44. Murok
44
MUROK
T he firelight flickers across the room, casting shadows on the furs strewn across our shared bed. Eira is sprawled between us, her pale skin glowing like moonlight against the dark green of my arm wrapped around her waist. Grash is on her other side, his massive frame pressed close, his warmth bleeding into her. Dren lies at the foot of the bed, his eyes tracking her every move, his silence as heavy as the weight of his devotion.
She shifts, her breath hitching as my fingers trail up her arm, and I feel the faintest tremor beneath her skin. I smirk, leaning in to brush my lips against the curve of her shoulder.
"Cold?" I murmur, teasing.
She tilts her head, her green eyes meeting mine, sharp and unyielding despite the softness in her expression. "With you three around? Hardly."
Grash’s gruff laugh rumbles through the room, and he pulls her closer, his hand splaying across her hip like a claim.
Dren doesn’t speak, but his hand finds her ankle, his touch feather-light, a silent reminder that he’s there, always watching, always waiting.
Eira sighs, her body relaxing into the tangle of limbs, and I can’t help but marvel at how far we’ve come. She fought us, hated us, betrayed us—and yet, here she is, curled in our bed like she belongs nowhere else. Because she doesn’t.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, my tongue sliding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Grash is kissing her neck, his growl vibrating against her skin, and Dren’s grip tightens, pulling her leg over his hips until she’s completely entangled with us.
There’s no space between us now, no separation. Just heat, and breath, and the shared pulse that binds us together. She moans, her hands gripping my shoulders, and I nip at her lower lip, drawing a gasp from her.
"You’re ours," I whisper against her mouth, my voice rough with the weight of too many emotions.
She nods, her eyes dark with need, but there’s something else there—something I’ve come to recognize as trust. "Yours," she breathes, her voice breaking.
Grash grunts, his hands roaming her body with possessive familiarity, while Dren’s lips find the inside of her thigh, his touch deliberate, unhurried. I watch her unravel, her body arching between us, her hair a pale cascade against the furs.
I’ve never believed in fate. Never believed in anything but strategy and survival. But Eira—she changed that. She challenged us, and in doing so, she carved a place for herself in our lives, in our hearts.
I lean over Eira, my braids falling forward as I study her face in the morning light. The way her pale skin glows against our darker forms stirs something primal in me. From the first moment in those pits, I knew she would be ours - even if she hadn’t realized it yet.
My fingers trace her jaw, tilting her chin up. "You understand what this means?" The words come out low, possessive.
She swallows hard, her fingers twisting in my tunic, but she doesn't pull away. The trust in that simple action makes my chest clench.
"Say it," Grash growls from behind her, his massive form pressing closer. His eyes burn with intensity over her shoulder.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. The small gesture draws my gaze, makes me want to claim that mouth again. When she speaks, her voice is a whisper. "I'm your mate."
Heat surges through my veins at those words. This claim, this bond - it's more powerful than any battle strategy I've ever devised. My hand slides to cup the back of her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm.
Dren moves like a shadow, the ceremonial blade glinting in his hand. His silver eyes meet mine as he presses the edge against her collarbone. Not to harm - to mark. To bind. To make her eternally ours.
As the blade traces our clan's symbol into her skin, her lips part in a soft gasp. I capture that sound with my mouth, kissing her deeply again, sealing this moment, this fate, this forever. She melts into me, and I feel Grash's approving rumble vibrate through us all.
The kiss tastes of destiny and desire, of battles won and peace finally found. When I pull back, her eyes are dark with need, and I see in them the reflection of everything we've fought for on our journey.
My lips press against the fresh mark on Eira’s collarbone, the jagged lines of our clan’s symbol still raw and glistening. The taste of her blood is sharp, metallic, and it sends a primal surge through me, binding her to us, binding us to her. My tongue slides over the cut, soothing, claiming. Her breath hitches, and I feel her shiver beneath me. She’s trembling, but not from fear—from the weight of what this means, what she’s giving us, what we’re giving her.
"Mine," I whisper into her skin, the word heavy with possession and something deeper. My fingers tangle in her hair, pulling gently, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are wide, filled with trust and something that makes my heart swell. She’s ours. Finally, completely, irrevocably ours.
Grash’s growl vibrates through the room, his massive arms wrapping around her from behind. His hands are rough, possessive, sliding over her hips, her stomach, marking her just as surely as the brand on her skin. His mouth finds the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing, sharp enough to make her gasp but not enough to hurt. He’s always been like this—territorial, protective, his affection wild and untamed.
"Say it," he growls against her skin, his voice low, demanding. "Say you belong to us."
Eira’s breath catches, and she squirms between us, but there’s no escape. Not anymore. She’s surrounded, consumed, worshipped. "I belong to only you," she whispers, her voice breaking, and the sound of it sends a surge of triumph through me. It’s not just her body we’ve claimed—it’s her heart, her soul, everything she is.
