand over my face. The cell is still—too still. I glance sideways.

She’s there, still curled up on the cot across from me. Her breathing is even. Peaceful. One arm dangles over the edge of the mattress. Her fingers twitch now and then, like she’s dreaming too.

I shift onto my side, careful not to make noise.

Shame rides my shoulders like a boulder.

Not because of the dream—I’ve had worse.

I’ve done worse. But because I want her in ways I don’t fully understand.

Want her laughter and her quiet. Want her hand in mine when the blood’s stopped flowing.

Want her to choose me, not because there’s no one else but because I’m enough.

That terrifies me more than any monster they’ve thrown into the arena.

I keep my distance. Even in dreams, I don’t touch her like that.

Not yet.

My body eventually settles, the ache easing into a dull throb behind my ribs. I don’t sleep again. Just watch her, listen to the rustle of rats in the corners and the occasional clang of distant gates being locked for the night.

When dawn creeps in through the crack near the ceiling, she stirs. Her eyes blink open, lashes thick with sleep, and she frowns like she’s trying to remember where she is. Then she sees me.

She doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But her face softens.

I sit up, joints creaking like old ship timbers, and reach into the cloth bundle beside me. It’s not much—just some dried meat, a hard crust of bread, and half a roasted root someone slipped me after yesterday’s win. I hold it out.

She swings her legs off the cot and comes to sit beside me without saying a word. She’s barefoot, hair mussed, eyes puffy. Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in this pit.

I break the bread and offer her a piece. She takes it from my fingers, not bothering with manners or distance. Our fingers brush, and neither of us pulls away.

She chews slow, methodical. Then she takes the meat when I nudge it toward her. Her eyes flick up, meeting mine.

I don’t speak. Neither does she.

The silence between us is thick—not awkward, not empty.

It’s full of the things we don’t dare name.

The touch of her lips on my throat still lingers, even days later.

The way she looked at me that night like I was something sacred, not a monster in chains.

The way I touched her back like a prayer I wasn’t allowed to say out loud.

I don’t know what to call this thing between us. It isn’t lust. It isn’t love. It’s some raw, bleeding thing that we cradle between us and pretend not to see.

“You didn’t sleep,” she says softly, tearing the meat in half before handing me my portion.

“I watched you,” I answer.

She gives me a look—one brow raised.

“Not in a creepy way,” I add. “Just... made sure you were breathing.”

She laughs, short and dry. “You think I’m gonna die in my sleep?”

“I don’t take chances.”

She finishes chewing before responding. “You’re sweet.”

“Don’t say that out loud,” I mutter. “Ruins my reputation.”

She nudges my knee with hers. “Too late.”

We finish the meal in companionable silence. She leans back against the wall beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. I let it stay there. Her warmth seeps through my skin and into my bones like medicine I didn’t know I needed.

“I hate it here,” she murmurs.

“I know.”

“I hate that I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Me too.”

She sighs. “Sometimes I pretend I’m somewhere else. Just for a second. Somewhere with snow. Or fields. Somewhere clean.”

“Milthar’s cliffs,” I say. “Where the wind cuts so clean you feel it in your teeth.”

She closes her eyes. “That sounds good.”

“Better with a fire. And whiskey. And no screaming.”

“No chains,” she adds.

“No arenas.”

We sit with the fantasy for a while. I think she knows I’m building it just for her. I think she’s letting me.

Later, when the guards come pounding on the gate, I stand first. My back still aches from the serpent fight, and my legs are stiff from sleeping on stone. She rises beside me.

“Don’t die today,” she says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say. “You still owe me a story about the time you set your kitchen on fire.”

She smirks. “I was five.”

“Still counts.”

She steps forward, suddenly. Her hand brushes my jaw—light, hesitant, sacred. I lean into it without meaning to.

“I’ll be here,” she whispers.

I nod once.

That’s all we say before I walk out, the gate slamming shut behind me like the mouth of some waiting god.