I position myself between her thighs, tip at her entrance.
“Olivia,” I growl.
“Please,” she whispers.
I press in.
Her body takes me slowly, inch by inch, and her mouth parts in a soft cry.
She is tight. Hot. Perfect.
I sink in deeper.
She gasps, fingernails digging into my back. Her breath is shaky. “Oh, fuck…”
I still. “Too much?”
“No,” she moans. “More.”
I thrust deeper.
Her pussy clenches around me, welcoming every thick, stretching inch of my cock.
We move together, her hips rolling, her hands gripping me as I fuck her slow and deep. Each thrust is a promise, each groan a hymn.
“You feel like war,” she gasps.
“You feel like peace,” I growl.
She wraps her legs around me, pulling me in harder.
We fuck until the morning burns gold around us and all that exists is the heat, the hunger, and the fire we made.
We finish together—her cry tangled in my name, my roar breaking like thunder.
And when we collapse, sweat-slicked and shaking, she presses her forehead to mine and whispers, “You’re not alone.”
I hold her tight, heart slamming against hers.
Olivia’s fingers move slow, reverent. Not with fear. Not with pity. But with wonder.
Her touch maps the old battleground of my body—over the scorched scar above my ribs where the hellboar gored me, the jagged slash near my left shoulder where the sky-razor clipped my bone, and the faint, silvery brand on my collarbone, a relic of the Blood Moon Trials. She traces them like a cartographer documenting lands she’s only just discovered.
“What’s this one?” she murmurs, brushing her thumb along the deep groove across my abdomen.
“First duel,” I answer. My voice is quieter than I mean for it to be, thick with memories. “I was fifteen summers old. Fought the Black Stone Clan over a hunting claim. They cheated. Threw mud in my eyes.”
Olivia snorts softly, still focused. “Did you win?”
“I broke his men’s leg. Then his pride. He never healed right.”
She laughs under her breath. “Orcs are hardcore.”
I grunt, smiling without meaning to. “We do not do soft well. But we endure.”
Her hand stills over my heart, fingers splayed like she’s trying to memorize its rhythm. “This one?”
I tense. It’s instinct, a reflex older than words. “That,” I say slowly, “was from the Vorfaluka. The night it killed my brother.”
