Chapter 12, Thorne
The steam from the shower still clung to the air, a thick humid blanket, as Thorne wrapped a towel around Aria, pulling her close against his chest. She was light in his arms, fragile, like a porcelain doll. He carried her across the room and lowered her gently onto the massive bed.
Thorne sat on the edge of the mattress, the wood of the bedframe groaning slightly under his weight. He looked down at her, the firelight flickering across her face. She looked so innocent, so utterly unguarded, and it made his heart hammer against his ribs in a way that had nothing to do with lust.
He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he peeled the towel away.
He let it drop to the floor. Then, he began to explore.
His hands moved over her skin, tracing the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her spine, the softness of her waist.
He was rough with his touch, his calloused fingertips dragging against her sensitive skin, but he was careful not to hurt her.
Aria let out a whimper, her body arching away from him, seeking to escape the sensation.
Thorne froze, his hand hovering over her hip.
He looked down at her, his grey eyes dark with concern.
“Shh,” he whispered, his voice rough but gentle, “I promise. I’ll be gentle.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and swimming with tears, and he felt a pang of regret.
He had been so rough with her, so demanding, and he hated that he had frightened her.
He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
He resumed his exploration, his hands moving lower, cupping her breasts.
He marveled at them, the softness of the flesh contrasting with the hardness of his palms.
He ran his thumbs over the pebbled nipples, watching them harden under his touch.
Then, he lowered his head, taking one into his mouth.
He used his tongue, his teeth, his lips, worshipping her with a devotion he had never shown anyone before.
Aria gasped, her hands tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer.
She was soft, so soft, and he wanted to consume her, to memorize every inch of her skin, every curve, every freckle.
As he moved lower, his hand sliding between her thighs, he looked at her, really looked at her, and he saw the defiance in her eyes, the spark of fire that refused to be extinguished.
She was small, yes, but she was strong. He respected that, he admired it.
He positioned himself between her legs, his body hovering over hers.
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers.
She didn’t look away, didn’t fight him. He entered her slowly, inch by inch, giving her time to adjust.
He was gentle, his movements slow and deliberate, his focus entirely on her.
He wanted to feel her, to be one with her, not just to take her. He wanted to cherish her.
Aria wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and Thorne groaned, the sound low in his throat. He began to move, his hips thrusting in a slow, rhythmic cadence. He watched her face, memorizing the way her eyes glazed over, the way her lips parted in a silent gasp.
She made small, needy sounds when she let go, soft whimpers that drove him wild. It was the sound of her surrender, her body responding to him even when her mind was still fighting. It was intoxicating.
Thorne leaned down, capturing her mouth in a kiss that was tender and sweet, his tongue sweeping against hers. He wanted to tell her how much he wanted her, how much he needed her. He wanted to tell her that he would protect her, that she was safe here, that she was home.
He felt the familiar coil of tension building in his belly, the pressure of his release drawing closer and closer.
He looked down at her, her body flushed, her eyes wide with pleasure and he knew he wasn’t going to last long.
He thrust harder, faster, his body slapping against hers, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
He felt her inner muscles clamping down on him, milking him and he knew she was close.
“Come for me,” he growled against her lips.
She cried out, her body arching off the bed, her back bowing in a spasm of pleasure.
The sensation was overwhelming, and he felt her release wash over him, hot and tight.
It was enough to send him over the edge.
He thrust one last time, deep and hard, and released, his seed filling her.
He collapsed on top of her, his body heavy and spent, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pulled her close, draping her leg over his hip, and wrapped the quilt up over her, covering her completely. He held her, his arms tight around her, his face buried in her neck. She was his.
Aria was quiet for a long time, her breathing slow and steady, her body relaxing against his.
She melted into his embrace, her head resting on his chest.
Thorne closed his eyes, the weight of the world lifting from his shoulders.
He felt a sense of peace settle over him, a feeling that he had never experienced before.
