Page 24 of Moonlit Desires

Chapter ten

Thorne’s Temptation

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The corridor leading to Thorne's quarters smells of cedar and something wild—musk and forest floor and the metallic tang of barely dried blood.

Lyra's fingers tighten around the basket of healing herbs and clean bandages as she approaches the heavy wooden door, its surface carved with running wolves that seem to shift positions when viewed from different angles.

No guards stand watch here in this secluded wing of the palace; this is territory that belongs solely to the beast-guardian, a space where few are welcome and fewer still would dare to enter uninvited.

She hesitates, then knocks—a soft, uncertain sound against the solid oak. When no answer comes, she pushes the door open, wincing at the low groan of hinges that clearly prefer solitude to visitors.

"Thorne?" she calls softly, stepping into the chamber.

His quarters are not what she expected from a palace dwelling.

Instead of the ornate silver furnishings and delicate moonstone accents that dominate the rest of the Court, Thorne has created a den—primal, comfortable, unapologetically wild.

Animal pelts cover the stone floor, overlapping in rich layers of gray, black, and tawny gold.

The furniture is crafted of twisted silver wood, its branches curved into natural shapes rather than forced into artificial elegance.

Weapons hang on the walls alongside more pelts, each blade meticulously maintained despite the otherwise untamed atmosphere.

The ceiling rises to a rough dome, open at its apex to reveal a circular patch of night sky.

Moonlight pours through this opening, creating a natural spotlight that illuminates the center of the room where a wide platform sits low to the ground, piled high with more furs.

Upon this makeshift bed lies Thorne, one arm flung across his eyes, the other resting at his side, fingers half-curled into a loose fist.

His chest is wrapped in bandages that might have been white originally but now bloom with dark stains—evidence that his wounds from the forest creature have reopened.

Each breath he takes comes with a slight hitch, a barely perceptible catch that speaks of pain carefully controlled.

The moonlight emphasizes the pallor of his skin where it isn't covered by bandages, throwing the scattered scars across his shoulders and arms into sharp relief.

Lyra approaches cautiously, her footsteps muffled by the thick pelts.

At her movement, Thorne's arm shifts from his eyes, and his gaze locks onto her—golden-brown irises reflecting the moonlight with animal luminescence.

For a moment, he doesn't seem to recognize her, his expression pure predator assessing potential threat.

"You shouldn't be here," he says, voice rough as bark stripped from a tree. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, wincing as the movement pulls at his wounds. Fresh blood seeps through the bandages, spreading like spilled wine across the white fabric. "Ashen said he'd tend to me tonight."

"Ashen is busy with the Court's defense plans." Lyra sets her basket on a low table made from a slice of silver tree trunk, its polished surface revealing hundreds of growth rings. "I volunteered to check your wounds."

Thorne watches her movements with unnerving intensity, his eyes tracking each small gesture as she unpacks her supplies—a clay pot of salve made from moonflowers and silver fern, clean linen strips for fresh bandages, a flask of spring water infused with healing herbs.

His nostrils flare slightly, scenting the air between them.

"Did he send you?" Thorne asks, voice dropping lower. "Or did you come on your own?"

Lyra meets his gaze steadily. "Does it matter?"

"It matters." His fingers dig into the furs beneath him, claws momentarily extending then retracting—a brief slip in control quickly corrected. "Especially since you're here alone."

She pours water into a shallow bowl, the liquid catching moonlight in rippling patterns. "I've seen your wounds before. I helped bring you back from the forest, remember?"

"I was unconscious then." Thorne shifts, creating space beside him on the fur-covered platform, though the invitation comes reluctantly. "I'm very much awake now."

As Lyra moves closer, bowl in hand, she notices how Thorne's muscles tense, his body coiling with a readiness that suggests flight or fight—both equally possible.

She sits carefully on the edge of his bed, the furs surprisingly soft beneath her.

This close, his heat radiates against her side, fever-warm and unnaturally intense.

"You shouldn't be here," he repeats, but makes no move to stop her as she sets the bowl down and reaches for the edge of his bandages. "I'm not... stable when I'm hurt."

