Page 19 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

THORRIN

I n the aftermath, the forest is profoundly silent.

The world has been unmade and remade in a storm of our own creation, and now, in the quiet, I am left with the consequences.

Lyssa sleeps against my chest, her body a warm, fragile weight.

The chaotic, consuming fire of our joining has receded, leaving behind the ghost of its heat and a strange, unsettling stillness.

I look down at her, at the way the pale moonlight traces the soft curve of her cheek, at the dark sweep of her lashes against her skin.

She is beautiful. The thought is not a surprise anymore, but a simple, fundamental truth, as real as the stone beneath us and the stars above.

My light, which had been a raging inferno of red and purple, now dims to a low, troubled green, pulsing with an anxiety I don't immediately understand.

The scent of her is all around me, a heady perfume of sweat, snow, and her own unique fragrance that has become the center of my world.

But it is mingled with something else now, a sharper, more metallic note. Blood.

My gaze finds her shoulder, at the place where my control shattered, where the predator momentarily overwhelmed the protector.

The bite mark is a dark, angry blemish on her pale skin, a testament to my own monstrous failure.

A flicker of possessive pride rises in me—a mark of my claim—but it is immediately extinguished by a wave of cold shame.

As my gaze travels over her, I see other marks, invisible in the heat of our passion but stark and ugly in the calm that follows.

Dark, blossoming bruises are beginning to form on her hips and arms, ghostly imprints of where my claws held her.

A long, raw scrape mottles the pale skin of her back, a gift from the rough bark of the pine tree.

I was not gentle. I was a tempest, a force of pure, primal need, and she was the beautiful, fragile thing caught in my path.

I was so consumed by the miracle of her touch, by the desperate need to claim her, that I forgot the fundamental difference between us.

I am a creature of bone and impossible strength.

She is a creature of soft flesh and breakable bones.

A feeling of profound self-loathing, cold and sharp, begins to churn in the pit of my stomach.

Lyssa stirs in my arms, a soft sound of discomfort breaking the stillness of the night.

Her eyelids flutter open, her gaze unfocused for a moment before finding mine.

A slow, sleepy smile touches her lips, a look of such pure, trusting contentment that it is a blade twisting in my gut.

And then, the smile vanishes. She shifts, a small movement to push herself upright, and a sharp, clear cry of pain cuts through the silent forest.

The sound hits me with a force that makes me physically recoil.

It is not the beautiful sound of terror I once craved, nor the intoxicating sound of pleasure I am just beginning to learn.

It is the ugly, grating sound of genuine, physical injury.

I watch, frozen in a new kind of horror, as her face contorts in pain.

She presses a hand to her side, just below her ribs, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Thorrin?” she whispers, her voice strained, confused.

Panic, absolute and colder than any mountain winter, seizes me.

The last vestiges of post-coital peace evaporate, replaced by a frantic, roaring terror.

I move without thinking, my usual grace gone, replaced by a clumsy, desperate urgency.

I gather her into my arms, my touch, which should be a comfort, now infused with a terror-born gentleness I did not know I possessed.

My massive hands tremble as I cradle her small, broken body against my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp, the words a desperate, broken mantra.

“Lyssa, I’m sorry.” I repeat the words over and over, a litany of my own failure.

She is hurt. I have hurt her. The one creature I have sworn to protect, the one soul who has shown me kindness, and I have repaid that trust with my own monstrous, uncontrolled strength.

The self-loathing is a physical sickness, a foul taste at the back of my throat.

I hold her, feeling the unnatural stillness of her body, the way each shallow breath she takes seems to cost her a monumental effort.

She is too pale in the moonlight, her skin clammy and cold despite the lingering heat between us.

I must assess the damage. I must know the extent of my crime.

But my hands, which have broken the bones of countless creatures, now refuse to obey.

They tremble, useless, clumsy things, terrified of causing more harm.

My ancient, predatory knowledge of anatomy is a cruel mockery, a library of destruction I now must use for a desperate, fumbling attempt at healing.

With a shuddering breath that is almost a sob, I force myself to act.

I run a hand gently over her side, my touch so light it is almost a ghost. I can feel the warmth of her skin, the fine tremor of her pain.

Then, beneath my fingertips, I feel it. The unnatural give, the subtle, sickening grate of bone against bone.

My non-existent heart plummets into the abyss. Her ribs are fractured. Perhaps broken entirely. I didn’t just bruise her. I crushed her.

The realization is a new and profound kind of agony.

For centuries, my greatest fear was the hunger of the curse, the endless, gnawing void that drove me.

But this is infinitely worse. This is the horror of my own nature.

This was not an enemy. This was not a hunt.

This was an act of love. My desire for her, my need to claim her, the very passion she so bravely met with her own— that is the weapon that broke her.

My good intentions are meaningless. My love is a danger.

I am a creature built to break things, and I have just broken the most precious, fragile thing in the universe.

I feel sick, the physical hunger of the curse completely eclipsed by a nauseating wave of guilt so powerful it makes my vision swim.

I look at her small, limp form in my arms. I look at her pale face, her lips parted in a silent grimace of pain.

And I understand. I am the monster from her sister’s warnings, the beast in the woods that she should have fled from.

Her trust in me was a mistake, and this is the price of her faith.

A snarl rips from my throat, a sound torn from the deepest, most wretched part of my soul.

It is a confession of my own unforgivable failure.

“I hurt her.” The words are stones in my mouth. I look at the beautiful, broken girl in my arms, and the truth finally claws its way out. “I broke her.”