He was the Alpha, the ruler of the Shadowfang pack, but here in the dark, with his mate in his arms, he was just a man.
He listened to the sound of her breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, and slowly the exhaustion from the day caught up with him. His eyelids grew heavy, his mind drifting into a peaceful oblivion. He followed her into sleep, his arm wrapped tight around her, never letting go.
But the peace was a fragile thing, easily shattered by the darkness that lurked in his own mind.
He was standing on the edge of the southern ridge, the wind whipping through his hair, the scent of blood and fear thick in the air.
Below him, the Shadowfang territory was in flames.
The forest was a roaring inferno, the trees blackened and skeletal, their branches clawing at a smoke-filled sky.
He could hear the screams of his pack, the howls of his wolves dying in the fire.
And then he saw her, Aria was standing in the middle of the chaos, her auburn hair a brilliant splash of color against the destruction. She looked at him, her eyes wide with terror, her hands reaching out for him. But she wasn’t alone.
A massive wolf, its fur the color of dried blood and its eyes burning with a malevolent yellow light, was standing behind her. It was Ronan. He was dragging Aria away, her feet scrabbling uselessly in the dirt.
“Thorne!” she screamed, her voice a desperate, agonized cry that tore through the roar of the fire.
“Help me!” Thorne tried to move, to run to her, but his feet were rooted to the spot, sunk deep into the earth as if it were quicksand.
He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury, but it was swallowed by the flames.
He could only watch as Ronan dragged her further and further away, her cries growing fainter with every step.
“Thorne!” He struggled, his muscles straining, his bones cracking as he tried to shift, to unleash the beast that lived within him.
But he was trapped, powerless, a spectator to his own worst nightmare.
He watched as Ronan reached the edge of the forest, as Aria looked back at him one last time, her face a mask of despair.
“Thorne!” The sound of her voice, the raw terror in it, was a physical blow. It snapped something inside him, breaking the chains that held him fast. He roared again, a sound that shook the very foundations of the earth, and he finally broke free.
He lunged forward, his body shifting in mid-air, his bones cracking and reforming, his skin tearing to make way for the thick black fur of his wolf. He hit the ground running, his paws pounding against the earth, his eyes locked on the retreating form of his enemy.
“Thorne!” He was so close. He could smell her scent, the sweet, floral fragrance that was uniquely hers, mixed with the acrid stench of Ronan’s rage. He was almost there, his jaws open, his teeth bared, ready to tear out his rival’s throat.
“Thorne, wake up!” The voice was different.
It wasn’t a scream of terror. It was a panicked whisper, right next to his ear.
Thorne’s eyes snapped open. He wasn’t on the southern ridge.
He wasn’t in a burning forest. He was in his chambers, the fire in the hearth casting a warm, gentle glow across the room.
But something was wrong. He was on all fours, his body coiled and tense, his muscles bunched and ready to spring.
He looked down at his hands. They weren’t hands.
They were massive, clawed paws, covered in thick, black fur.
He could feel the weight of his snout, the sharp points of his canines against his tongue, the intense predatory focus of his wolf’s eyes.
He had shifted. In his sleep, lost in the throes of his nightmare, he had shifted into his wolf form.
And Aria was right there. She was pressed against the headboard, her eyes wide with terror, her hands held up as if to ward him off.
She was staring at him, her face pale, her body trembling.
She looked exactly like she had in his dream, and the sight of her fear, the scent of it sent a fresh wave of panic through him.
He tried to shift back, to force his body to obey, but the wolf was still riding high on the adrenaline of the nightmare. It was confused, disoriented, and still trapped in the primal instinct to protect its mate from a threat that wasn’t there.
He let out a low whine, a sound of distress that was completely alien to him. He took a step toward her, his claws clicking on the floorboards, intending to reassure her, to show her that he wasn’t a danger to her.
But she didn’t see it that way. She saw a massive predator, a creature of nightmares, advancing on her in the dark. She let out a small, choked sob, her eyes squeezing shut, her body recoiling from him.