"I'll be careful," she promises, fingers finding the knot that holds the wrappings in place.

His hand catches her wrist, not roughly but with unmistakable strength.

"It's not your care I doubt," he says, golden-brown eyes now more gold than brown, pupils contracting to vertical slits then expanding again in his struggle for control.

"The beast rises closer to the surface when I'm wounded.

Instinct overrides reason. I might—" He cuts himself off, releasing her wrist as if the contact burns. "I don't want to hurt you."

The concern in his voice touches something in Lyra, a recognition of how carefully he holds himself in check, how conscious he is of the power contained within his skin. Rather than retreat, she continues unwrapping his bandages with gentle determination.

"I trust you," she says simply.

The last layer of bandage peels away, revealing four parallel gashes across his ribs, the flesh angry and inflamed around each wound. The forest creature's claws had cut deep, leaving furrows that would have killed a normal man. Even with his accelerated healing, the injuries remain serious.

Lyra dips a clean cloth in the herb-infused water and begins to clean the wounds.

At the first touch of damp cloth to raw flesh, Thorne's entire body goes rigid.

A sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a moan—as his skin ripples beneath her fingers.

Fine golden fur sprouts along his forearms, then recedes, only to appear again seconds later along his shoulders.

The transformation fluctuates, his body caught between forms as sensation overrides his careful control.

His teeth clench, canines visibly elongating then shrinking back, the cycle repeating with each careful stroke of the cloth across his wounds. His hands fist in the furs, claws fully extended now, tearing into the pelts beneath them as he fights to remain still under her ministrations.

"Breathe," Lyra murmurs, continuing despite his reaction. "Focus on my voice."

Thorne's eyes squeeze shut, a tremor running through his powerful frame.

When he opens them again, they're fully gold, the brown completely consumed by his animal nature.

"Your scent," he manages, the words strained through a throat that wants to produce growls instead of speech.

"It's everywhere. In my den. On my skin. "

His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her hand, muscles shifting and bunching beneath skin that can't decide whether to remain smooth or sprout fur. Sweat beads along his brow, testament to the effort it takes to maintain his human form.

Lyra reaches for the salve, fingers dipping into the cool mixture.

When she applies it to his wounds, his back arches involuntarily, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

His reaction isn't entirely from pain—something else flickers across his features, a response to her touch that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with the predator barely contained within human skin.

As she works, her fingers brush across other scars—older wounds that have long since healed but left their mark on his body.

A jagged line across his collarbone. Three parallel ridges along his side, similar to his current wounds but faded with time.

A starburst pattern just above his heart, as if something had tried to claw its way inside.

Without thinking, she traces the edge of this last scar, feeling the slightly raised tissue beneath her fingertip. Thorne's breath catches, his hand shooting up to capture hers, holding it pressed against his chest.

"Don't," he says, voice barely recognizable, roughened to a growl. The gold in his eyes pulses like captured sunlight, brightening and dimming with each rapid heartbeat she can feel beneath her palm. "Don't explore what you don't understand."

But Lyra doesn't withdraw her hand, her gaze meeting his with quiet challenge. "Then help me understand."

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The moment stretches between them like heated glass, fragile yet dangerous.

Thorne's fingers remain wrapped around her wrist, the pressure firm enough to feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb.

His skin burns against hers, fever-hot and vibrating with barely contained energy.

The struggle plays out across his features in shifting patterns of gold and shadow—human reason fighting animal instinct, neither fully winning as his pupils dilate then contract, his breathing growing shallow and quick.

"You don't know what you're asking," he says, voice rough-edged and low. Each word seems to cost him, as if human speech becomes more difficult the longer she remains within his territory, her scent mingling with his, her hand pressed against the map of old wounds etched into his skin.

Lyra doesn't look away, doesn't withdraw. Instead, her fingers spread slightly against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath her palm. The mark between her shoulder blades warms in response to his proximity, a gentle heat that spreads outward like ripples on still water.