Page 11 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

THORRIN

M y confession of loneliness is fragile and terrible bridge.

Lyssa stares at me, her eyes reflecting the anxious green-gold light of my heart.

I expect her to leave now, to finally retreat from the pathetic, needy monster she has unearthed beneath the layers of my predatory nature.

Instead, she does the impossible. She takes a step closer.

I remain perfectly still, a statue carved from ancient bone and regret, every part of my being screaming at the proximity of her warmth, her life.

She moves with a slow, deliberate grace that speaks not of fear, but of a decision made.

Her hand, small and pale in the moonlight, rises slowly.

My entire existence narrows to that single point of motion.

I expect her to touch my arm, my shoulder—the parts of me that are most solid, least monstrous.

But her fingers drift toward my chest, toward the very source of my curse and my life. Toward the light.

The moment her skin makes contact, a shockwave jolts through my entire frame.

It is not pain. It is not pleasure. It is…

feeling. A pure, unadulterated jolt of sensation in a body that has been numb for millennia, a dead nerve screaming back to life.

The light beneath her palm explodes, flaring from anxious green to a brilliant, startled gold so bright it illuminates the entire clearing. She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away.

Her fingers are impossibly soft, impossibly warm against the cold, hard lines of my ribs.

She traces the line of bone, her touch a feather-light exploration.

I can feel the faint tremor in her hand, the last vestiges of her fear, but it is overshadowed by a powerful, clinical curiosity.

She is not touching a monster to soothe it; she is touching a mystery to understand it.

I watch her, mesmerized. Her gaze is not on my skull-face but on her own hand, on the place where her life touches my curse.

I see the wonder in her expression as the light shifts and swirls beneath her fingertips in response to her touch.

She is mapping my soul with her skin, and every gentle press, every hesitant stroke, is rewriting the ancient, desolate landscape of my being.

This new sensation, this alien jolt of life in my dead flesh, awakens something else.

A deeper, more primal stirring that has been dormant for so long I did not know it still existed.

It is a feeling completely separate from the curse’s hunger for blood.

This is not a craving to consume, but a desire to connect.

A need for the warmth of her skin, the scent of her hair, the soft, living texture of her.

It is an ache that starts not in my gut, but lower, a heavy, coiling heat that is both terrifying and exhilarating. Desire. A word I had forgotten.

My own hand rises, moving with a slowness that feels agonizing.

I am so afraid of my claws that can tear through steel, of the power that could shatter her delicate bones without a thought.

She watches my hand approach, her breath catching, but she does not move away.

She is giving me her trust, a gift so precious it makes my chest ache with a terrible, beautiful light.

My claws are retracted, the tips of my fingers brushing the line of her jaw.

The contrast is staggering. My hand is a thing of death and shadow, impossibly large against the delicate curve of her face.

Her skin is soft as fresh-fallen snow, warm with the steady, pulsing rhythm of her life.

Her pulse flutters beneath my touch like a trapped bird, and the sensation is the most intoxicating thing I have ever felt.

I explore her as she has explored me. I trace the elegant line of her throat, the fragile curve of her collarbone, the gentle slope of her shoulder.

Every inch of her is a new discovery, a new texture, a new wonder.

The rough wool of her cloak gives way to the softer linen of her tunic beneath, and underneath that, the incredible warmth of her body.

My light shifts, the pure gold darkening then swirling into a deep, passionate purple.

The air between us grows thick, heavy with unspoken needs, with a new and dangerous kind of hunger.

The gentle exploration is no longer enough.

A desperate, clawing need takes over, a craving to erase the distance between us, to feel her warmth pressed against the cold eternity of my form.

I pull her to me, my movements urgent but still checked by the terror of hurting her.

She comes without resistance, a soft gasp escaping her lips as her body meets mine.

She is so small, so fragile against my towering frame.

I can feel the frantic beat of her heart against my ribs, a rhythm that syncates with the pulsing of my own light.

I lower my head, driven by an instinct I can’t name.

A kiss is impossible for a creature with a skull, but the need for that intimacy is overwhelming.

I press my face to hers, the cold bone of my cheek against the soft warmth of her skin.

I breathe her in, the scent of her filling the hollowness inside me.

It is a desperate, clumsy imitation of a human kiss, but she seems to understand.

Her hands come up to cup my skull, her fingers tracing the jagged lines, pulling me closer.

My control frays, the careful restraint I have maintained for weeks unraveling thread by thread.

My hands roam her body, no longer gentle, but possessive, desperate.

I push aside her cloak, my fingers tangling in the rough fabric of her tunic, needing to feel the shape of her, the reality of her.

She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, a soft, broken moan that shatters the last of my composure.

I press her back against the rough bark of an ancient pine, trapping her between the unyielding wood and the hard planes of my own body.

I move against her, a slow, grinding friction that is both torment and ecstasy.

Her legs, as if by instinct, wrap around my waist, pulling me tighter against the heat of her core.

The sensation is electrifying. Through the layers of our clothes, I can feel her softness, her heat, and it is driving me to madness.

My light is a chaotic storm of purple and red, of desire and the ever-present hunger, now twisted into something new.

I am on the absolute edge, a precipice of sensation I have not known in a thousand years.

I want more. I want all of her. The urge to take her, to claim her completely, is a physical violence inside me.

But the image of her, broken and bleeding in the snow, flashes in my mind.

With a ragged growl that is torn from the very depths of my soul, I pull back.

I stumble away from her, my whole body shaking with the force of my restraint, leaving her panting against the tree, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock, fear, and a burning, mirrored desire.