Page 25 of Moonlit Desires
"I'm not afraid of you," she tells him, the words simple but heavy with implication.
Thorne's laugh is a broken sound, more air than humor.
"You should be." His grip on her wrist loosens slightly, though he doesn't release her entirely.
The pad of his thumb traces small circles against her pulse point, the contact feather-light despite the tension coiled in every other part of his body. "Everyone else is."
His gaze drops to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable hunger before rising again to meet her eyes.
The gold has consumed the brown entirely now, turning his irises to amber fire ringed with darker gold.
Behind that fire lurks something ancient and untamed—the beast that shares his skin, watching her through human eyes.
Lyra shifts position to continue bandaging his wounds, her hip brushing against his side as she reaches for the clean linen strips.
The movement brings her body closer to his, her hair falling forward to create a curtain of auburn waves between them and the rest of the room.
The subtle privacy emboldens her, makes her less careful about maintaining distance.
As she begins wrapping the fresh bandages around his torso, her fingers accidentally brush against an unmarked patch of skin just below his ribs.
The contact is brief, unintentional, but Thorne's reaction is immediate and visceral.
A growl tears from his throat—a sound no human could produce, resonant and primal, vibrating through the chamber like distant thunder.
His body tenses beneath her hands, muscles bunching and shifting beneath skin that ripples with the effort of containing his transformation.
Golden fur sprouts along his arms and across his shoulders before receding again, the cycle accelerating with each rapid breath he takes.
His jaw works silently, teeth gritting against the surge of instinct that threatens to overwhelm reason.
"Lyra," he manages, her name emerging as a plea or warning or both. "You need to go. Now."
She pauses, hands stilling against his half-bandaged torso.
Their faces are inches apart, close enough that she feels his breath against her cheek, scented with wild herbs and something more primal that stirs an answering heat low in her belly.
Time suspends between one heartbeat and the next, the air between them charged with possibility.
"No," she says simply.
Their eyes lock, communication passing between them that transcends words—challenge and acceptance, desire and fear, boundaries acknowledged then deliberately crossed. Something snaps in Thorne's expression, control giving way to instinct with the finality of ice breaking on a winter lake.
His hand releases her wrist only to tangle in her hair, fingers threading through auburn waves with surprising gentleness before tightening into a grip that holds her in place.
In one fluid movement that belies his injured state, he pulls her down toward him, his other arm wrapping around her waist to bring their bodies flush against each other.
His mouth finds hers with fierce hunger, the kiss nothing like the careful touches she's experienced before.
This is possession, pure and demanding, his lips claiming hers with an intensity that steals her breath and makes her head spin.
He tastes of wilderness and moonlight, of things untamed and ancient that run beneath the civilized veneer of the Court.
Lyra's surprise lasts only a moment before she responds, her body melting against his as her lips part beneath the insistence of his.
Her hands flatten against his chest, careful of his wounds but unwilling to create distance between them.
The pendant at her throat pulses warm against her skin, responding to the sudden surge of emotion that courses through her veins like liquid fire.
Thorne makes a sound against her mouth—approval or relief or hunger, impossible to distinguish—as his grip in her hair tightens.
His fingers shift with his partial transformation, nails elongating into claws that scrape gently against her scalp, precise enough to avoid pain while making her acutely aware of the danger they represent.
The dichotomy sends shivers down her spine—his careful control even as he loses himself to desire.
The kiss deepens, becoming something more primal as Thorne's nature surfaces further.
His tongue traces the seam of her lips before pushing past, claiming her mouth with a thoroughness that leaves no room for hesitation.
His teeth— sharper now, no longer fully human—graze her lower lip, the slight pain a counterpoint to the pleasure that spirals through her body.
When he bites down, the pressure is carefully measured but firm enough to draw a single drop of blood from her lip.
The taste seems to trigger something in him—his pupils contract to vertical slits, his breathing stutters, and a tremor runs through his powerful frame.
His tongue sweeps across the tiny wound, rough-textured like a cat's, collecting the drop of blood with a reverence that borders on worship.
"You taste like power," he murmurs against her mouth, voice dropped to a register so low she feels it more than hears it. "Like magic and mortality tangled together."
Far from being repelled by his wildness, Lyra finds herself pressing closer, her body responding with an eagerness that surprises them both.
Her hands slide up to frame his face, fingers tracing the sharpened angle of his jaw, the slightly pointed ears that betray his partial shift.
The contact draws a rumbling sound from deep in his chest—not quite a purr, not quite a growl, but something between that vibrates against her palms.
Between her shoulder blades, the royal sigil awakens, silver light blooming beneath her clothing to cast the room in ghostly illumination.
The glow pulses in time with her racing heart, bright enough now to be visible through the fabric of her dress, turning the simple garment translucent where it touches her back.
Thorne notices the change, his eyes reflecting the silver light as he draws back slightly, breath coming in ragged pants.
His hands haven't released her—one still tangled in her hair, the other splayed across her lower back, large enough to span nearly the entire width.
The heat of his palm seems to intensify the mark's response, making it flare brighter with each point of contact between them.
"This is dangerous," he says, though his body contradicts his words, every line of muscle and sinew straining toward her rather than away.
His self-control hangs by a thread, evident in the trembling of his hands, the flash of fang when he speaks, the constant ripple of transformation beneath his skin.
"If we start this, I don't know if I can stop. "
The warning carries no artifice, no manipulation—simply truth, offered as both confession and final chance for retreat.
The beast in him has risen too close to the surface, hunger sharpening his features and brightening his eyes to molten gold.
Yet even now, at the edge of his control, he offers her a choice—a gesture more human than many full-blooded courtiers have shown.
In the silver glow of her awakened mark, with moonlight pouring through the ceiling's opening and the scent of healing herbs mingling with the musk of desire, Lyra faces the precipice of her own making.
____________
The words form on Lyra's lips with surprising ease, as if they've been waiting there all along, needing only this moment to emerge.
"I don't want you to stop," she whispers against his mouth, the confession warm and damp against his skin.
Something shifts in Thorne's eyes—surprise, then hunger so acute it transforms his features into something barely human.
The last threads of his restraint snap with almost audible finality, his body surging against hers with newfound purpose.
"Last chance," he growls, the words barely intelligible as his tongue thickens and his canines lengthen further. His hands bracket her face, holding her gaze to his with an intensity that burns. "Tell me now, or I won't be able to hear it later."
In answer, Lyra presses her mouth to his again, her hands sliding into his hair to pull him closer. The gesture is all the permission he requires.
Thorne's control gives way to calculated savagery.
He rises to his knees on the fur-covered platform, wounds forgotten in the surge of desire that courses through his veins.
His hands find the fabric of her dress, fingers hooking into the material with precise strength.
The sound of tearing cloth fills the chamber as he rends the garment down the middle, splitting it from collar to hem with a single controlled motion.
The tattered remains fall away from her body, leaving her skin bare to the silver moonlight that pours from above.
His gaze travels over her exposed form with predatory appreciation, golden eyes reflecting light like twin flames.
His breathing comes in shallow pants, chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggles to maintain enough humanity to ensure her safety.
When his hands reach for her again, they tremble slightly—not with weakness but with the effort of restraining strength that could break bones if unleashed without care.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice deeper than before, roughened by the partial transformation that continues to ripple across his skin.
Patches of golden fur appear and recede along his shoulders and down his arms, the cycle accelerating as his excitement builds.
His fingers trace the curve of her waist, the indent of her navel, the swell of her breasts with careful reverence that belies the wildness in his eyes.