20. Mira
MIRA
N ight had fallen, and a chill had crept across the forest. The air outside was sharp, filled with the damp scent of moss and the soft hiss of wind through pine needles. But inside the cave, it was warm, quiet, and safe.
The fire crackled low, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls. The furs beneath me were soft and thick, holding the heat of the day, and the glow of the hearth made everything golden.
I sat at the edge of the furs, watching Gorran from across the fire.
He was working in silence, sharpening one of his bone-handled knives, his massive frame hunched with quiet focus.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the firelight playing over the ridges of muscle and the dark map of scars along his arms. Every so often, he would pause and inspect the blade with a critical eye, then return to the steady rasp of stone against steel.
And I watched him.
Working.
Thinking.
Meditating.
Maybe he did this to distract himself, to calm down in my presence.
There was something beautiful about his actions, his stoicness, his steadiness, his quietness.
Immovable.
Patient.
I watched the flicker of flame against his skin, the way his long fingers curled so carefully around the hilt of the knife.
Something inside me had cracked open.
Not all at once. Slowly. Quietly. Over days and moments and stolen glances. It was in the way he looked at me without expectation, in the gifts he gave without demand, in the way he held back when everything in him strained to take.
I couldn’t pretend anymore.
And I knew.
There was no going back. Not to the keep, not to that cold little room with the warped shutter and the silence that felt like suffocation. That life was gone. I was different now. My body had changed. My mind. My heart.
I rose, barefoot, the furs sliding from my lap, and crossed the stone floor with slow, steady steps.
He looked up.
He stopped humming.
His eyes tracked me, firelight catching in the green and gold. I saw his jaw tighten, but he didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched, a quiet storm beneath the surface.
I didn’t say anything.
I straddled his lap.
His hands went still.
Slowly, he set the knife aside.
I reached for his face, fingers threading into his dark hair, and kissed him.
Hard.
Deep.
He growled against my mouth, a low, shuddering sound that vibrated through his chest and into mine. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady, his restraint snapping thread by thread.
He kissed me back like he’d been starving, like I was the only thing that could satisfy him.
I could feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing up against me, thick and hot even through the layers of cloth. Gods, he was huge, but what did I expect? My breath hitched, not in fear, but in anticipation. He was big. Everything about him was, but the press of him didn’t terrify me.
It thrilled me.
I rocked against him, and his breath hissed through his teeth.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice ragged, breaking at the edges.
“I’m sure,” I whispered. “I want you.”
That was all it took.
His mouth claimed mine again, fierce and desperate, and his hands moved under my dress, dragging the fabric up over my hips. I helped him strip it away until my bare skin met his.
He looked at me then— really looked—and the hunger in his eyes made my knees tremble.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice low and reverent.
Then he laid me back on the furs.
He moved slowly at first, exploring every inch of me with his mouth, his hands, his tongue. My breath came in short gasps, my body aching for him. When he finally entered me, he did it in one slow, careful thrust, his hand at my hip, holding me steady.
I cried out—not in pain, but in shock, in pleasure, in relief.
He filled me completely.
And then he moved.
Slow at first, then deep, each thrust a promise, a possession, a worship. His mouth was at my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
Then harder, rougher, his restraint snapping with each sound I made, each time I cried out his name.
“Gorran,” I begged, my nails clawing down his back. “More—don’t stop?—”
He growled and gave me everything.
He bit my shoulder, marking me with his teeth, and I screamed for him, my body breaking apart under the force of him.
I scratched his back until it bled, until I felt nothing but the fierce rhythm of his body slamming into mine, his hands gripping my thighs, his mouth on my throat.
We shattered together.
And when it was over, we collapsed into the furs, tangled and raw, skin to skin.
His arm came around me, dragging me close, his breathing slowing against my ear.
I felt owned.
I felt safe.
For the first time in my life, those things didn’t feel like opposites.
They felt like home.