Chapter 20 Betty
BETTY
My lungs are on fire, my legs are hollow, useless things that move from memory alone. The world is a white, stinging blur of snow and the agonizing, constant crunch-crunch-crunch of our footsteps.
Threk is a dying mountain beside me.
He is leaving a trail. The Worg-bite in his thigh has ripped open, and with every lurching, limping step, he paints the pristine snow with a fresh, dark smear of his blood. He is a beacon for the elves, a beacon for Larda.
My resolve, my penance, my stubborn will—it is a thin, fraying thread, about to snap.
We are just running until he catches us. We are just running until Threk collapses, and then Larda will take us, and he will...
Threk stops.
He stops so suddenly I stumble, nearly falling. "What? What is it? Are they...?"
I listen, my heart seizing, but I hear nothing. Only the high, thin whine of the wind.
Threk’s massive, brutish head is high, his nostrils flaring wide. He is sniffing the air, a deep, rumbling inhale. He is not smelling elves. He is not smelling danger.
He turns, his red eyes burning with a new, strange focus. He grabs my arm, pulling me off the barely-visible game trail we’ve been following.
"Threk, no, the path is—"
He drags me, his strength still terrifying, even in his wounded state. He pulls me straight toward a solid, sheer rockface, one covered in a thick, glittering curtain of ice and frozen moss.
"It's a wall," I pant, confused. "There's no—"
He shoves me.
"Threk!"
He shoves me through the curtain of ice.
I cry out, expecting to hit solid rock, but I fall. I tumble through the frozen moss, through a crack in the stone, and land on my hands and knees in darkness.
But it is not cold.
It is warm.
The air is thick, damp, and smells of sulfur and minerals. It’s the smell of the earth’s deep, hot breath.
I scramble back, looking up as Threk’s massive, ten-foot form crouches and forces its way through the crack, his shoulders grinding against the stone. He fills the entrance, a monster of shadow.
He grunts, a low, pained sound, and steps past me, into the darkness.
And the cavern opens.
The tiny, black crack is a lie. It is a throat. We have fallen into the belly of the mountain.
It is a huge, wide cavern, its ceiling so high it is lost in shadow. And it is lit. A faint, ethereal, pale-green glow comes from patches of phosphorescent moss clinging to the walls.
In the center of the cavern, a large, deep pool of black water steams, the rising vapor glowing in the pale light.
A hot spring.
It is a perfect, hidden, impossible sanctuary.
The safety is what finally breaks me.
The sudden, shocking release from the terror, from the ice, from the hopelessness... it is too much. My legs give out. I slide down the slick cavern wall, my body huddling into a small, miserable ball.
The tears I have been holding back for days, the fear I refused to show the elves, the guilt that is my only fuel... it breaks.
The silent, shaking tears finally come.
I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
"They won't stop, Threk," I whisper, my voice a raw, broken thing, barely audible over the bubble of the spring. "He'll never stop. That look on his face... It's not just you. It's me. We're just... we're just running until he catches us."
I am done. I am tired. I want to die.
I feel him move. A mountain of shadow blots out the faint, green light.
He kneels.
He doesn't just grunt. He kneels before me, his massive form blocking the exit crack, making the cave theirs. Ours.
His movements are pained. He is trembling from effort and blood loss.
He reaches out. His massive, calloused thumb finds my cheek.
He wipes my tears.
I flinch, staring up at him through my wet eyes.
His red eyes are not hazy. They are clear and burning with a fierce, protective anger. An anger for me.
His voice is a low, pained rumble, but the words are clearer than any he has spoken.
"No," he growls. "Elves. No."
He points to himself. To the star-scar on his chest, visible through his torn, bloody furs.
"I. Stop."
It is not a boast. It is a vow.
My sobs turn quiet. I stare at him, at this monster who hunted elves to save me, who limped miles to find this.
I look at him. Really look.
He is covered in filth. Dried, black blood is matted in his hair. The Worg-bite on his thigh is raw and seeping.
"You're hurt," I whisper, my voice hoarse. My guilt shifts, replaced by the familiar, comforting instinct to help. "We... we're filthy."
I gesture to the steaming pool. "We need to clean. The heat... it will be good for your wounds."
He nods. A single, slow, grave movement.
We strip off our ruined, foul clothes. The act is not sexual. It is necessary. Primal.
The size difference between us is stark in the glowing, green light. He is a ten-foot warrior of scars and muscle. I am small, pale, human. He’s my protector.
My fear is gone. It is replaced by a deep, aching appreciation. He is magnificent.
We slip into the pool.
The water is hot. A shocking, exquisite, blissful pleasure that sinks deep into my bones, melting the ice inside me. I gasp, sinking up to my chin.
Threk groans, a deep sound of pure relief as the heat hits his wounded leg. He sinks down, the water coming up to his massive chest.
I take a strip of my torn tunic. I move toward him. He watches me, his red eyes glowing in the steam.
I clean his wounds.
My hands tremble as I wash the blood and grime from the mangled crater on his thigh. I run my fingers over the old, ropy maps of his elven scars, tracing the angry, star-shaped one on his chest.
"What did they do to you, Threk?" I whisper, my heart aching.