Dren’s hands move over her body, his touch deliberate, gentle. He’s always been the quiet one, the shadow, but there’s a fierceness in the way he touches her, like he’s memorizing every curve, every scar, every breath. His eyes meet mine over her shoulder, and I see the same hunger, the same devotion mirrored in his gaze.
My mouth crashes into hers again, claiming her lips with a desperation that surprises even me. She tastes like sweetness and fire, like everything I’ve ever wanted and nothing I deserve. Her hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin, and I feel her moan against my lips. The sound of it, raw and unguarded, makes me want to ruin her and rebuild her in the same breath.
"You’re not just ours," I murmur against her mouth, my voice rough with need. "We’re yours. All of us. Forever."
She whimpers, her body arching between us, and Grash’s laugh rumbles through the room, low and satisfied. "She knows. Don’t you, little one?"
Eira doesn’t answer, but the way she clings to us, the way her body responds to our touch, is answer enough. Dren’s hands slide up her thighs, and I feel her tremble, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She’s claimed, and there’s no doubt in my mind that she would want to be anywhere else.
"I love you always and forever," she whispers. There's no manipulation in her voice, no calculated moves like when we first met. Just raw truth that makes my warrior's heart stumble.
Dren growls against her skin. His possessive sound vibrates through her, making her shiver. I watch as his lips drag lower, pressing against her stomach, marking a path that promises more.
I lean over her, studying the way her eyes darken when I get closer. "Say it again," I command.
She reaches up, her fingers tracing the sharp angles of my face. "I love you, Murok." Her touch slides to Grash, who rumbles with approval. "I love you, Grash." Finally, her hand finds Dren's hair. "I love you, Dren."
I capture her chin between my fingers, tilting her face toward me. "No more doubts?" I ask, because I need to hear it, need to know she's finally stopped fighting this.
"No more doubts," she confirms, and her smile - gods, her smile could bring armies to their knees.
The day stretches ahead of us, full of promise and desire.
Eira is wearing Dren’s shirt—too big for her, the fabric hanging loose off one shoulder—and I feel a possessive surge at the sight. She looks small, delicate, but I know better. She’s as fierce as any of us, and that’s why she’s ours.
I move first, my fingers brushing the edge of the shirt where it drapes over her shoulder. "This doesn’t belong on you," I say, low and commanding. I tug at the fabric, sliding it down her arm, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the faint scars that mark her skin. She doesn’t resist, but her breath hitches, and her body tenses—not in fear, but anticipation.
Dren’s hand is already there, his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, his touch feather-light but deliberate. He doesn’t speak, rarely does, but his eyes say everything. They’re dark with need and I know he’s as lost to her as I am.
Grash growls from her other side, his massive frame shifting closer. "Stop teasing her," he rumbles, his voice rough, his hands already moving to the hem of the shirt. "She doesn’t need your games, Murok."
I smirk, leaning in to brush my lips against her ear. "He’s impatient," I murmur, my breath hot against her skin. "But I know you like it slow, don’t you, Eira?"
She shivers, her head tilting back, and her lips part. "You’re all impossible," she mutters, but there’s no bite in her words, only heat.
Grash pulls the shirt off in one swift motion, tossing it aside, and suddenly she’s bare, her body exposed to us, to the light, to the hunger in our eyes. She’s perfect—slender but strong, her skin pale and marked with the faint reminders of her past. But she’s not broken. She’s ours.
My hands are on her before I even think, sliding up her sides, feeling the way her muscles tense and relax beneath my touch. Dren’s fingers are at her hips, his touch light but insistent, and Grash’s hands are everywhere—her shoulders, her waist, her thighs. She gasps, her body arching between us, and her hands clutch at the furs beneath her.
"Too much?" I ask, my voice a low purr, though I already know the answer. She shakes her head, her eyes dark, her breath coming in gasps.
"No," she whispers, her body trembling beneath us. She’s overwhelmed, and I smirk. Good. She should be. She should feel the weight of our touch, the way we worship every inch of her.
Dren’s lips find her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and she moans, the sound soft and raw. Grash’s hands slide lower, his grip firm, possessive, and I notice the way her body arches into his touch, the way she craves it.
I lean in, my lips brushing hers, and she meets me halfway, kissing me with desperation. I’ll never tire of the way she gives herself to us, the way she trusts us with her body, her heart.
I feel Grash’s growl vibrate through the bed, and Dren’s hands tighten on her hips, his touch possessive, worshipful. We’re a tangle of limbs, of heat, of need, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
My hand slides up her stomach, feeling the way her muscles tense beneath my touch, and she gasps, her body arching into me. I smirk, my thumb brushing over the curve of her breast, and she trembles.
"Sensitive," I murmur, my voice teasing.
"Stop talking," she mutters, her hands gripping my shoulders.
I chuckle, leaning in to kiss her again, my tongue sliding against hers in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She moans, the sound raw and unguarded as her body arches into mine.
Grash’s hands are on her thighs, his grip firm, possessive, and I see the way she shivers, the way her body responds to his touch. Dren’s lips are at her neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there, and she moans, the sound soft and raw.
She’s consumed by us, and I know she wouldn’t have it any other way.