Chapter 14 Betty
BETTY
My world is reduced to the size of his hand.
It is a massive, scarred, and blood-streaked thing, a living cage of calloused flesh and black, dagger-like claws.
It cups my jaw with an impossible gentleness that feels more terrifying than his rage.
His thumb, rough as a whetstone, brushes my trembling bottom lip, a simple, exploratory gesture that sets my entire nervous system on fire.
My mind is a silent, high-pitched scream. DANGER. RUN.
He is a monster. I just watched him tear a pack of magic wolves to pieces, his movements a blur of tactical, brutal violence. I saw him bite the Alpha’s neck and break it. His hand, the one now holding my face, could crush my skull without a thought.
I am frozen, my heart a frantic, trapped bird in my ribs. I am paralyzed by his sheer, brutal size and the inhuman power he just displayed.
But he doesn’t crush. He doesn’t tear.
His red eyes are not feral. They are not empty. They burn with a new, dark, focused light. It is an intelligent, possessive need that has absolutely nothing to do with the chaotic rage of the battle. He’s looking at me, truly seeing me.
And I... I don't run.
I am pinned by his heat, by the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
The adrenaline from the Worg fight is still a lightning-storm in my veins.
He protected me. He thought. He planned.
He bled for me. My terror is a high, thin wall of ice, and this new, aching curiosity is a hot, molten tide, rising to meet it.
I lean.
It is the smallest movement. A fractional, impossible tilt of my head, a pressing of my cheek into his calloused, blood-streaked palm.
It is permission. It is yes.
A sound rumbles in his chest, a low, deep, questioning vibration, almost a purr.
His thumb traces my lip again, more firmly, as if memorizing the texture.
He leans closer, his massive head blotting out the dim, gray light from the cabin door, plunging us into a world of shadow and scent.
His smell overwhelms me: animal musk, sharp pine, old sweat, the cold iron of his own blood, and the unique, sharp scent of his skin.
He is exploring.
His other hand, the one that isn't holding my face, lifts. I flinch, but he doesn't touch my body. He touches my hair, his huge, clumsy fingers brushing the damp, matted strands from my face. His black claws are a terrifying, gentle comb.
He lowers his head, his rough, brutish nose nudging my temple, my cheek, the sensitive line of my neck.
He sniffs me. A deep, rumbling, vibrating inhale, like an animal committing its mate to memory.
His hot, damp breath ghosts over my cold, hypersensitive skin, and a violent, full-body shiver racks me.
He pulls back, just enough to look at my mouth. He watches it as I pant, as if he is trying to understand its purpose.
With a slow, almost childlike, experimental gentleness, he mimics me.
He presses his own lips to mine.
I freeze.
It is not a human kiss. It is clumsy. It is firm.
It is overwhelmingly, impossibly hot. There is no art to it, no practice.
It is a simple, reverent press of his mouth against mine.
His tusks, the massive, yellowed tusks I have only ever seen as weapons, are cold and smooth against my cheeks.
They frame my face, a terrifying, visceral, and impossibly intimate reminder of what he is.
He just presses. A moment of pure, gentle, contact. He grunts against my lips, a soft sound of discovery.
And the wall of ice in my chest shatters.
The simple, non-threatening, reverent press of his mouth breaks my fear. The adrenaline, the shared terror, the intimacy of the blizzard cave, the wonder of his tactical mind... it all crests. It crests into a new, sharp, and desperate need.
I let out a small, shuddering breath. And in a moment of pure, starved instinct, I kiss him back. It is a small, human, pathetic movement of my own lips against his.
It is a trigger.
The "childlike" curiosity vanishes.
A deep, possessive growl rumbles in his chest, so powerful it vibrates through my jaw, into my bones, and down to my toes. The "question" is gone.
He takes the kiss.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and demanding. He presses me back against the cabin wall, his heat a furnace. His tongue, surprisingly human-like but larger, rougher, sweeps into my mouth.
It is a claiming. It is raw, deep, primal.
He devours me. He tastes me, a groan of pure, animalistic satisfaction vibrating from his chest. I am overwhelmed.
My fear is instantly burned away, incinerated by a shocking, electric bolt of pure pleasure.
My hands, my stupid, trembling hands, come up and fist in his thick, matted hair, holding on as the world spins.
His other hand, the one that was in my hair, moves. The size of it. It splays across my stomach, his massive, clawed fingers spanning from my hip to my ribs. His hand is as big as my entire torso.
His claws are sharp. I feel their points prick through my thick, wet tunic. A reminder of the danger. But he doesn't tear. He is being impossibly, agonizingly careful.
He runs his hand up my body, his palm, a shield of hot, calloused skin, covers my entire breast. His heat soaks through the cloth. His thumb brushes my nipple.
I gasp into his mouth, my back arching, my body jolting. The pleasure is too much, too sharp.
He growls again. It is a sound of pure frustration.
He pulls back from the kiss, his red eyes blazing. He is panting, his breath a hot cloud in the frigid air. He looks at my tunic, at my cloak, at the layers between us, as if they are a personal insult.
He doesn't ask. He acts.
