Page 18

I wake up with my whole body sore, bruised, and covered in a film of drying blood and something worse—his scent.

The heavy musk clings to my skin, my hair matted with the remnants of everything that he’s done to me.

My mind is fuzzy, sluggish from the trauma, but the reality of my surroundings cuts through the fog of my consciousness like a razor.

I’m not suspended anymore, though still shackled, and my limbs are raw from the metal’s bite.

The fire crackles softly nearby, its warmth mingling with the chill of the stone ground beneath me.

But I notice that he laid down some soft furs as bedding for me.

He also got rid of all the bones—which is fair, I guess.

I try to shift, but pain shoots through me.

My fingers trace the dried blood on my skin, and I can’t help the wave of disgust that rises in my throat.

I need a proper wash. I feel filthy, broken, and I have to rid myself of him.

But I can’t move. I can barely even breathe without feeling the weight of the last few hours suffocating me.

His massive form looms in the shadows, startling me as he watches me silently with dark, unblinking eyes. Rising from his throne-like chair across the fire pit, he moves to fill a vase with water and approaches the cage to hand it to me.

Hissing in pain, I sit up and drink greedily. The cuts and bites are shallow enough not to cause any permanent damage, but they sting like hell. There’s also immense discomfort between my legs, but I try to ignore it.

I lift my hand weakly, gesturing toward my body—toward the dirt, the blood, the marks he left on me—and then I mime scrubbing in the air, hoping he understands. Hoping he sees the desperation painted all over my face.

For a long moment, nothing happens as he searches my eyes. Then, with a grunt, he turns and vanishes into the shadows of the inner tunnel, leaving only emptiness in the space between us.

Minutes feel like hours before he returns, carrying a large, bucket-like vessel, crudely fashioned from the rough materials of the cave.

Water sloshes inside as he kneels in front of me, setting it down between us.

The water looks like a luxury, cold and clear, though it smells faintly of earth and stone. To me, it’s a small miracle.

Who’s the spoiled princess now, huh? I think to myself, but the immediate guilt cuts through the snark. Those were some of the last words Mia spoke to me. It feels surreal.

And now, I’m at the mercy of the beast that killed her. Killed all of them.

My lips part, ready to speak, but I remember there’s no real way to communicate that I need him to help clean me of the filth.

I reach out for the bucket, but he grunts, pushing my hand away gently.

Then he rips a piece of fur from the bedding, the thick hide rough and raw.

With a single swipe of his claws, he tears it into a large enough square to use as a cloth.

I’m horrified as he begins to soak the fur in the water, holding it up in front of me like it’s a simple task—one he’s done a thousand times before. I feel exposed and helpless as he lifts the cloth and starts to wipe it over my face and my neck, even cleaning the blood in my hair.

He moves slowly, his eyes focused on his task.

The firelight flickers, casting shadows across his face as he works, and for the first time since everything changed, I feel the smallest flicker of something—maybe it’s care?

No, it’s much more primal than that. He’s smart enough to realize I can only take a certain level of abuse before my body gives up on me.

It’s just another form of his claim over me, but it seems different than the animalistic hunger from before.

He scrubs my shoulders, arms, then my chest, paying extra attention to my breasts, his movements controlled and deliberate. The water trickles down my stomach in rivulets, washing away the dried blood and the sticky remnants of our shared fluids.

The chill of the water soothes the burning of my skin, and it feels heavenly against the bruises and rawness of my body. My breaths come shallow and shaky, my body hypersensitive, every touch from him sending a shiver through me.

When the fur drags across my inner thighs, I flinch, and a sharp whimper escapes my lips.

His massive hand steadies me, holding me in place as the damp fur ventures higher.

My thighs tremble involuntarily as he moves to the most tender part of me, brushing against my swollen, oversensitive pussy.

The fur’s texture is soft, but it feels unbearable against my raw flesh, each stroke making me wince and whimper.

“Please, not there…” I whisper, my voice shaky and pleading. “I can’t.”

But his hand holds my leg firmly, spreading me open as he continues his meticulous work.

His eyes, sharp and unyielding, stay fixed on me, his lips parted as his breath deepens.

A string of saliva drips from his mouth, and I glance down in alarm to see his monstrous shaft emerging, hardening with every pass of the fur over my body.

I squeeze my thighs together reflexively in a feeble attempt to shield myself. “No,” I cry softly, shaking my head as tears spill down my face.

His rumbling growl is low and guttural, vibrating through my chest like a warning. His grip tightens, claws digging lightly into my skin as he forces my legs far apart with ease, exposing me once more. The fur brushes over my entrance, and I cry out, my hips jerking away instinctively.

“Please stop,” I choke out, sobbing now, my hands weakly pushing at his massive arm.

His chest rumbles again, louder this time, and his unhappy grumble reverberates through the room. With a reluctant snarl, he pulls the fur away from between my legs, but not before his hand shifts lower, trailing between the cheeks of my ass in almost caress.

I shudder, unsure if his touch is meant to comfort me or remind me of his dominance. It feels strangely gentle, sensual even, as though he’s trying to soothe me in his own brutish way. Yet, the tension in his body speaks volumes—he’s holding himself back, and it’s taking every ounce of his control.

“Thank you,” I whisper hoarsely, though my voice wavers. My tears are still falling, streaking down my cheeks as I try to meet his gaze.

His only response is a deep, dissatisfied rumble—a sound that makes my heart lurch.

He doesn’t understand my words, but he seems to grasp the meaning behind them.

His displeasure is palpable, his frustration evident in the way his claws flex against my skin, his growls echoing softly as he continues to grumble under his breath.

