Chapter 15 Scarlette #2
He kissed down my body, slow at first, then hungry.
He nipped at my hip, licked the sweat from my stomach, then moved lower.
I spread my legs, not shy anymore, not with him, not after what we’d done and what we’d lost. His mouth was hot, tongue rough, nothing like the stories but everything I’d ever needed.
He licked until my bones melted, then slid two fingers inside me, curling them just so.
I cried out, the sound bouncing off the cave wall, and he grinned against my thigh.
I pulled him up, desperate for more, for all of him.
He obliged, lining himself up and pushing in with one smooth, perfect stroke.
I clenched around him, greedy, taking every inch, every rough thrust. He didn’t make love to me, he fucked me, hard, like we were fighting the cold, the dark, the whole damn world. I loved him for it.
He pressed my knees back, getting deeper, the stone beneath me scraping my spine, the fire at my side burning my skin.
I wanted to scream, to bite, to howl, but instead I locked my arms around his neck and held on.
He moved faster, lost in the rhythm, sweat dripping off his face onto mine, the smell of him thick in my mouth.
I came first, my whole body jerking, toes curling, the orgasm hitting me like a punch.
I clawed at his back, left marks, and he growled low, the sound vibrating through his whole body.
He fucked me harder, faster, until he stiffened, hips slamming into me as he came with a shout that echoed in the stone.
I felt him pulsing inside me, felt the heat of it, the way it filled me up.
He stayed there, shuddering, for a long moment, then pulled out slowly.
I was still shaking when he knelt back down, licking the sweat and come from my thighs, his tongue soft now, soothing.
It sent a second shock through me, smaller but sharper, and I moaned, the grief forgotten for one stupid, beautiful second.
He crawled back up, curled around me, the fur over both of us now. We didn’t speak. There was nothing left to say.
I fell asleep in his arms, the ache in my body a new kind of comfort. For the first time in my life, I didn’t dream of running. I dreamed of warmth, and the fire, and the steady beat of Moab’s heart, hammering out a rhythm I could finally follow.
***
The world outside the cave was blue and silent, the air wet with fog and the last shreds of night.
I woke before Moab, or maybe I just never truly slept; the adrenaline was a tide that never ebbed, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw the shaft of the arrow, the shape of my mother’s face as it faded into nothing.
Moab’s chest rose and fell beneath my cheek.
I counted each breath, hoarding them, knowing the tally would never be even.
I let myself believe, for a few minutes, that maybe it was done, the running, the hiding, the gnawing hunger.
I traced the lines of his tattoo where it wrapped under the edge of the fur, watched the way his hand flexed in sleep, ready to break or protect, whatever the moment demanded.
It was the sound that woke him. Not a wolf’s instinct, but a soldier’s, boots on wet leaves, the distant thud of hooves, the clatter of men who’d never learned to shut up and listen to the woods. He snapped awake, all at once, every muscle tight, jaw squared.
“Company,” he said, barely a whisper.
I was up, the cold licking at my bare skin as I pulled the fur tighter, then reached for the pouch I’d left by the fire. My hands shook, not with fear, but with the certainty that the world was about to shrink again, down to the simple math of predator and prey.
Moab stamped out the fire with the heel of his hand, then spat in the ash and kicked the coals into the dirt. He scanned the cave, found nothing useful, and nodded to the mouth, eyes gone gold at the edges. We moved together, the way we did when we ran, not needing words or signals.
At the cave’s rim, we crouched, listening. The fog was thick, but not thick enough; shapes moved through it, lanterns bobbing, the occasional flare of a torch cutting the gray to ribbons. The horses snorted, nervous. The men were louder, calling to each other, their voices sharp with morning hate.
“We’re close,” I whispered.
Moab nodded. “We can lose them. Once we hit the circle, they’ll never follow.”
I swallowed hard, the memory of the stones pulling at me. “If we make it.”
He looked at me, and for a second, the man was gone, replaced by something older, harder, but not unkind. “We will.”
He slipped his arm around my waist, pulled me close. His mouth was hot on my ear. “Ready?”
I nodded, though my whole body trembled.
The change came fast this time. The pain was a friend now, a warning and a promise, the only thing that reminded me I was still alive.
The bones stretched and popped, the skin split and healed, the fur erupted in a wave so sudden it left my vision blurred with tears.
I let it come, let the wolf take over, let the world become scent and sound and the fine, invisible net of fear that hung between all living things.
Moab changed, too. Bigger than me, darker, the wolf tattoo now a real mark under the fur, a stripe of blue-black that ran from shoulder to paw. We didn’t waste time. We dropped to all fours and bolted from the cave, low and fast, hugging the earth.
The world outside was raw and perfect. The cold bit, but it was the good kind, the kind that made you run harder just to spite it. The fog hugged the ground, muffling the crash of our paws and the beat of our hearts. Behind us, the men shouted, but we were already gone.
We moved through the trees as one, dodging fallen logs, slipping through patches of bramble, the path laid out in memories older than language.
Moab led, and I followed the rhythm of his stride, setting the pace.
I could smell the men now—grease, sweat, the sharp reek of fear under their bravado.
I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a low, taunting growl.
A shout rang out, the echo so loud it stunned the birds into silence.
I felt the air part beside my ear, the memory of death never far from my skin.
We cut left, into a ditch, then up a bank, claws digging into the soft dirt.
The horses were closer now, their riders forcing them through the brush, but even they knew better than to keep pace for long.
We ran. Not because we were afraid, but because this was what we were made for. The run was everything, the wind in my fur, the burn in my lungs, the wild, giddy knowledge that for once, I wasn’t just prey.
We hit the first clearing at full tilt. Moab slowed, nose to the ground, then jerked his head up over the ridge.
I followed, pushing my battered body up the slope, the fog thickening with every stride.
Behind us, the men crashed through the trees, their torches guttering in the mist, their shouts growing more frantic with every step.
At the top of the ridge, we paused. The oaks were there, waiting. Ancient, patient, the stones at their feet like teeth in a sleeping giant’s jaw. I felt the pull of them, the way they promised something more than just survival.
Moab pressed his head to mine, a rough, silent comfort. Then he howled, long and low and perfect, a sound that made the men below freeze in their tracks. I joined him, my own voice weaving around his, higher, sharper, a warning and a challenge.
We ran for the circle. The men gave chase, but the woods belonged to us.