He grabs the hem of my tunic. For a second, I think he will shred it.
Instead, he tugs. A single, clear, non-verbal command. Help me. Take it off.
My fingers are numb. I am too slow.
He growls again. Impatient.
And with one massive, controlled pull, he rips the seam of my tunic from hem to collar. The sound of tearing cloth is a violent, final sound in the small, silent cabin.
He gently but irresistibly pushes the ruined fabric, my thin undershift, and my heavy cloak from my shoulders. The cold air slams into my bare skin, a shock that makes me cry out. My nipples instantly bead, a tight, aching pain.
He shoves his own torn, bloody loincloth away.
His red eyes burn as they trace my small, human, naked form. I am fully exposed to him.
My gaze drops.
My breath stops. My heart stops.
Oh, gods.
He is enormous.
He is not human. He is a monster. He is a god. I am awed and terrified by the sheer, impossible scale of him. His erection is thick, heavy, and impossibly large, a physical, monstrous representation of his species. It is power. It is brutal.
My fear returns, a cold, sharp spike of pure, primal panic.
He will split me in two. He will kill me.
I whimper. My hands come up to cover myself, a pathetic, useless gesture.
He sees it. He sees my terror.
He grunts, a soft, reassuring sound. No.
He touches me.
His massive fingers, so clumsy before, are now impossibly gentle.
He explores my body. His fingers trace my ribs, my stomach.
His claws lightly scrape my skin, a promise of the power he is holding back.
His other hand cups my breast, his thumb circling the tight, aching peak.
He leans down and sniffs me, a deep inhale of my scent, his hot breath washing over my collarbone.
His reverence, his pure, primal wonder at my small, naked body, is a tangible thing.
He nudges my legs apart with his head.
It is a soft, animal movement. A nudge at my thigh. Open. For me.
I am shaking so hard that I can barely stand, but I let him. My legs part.
He settles between them, his heat a furnace. He doesn't take me.
He touches me there.
His thick fingers find my center. My fear is so strong, but my body... my body is weeping for him. I am slick and aching. He rubs me, his curiosity returning, his fingers gentle but firm.
I gasp as a jolt of electric pleasure rocks me, shocking the fear away.
“Threk!”
He grunts at my reaction. A deep, pleased sound.
He aligns himself.
He doesn't thrust.
He presses against me. A hot, blunt, enormous weight. He is asking. His red eyes are locked on mine. Yes?
I am drowning in a sea of adrenaline, terror, and a need so deep it aches.
I nod. My breath catches, my body screaming for a release that finally overwhelms my fear.
I lift my hips, taking him.
He pushes.
It is slow. It is agonizing. It is overwhelming. It is a stretch so profound I feel my body giving way. It's too much. It burns.
I cry out, a high, sharp sound of pain and pleasure.
But his gentleness makes it bearable. He goes slow. He grinds his teeth, his face taking on an agonized control. A deep, shuddering groan rumbles from his chest as he seats himself, inch by agonizing inch, fully inside me.
He is a mountain, and he is filling me. I am full to bursting.
He stays still. For a long, eternal moment, his entire body vibrating with control.
Then, slowly, he pulls back, just an inch. And presses in again.
The pleasure is a shock.
It is not sharp. It is deep. It is full. It consumes the pain. It answers the need. It is overwhelming.
My fear is gone. It is burned away by pure, primal sensation.
"Threk..." I gasp, my voice a shred. The sound of his name in this moment is torture in ecstasy.
He groans, the sound a vibration that shakes me. He moves again. Slow. Deep.
"Oh, gods... Threk..."
He pulls back farther. He thrusts deeper.
A cry is ripped from my throat. My head thuds against the wall. The pleasure is too big. It is too much.
It is everything.
"Please..." I sob, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Threk, please..."
My plea breaks his control.
The reverence is consumed by instinct. His childlike curiosity has disappeared.
The savage is here.
"Fuck me, Threk!" I scream, my voice raw, my body arching off the floor, demanding it. "Please, fuck me!"
He roars.
It is a low sound of release. He claims my mouth in another devouring kiss, swallowing my screams.
His thrusts become deep. Hard. Wild.
He is claiming me. He is branding me. He is a storm, and I am lost in it. This is not making love. This is survival. This is a primal claiming on a dirt floor in a world of ice.
My pleasure spikes. It is driven wild by his size, his power, his animalistic cries. It builds too fast.
I shatter.
My body convulses around him, a violent, searing release that rips a spleen-splitting scream from my throat.
My climax triggers his.
He roars, a deep, agonized sound, his back arching. His tusks graze my shoulder. He slams into me, one last time, a possession so deep it touches my soul.
He spills his heat into me, a hot, gushing flood, his massive body shuddering with the force of his release.
He collapses.
But not on me. He catches himself on his massive, shaking arms. He is a cage of sweat-slicked muscle over me. A living shelter.
He lowers his head, his breath hot and ragged, his tusks brushing my shoulder.
He nuzzles my neck. A soft, animal comfort.
His world, my world... it is gone. There is only the stench of sweat and blood, and the thrum of his massive, pounding heart, right next to my ear.