Still, he finishes washing me, his touch lingering but no longer invasive. The fur glides over my back, my legs, and even my feet with care, as though he’s determined to cleanse every inch of me despite his simmering irritation.

I let out a shaky sigh as he sets the fur aside. The water in the bucket has turned brown with dirt, blood, and sweat. I’m dizzy from the cold, but I don’t feel as filthy as I did before. Physically, at least. I feel like a little bit of my humanity has been returned to me.

But I can’t relax. Not with the heat of his body so close, his cock throbbing, making his arousal obvious, and the lingering tension that crackles between us.

Then it dawns on me—two can play the same game. If he’s training me to be an obedient little girl, I can train him how to treat me better… or rather, try to make him understand.

Reluctantly, my hand wraps around the base of his thick shaft, barely covering even half of the girth of his knot. How he managed to fit that monster inside me without tearing me in half, I’ll never know.

He groans at the contact, and I add my other hand, closing the tight circle before I begin to jerk him off.

I move fast, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

He doesn’t seem to mind. The muscles in his thighs tense as he chases his climax, rocking his hips against my movements in the same hurried tempo.

“Thank you,” I whisper again, so he can connect the words with pleasure.

It’s not long before his cock flexes in my grip, the heated flesh swelling, engorged veins bulging, as both knots throb with pent-up need.

He thrust harder into my pumping hands, the slickness of his leaking pre-cum making each stroke smoother.

He grips the back of my neck, his claws scraping against my skin, nudging my head down.

The pressure is insistent, and I know he’s about to cum, demanding to release in my mouth.

Unwillingly, I guide the flared, bulbous crown inside.

The sheer size stretches my jaw uncomfortably, and I struggle to take him in.

But I wasn’t raised a quitter. Sealing my lips around him, I suck on his head hard, hollowing my cheeks with determination.

The moment my tongue flicks over the sensitive underside, his hips jerk, and a strained roar tears from his throat.

His claws tighten their hold on me, pushing me down further, forcing me to take as much of his length as I can.

I suppress a gag, my throat constricting around the intrusive girth, but I keep my rhythm steady, working him with all the skill I can muster.

With a final shuddering thrust, his cock throbs violently and his hot, thick cum floods my mouth, spilling past my lips in jolts that feel like they’ll never end. I swallow instinctively, my throat working around the sheer volume as he moans in approval.

Thank fuck he doesn’t have any funky taste or something.

The minty aftertaste is actually quite… nice.

The pleasant warmth in my belly is even better, spreading strange heat through me.

A dark, bitter thought creeps in—maybe this is just another form of survival?

But some extra protein never harmed anyone, right?

God knows I need it. When was the last time I ate? No wonder I’m so weak and lightheaded.

Just the thought of food makes my stomach grumble.

He hears it, too, retracting his hips as his cock slides out of my mouth.

He takes a few more seconds to even out his ragged breathing before he moves out of the cage.

The deer carcass is gone, but he’s left some cut-up chunks in the far corner, which he brings over to me.

A bloody slab of raw meat dangles in front of my face like some grotesque offering as Yeti growls low, forcing me to take it.

I recoil. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not eating that!”

His growls grow louder, more insistent.

My hands tremble as I reach out. The cold flesh feels slick and sticky against my fingers, its coppery scent hits my nostrils, and I gag. He watches intently as I bring it to my lips and take a hesitant nibble—chewy, bitter, utterly revolting—before spitting it out with a dramatic retch.

“I can’t do it!” I whine, shaking my head, wiping my tongue with the back of my hand like that will somehow erase the taste.

Yeti narrows his eyes, grabs a spare chunk, and pops it into his mouth in one piece. His chewing is obscene, almost coaxing me to try it. But excuse me if I don’t trust his taste buds—he ate Jay, so he doesn’t get to have an opinion here.

Suddenly, he pauses between his own bites to let out a burp. A long, loud, satisfied sound is so deep it shakes the cave walls.

For a moment, I just stare at him. Then, against all logic, I laugh.

It bubbles up uncontrollably, breaking through the horror of it all.

Here I am, trapped naked in a torture cave, being force-fed raw meat by a giant, fur-covered fucking beast, and now he’s burping like a frat boy after shotgunning a beer.

“Real classy,” I say, tossing my head at how absurd the situation is.

He looks at me, his eyes bright, as if he’s pleased with himself. But there’s something that might almost be curiosity, or maybe mild confusion. Perhaps it’s his first time hearing a human laugh in his presence. That wouldn’t surprise me.

I exhale, still half-smiling. “Alright, alright, you win. But you need to cook it.” I point at the fire, doing a whole theater performance for him to understand what I mean.

Yeti’s eyes follow my gesture, then flick back to me. For a moment, there’s a long pause where he just stares at me, head tilted, as if weighing whether my strange behavior is worth indulging. I can practically see the gears turning inside that horned head of his.

Finally, with a huff—one that definitely translates to fine, you ridiculous creature —he crouches by the fire.

His massive claws grip the slab of deer meat, holding it over the flames.

The smell of sizzling fat fills the air, rich and smoky, and despite my terror and nausea, my stomach betrays me with a deep, needy growl.

When it’s charred and dripping, he pulls it back and turns toward me, crouching low. His expression is unreadable, but his movements are deliberate as he extends the cooked meat toward me.

I hesitate, staring at it. He snarls at me—not a threat, but a warning. An expectation. So I take it, the heat and grease coating my fingers, and bring it to my mouth. The taste is smoky and gamey, but it’s food. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, and I take another bite.

Yeti grunts in approval, his massive shoulders relaxing just slightly as he settles back on his haunches, watching me eat like he’s successfully domesticated a particularly stubborn stray cat.

I chew slowly, eyeing him right back.

Great. Now I’m bonding with the beast.