Page 40 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

LYSSA

A new and dangerous tension has settled in our small, quiet world.

Thorrin is a storm gathering on a distant horizon, a pressure building in the air that only I can feel.

He tries to hide it, to maintain the gentle, cautious peace we have forged.

He still carves the table for me, his massive hands surprisingly deft with the delicate work.

He still listens to my stories by the fire, his heart-light a soft, attentive gold.

But when he thinks I am asleep, he paces.

I watch him through slitted eyes, a hulking shadow moving back and forth in the darkness of the cave, a caged beast wearing a path in the stone.

His hands, when he touches me, are no longer steady.

A fine, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his claws, a testament to the monumental effort of his restraint.

His light tells the truest story. The beautiful, warm gold that has become my comfort is receding, a shoreline consumed by a rising, crimson tide.

The red at the core of his light is growing, its pulse a slow, heavy, hungry beat that seems to sync with the gnawing in my own stomach.

He is starving. The vow he made to me in the snow— Even if I starve —is a promise he is trying to keep, a self-flagellation that is slowly, surely destroying him.

I see the hollowness returning to the dim cinders where his eyes had been, the weary slump of his massive shoulders.

He will make a promise that will kill him. He will not waste away for my sake.

I have learned what Elira meant. You learn to live with it.

You do not run from the storm; you find your footing in its eye.

You do not try to douse the fire; you learn to tend it, to give it the fuel it needs so it does not consume everything in its path.

Tonight, I will not wait for the storm to break.

I will walk into it. I will take control.

I will teach the hunger what to crave, and I will teach the monster that he does not have to bear his curse alone.

That night, after the fire has burned low, I lead him to our sleeping furs. I initiate the kiss, my hands cupping his skull-face, my lips pressing against the cold, hard bone. It is a slow, deep kiss, a reassurance, an acceptance of every dark and hungry part of him. I am not afraid. Not anymore.

Our lovemaking is different from the wild, desperate storm in the forest, and different from the tender, reverent worship that followed.

Tonight, it is a slow, grounding act. A deliberate, conscious reconnecting of two souls.

My body moves with his in a familiar rhythm, a dance we have learned together.

But underneath the slow, deep pleasure, I can feel the tremor in his body, the desperate tension of his hunger.

The red in his chest burns, a furious, contained fire, and I know that my presence, my touch, is both a balm and a torment to him.

He is fighting himself with every gentle touch, with every restrained movement.

He is honoring his vow, even as it tears him apart.

And I love him for it with a fierceness that takes my breath away.

But love is not about watching someone destroy themselves for your sake.

It is about offering them the one thing that can save them.

At the peak of our intimacy, as my body arches against his and a soft cry escapes my lips, I do what he is too noble, too terrified, to ask for.

I turn my head, baring the soft, vulnerable line of my neck.

My hands guide his heavy, resistant skull-face to the curve of my shoulder, to the pulse that beats a frantic, steady rhythm just beneath my skin.

His entire body freezes, the war within him a palpable, violent thing.

“You need it,” I say. “And I trust you.”

He remains frozen, his breath a hot, shaking thing against my skin.

I can feel the predator in him warring with the protector, the hunger battling the vow.

He is a mountain on the verge of crumbling, and I am the one pushing him over the edge.

I do not waver. I press my cheek against his, a gesture of absolute, unwavering faith.

I am not a victim offering a sacrifice. I am a partner offering a cure.

“It’s alright, Thorrin,” I whisper, my voice a soothing balm on his raw, frayed nerves. “This is my choice. This is part of it. Part of us.”

With a final, shuddering breath that sounds like a sob, he gives in.

His mouth, which has been a hard, tense line, softens against my skin.

I feel the sharp, delicate points of his fangs, not with violence, but with a hesitant, reverent care.

The bite, when it comes, is a sharp, clean sting, a surprising jolt of sensation that is not pain, but a different kind of pleasure.

There is no violence in it. There is only a profound, desperate need, and an equally profound trust.

I feel the gentle, rhythmic pull as he feeds.

It is the strangest, most intimate sensation I have ever known.

It is not a draining, not a violation. It is a giving.

I can feel the desperate tension leaving his body, the frantic, furious red in his chest being soothed, calmed, and transformed back into a steady, contented gold.

I am not just giving him my blood; I am pouring my own life, my own strength, into the hollow spaces inside him, and in return, I feel his monstrous, beautiful soul settling into a peace it has never known.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is dark with my blood, but his hollows are no longer wild and tormented. They are soft, glowing with a deep, reverent gratitude. He looks peaceful. He licks the small wound clean, his tongue a rough, gentle balm that sends a shiver of pure pleasure through me.

I look into his eyes, at the steady, warm gold of his heart, and I smile. “See?” I whisper, my voice full of a quiet, triumphant love. “We’re okay.”

He looks at me, his gaze full of a wonder and a devotion so profound it makes my own heart ache. And as he holds me in the quiet aftermath, I can see that he finally, truly, believes me.