He shudders at my gentle touch. His eyes burn red, and he closes them, fighting a memory.
"Pain," he rumbles, his voice deeper, clearer. "Long. Now... gone."
He takes the rag from me.
He washes me.
His massive, clumsy hands are impossibly gentle as he washes the filth from my back, his calloused palms rubbing circles on my skin.
His claws lightly scrape me.
A shiver of pure pleasure races down my spine.
He runs his huge hand over my hair, smoothing the tangled mess. He is gazing at me, his reverence a tangible thing. He knows me now. He knows my body.
He struggles for a word. "You..."
He points up, his clawed finger aiming at the single, brightest point of glowing, green moss on the cavern ceiling.
"You... star."
My heart melts. It is the most beautiful word I have ever heard.
A new emotion overflows in my heart. My fear and guilt is gone. This is no longer a penance.
This is love.
This time, I initiate.
I rise in the water. I take his hand, his massive, clawed hand, and I press my lips to his wet knuckles.
I rise further, tussling water, and I kiss his massive, scarred chest, right over his heart.
He groans.
It is a deep, shuddering sound of need. He pulls me against him in the water. Our bodies slam together, slick, wet, naked.
He claims my mouth.
This kiss is not curious or clumsy.
It is knowing.
It is deep and wet and skilled. He is remembering. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tangling with mine, tasting me, devouring me.
He plays with my body expertly as if he has done this a thousand times. His hands are everywhere, knowing where to touch. He rubs his calloused palm over my nipple, and I arch against him, gasping into his mouth.
He lifts me. Easily.
My back hits the slick, warm rock wall of the spring. The hot water sloshes around my waist.
He groans my name, a deep, possessive rumble. "Betty..."
He lowers his massive head. His mouth closes over my breast. His suckling is strong, pulling a gasp from my throat. His rough tongue lashes the peak. His tusks frame me, a primal, dangerous, exhilarating caress.
He moves lower.
His mouth replaces his hand. His tongue finds my center.
It is overwhelming. The size of his mouth. The roughness of his tongue. The heat of the water and him.
I cry out. My voice echoes in the cavern.
"Threk! Gods, Threk, please!"
He rises, his need obvious. He is massive and ready. He lifts me easily, my legs wrapping around his thick, solid waist.
He aligns himself at my entrance. He doesn't just press; he is a hot, blunt, enormous weight, a promise of the power he is about to unleash. He is asking, his eyes locked on mine.
I nod. My breath catches, my body craves him like a deep, aching need. I lift my hips in the water, a silent, desperate plea, taking him.
He pushes.
It is a slow, agonizing, overwhelming invasion.
A scream tears from my throat as he impales me against the wall, his entire, massive length sinking into me.
He fills me. He stretches me. The size difference is stark and terrifying, a burning, tearing pressure, but my body was ready.
I was open and aching, and this is the answer.
He is a mountain, and he is inside me, claiming every single inch until he is buried to the hilt.
He stays still for a long, eternal moment, his entire body vibrating with a control that seems impossible. His tusks frame my face, his hot breath ghosting over my lips.
Slowly, he pulls back, just an inch, before pressing in again.
It is a slow, deep, reverent plundering that makes my vision white out at the edges.
The pleasure is a shock, so deep and full it consumes the pain.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. I am lost. I am his.
My hands claw at his massive, wet shoulders, my nails scraping uselessly against his tough hide, desperate for purchase.
"Threk," I gasp, my voice a raw, shredded thing I don't recognize. The slow, deep worship is maddening. I don't want reverence. I want the storm. "More! Don't be gentle! Please... faster!"
My words, my screamed demand, are the trigger. I feel the exact moment his iron control breaks.
The savage I saw in the woods, the one I begged for, returns.
He roars, a low, guttural sound of pure, primal dominance that echoes off the cavern walls, and the frenzy begins.
His thrusts are no longer slow or gentle.
They become deep, hard, and animalistic.
He slams into me, branding me, claiming me over and over against the rock.
He is fucking me, a wild, primal rhythm that is all instinct and need.
The hot spring water crashes around our hips, a chaotic, sloshing sound that matches the pounding of my heart and the slap of our bodies.
He groans my name, a deep, guttural, agonized chant that is part pleasure, part possession. "Betty! Betty!"
The sound of his voice saying my name as he takes me like this is what shatters me. I scream as my climax explodes, my body convulsing violently around his enormous size, my own voice ripping his name from my throat. "Threk!"
My release triggers his. He roars, his back arching as he buries himself impossibly deeper, pinning me to the wall. A deep, shuddering groan vibrates through the water itself as he spills his hot, thick release into me.
He doesn't let go. His entire, massive body is shaking with exhaustion and the force of his climax. He lifts me from the wall, my legs weak and useless, and carries me out of the pool, his stride unsteady. He collapses into the nest of furs we made, pulling me down on top of him.
He immediately wraps his massive arms around me, shielding me even in this sanctuary, his instinct to protect overwhelming everything.
He holds me, our bodies damp and cooling in the warm, green-lit air.
I am sprawled on his chest, my head over the slowing, heavy thud of his heart, and I feel completely, terrifyingly, paradoxically safe in the arms of Protheka’s most dangerous monster.