She has ruined me.
She curls against me, boneless, trusting in a way that knots something deep in my chest. My hands flex against her softthighs, gripping her with more care than I have shown another creature in a very long time.
She is so small. So fragile. Yet she has survived. She hasfought.
And I cannot stop thinking about how easily I could have lost her. How, if I had not followed her in the storm, she would be nothing but frozen remains beneath the ice. If I had not pulled her from the avalanche—if I had not kept her warm, held her close, willed my life into hers—she would not be here, pressed against me, filled with my seed.
Mine.
I do not say it. I do not want to let it take root, but it does not matter. The word has already embedded itself into my bones. I can try to fight it, but she is mine. If only she will choose me as hers. That is the way of balance, that is the way of the Migoi.
I step into the sleeping cave, taking her deeper into my world. A fire burns low in the corner, its glow flickering over the stone. Her clothes and boots are arranged neatly around it, faint wisps of steams rising into the air as they dry. I set her down, keeping my hands on her waist when she sways, her legs weak.
She blinks up at me, dazed. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, the flush from her pleasure still staining her cheeks.
I want to kiss her.
I want to ruin her.
Instead, I slide the flimsy scrap of torn fabric down her legs and crouch before her. The sight of her bare body so close nearly undoes me. A groan escapes as her scent fills my lungs, her arousal mingled with my own essence. My gaze lingers on the soft wisp of curls framing her glistening pink center, and I marvel at her smoothness. Good thing she has me to keep her warm.
With resolve borne of my centuries of existence, I force myself to stand. I grip the hem of her shirt, peeling it up andover her head, removing the last barrier between my gaze and the rest of her body. She exhales a slow breath as I drag my fingers over her shoulders, tracing down her arms before pulling away.
She is breathtaking. My eyes greedily drink in the sight of her smooth skin, her lush curves. Every dip and swell made for my hands, made for pleasure. She is perfection. More of the tiny orange dots cascade over her flesh, just like the littles ones across her nose and cheeks. I cannot wait to count them.
I am lovingly cataloguing the differences between us when she flinches. Just barely. A flicker of movement, a hesitation, her hands lifting as if to cover herself. As if she is something to hide instead of worship.
Rage rises so fast it strangles me. Before she can fold in on herself, before she can shrink from me, I growl and swat her hands away.
“Mine.”
The word is guttural, ripped from my chest without my permission. My heart speaking before my head can temper my declaration.
Her breath catches, her eyes widening, but I do not take it back.
Does she not see what I see?
Her softness is not a weakness. It is a gift; one I would kill to protect. She is the perfect counterpoint to the masculine, completing the duality of nature. She is the curve of the river cutting through rock. She is the warm circle of the sun breaking the line of the mountain range. Breathtakingly beautiful.
She does not answer, her throat working as she swallows. I see the uncertainty in her eyes, the ghost of a wound left by another. I can only assume it was some lowly male who did not cherish what he had been given.
The thought of another seeing her vulnerable like this, touching her has the beast inside of me shredding at my skin tobe unleashed. Did he dare to speak harsh words to her? Did he criticize someone so beautiful and lovely? Did he touch her in anger?
He is dead. He does not know it yet, but he is dead.
The fire snaps, spitting embers, a mirror of my rage. She jumps, and I inhale sharply, forcing the beast back down. I cannot touch her now—not the way I want. Not the way I should.
She is exhausted, swaying on her feet. Her body has been wrung out, her mind slipping into the haze of sleep even as she struggles to remain standing.
I lift her again, marveling over the feel of our skin ghosting over each other and carry her across the cave to my bed. It is nothing more than a pile of furs atop a wooden frame strung with rope that I pieced together over the years. Its simplicity suits me fine, but I worry this life will not be enough for her. Or maybe my true fear is that I will not be enough for her.
She makes a soft noise as I lower her onto the furs facing the fire. A sound of contentment. A sound of trust.
My throat tightens. I don’t know if I can trust myself right now to let her choose me when my beast rages at me to claim her, claim hernow. I should leave her. I should step away, retreat to the other side of the cave, let her rest without my flesh pressing against hers.
But when she moves to pull a fur over her body, I react, wanting to prove that I can provide her with everything she needs. I will keep her warm. I scold myself for being jealous of a fur, but it doesn’t stop my body from moving.
An ache blooms in my chest as I curl around her, my body the only shield she’ll ever need. My fur lengthens, softening as it spreads over her skin, covering her the way it was always meant to.
