7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Little Cow
Maeve
S leep claims me quickly, and I don’t even try to resist.
After the mayhem of the raid, the rough journey across the plains, and the terror of my new fate, I should be too panicked to rest. But Dakar’s furs smell like warm leather and sage, and against my better judgment, I drift off.
When I awake though, I’m in pain. There’s that familiar pressure in my breasts. My breath hitches in discomfort as I shift. Oh no . Dakar’s tunic is plastered to my chest, two dark, damp circles blooming over my nipples.
I’m leaking.
But my body doesn’t care about my shame. Back at the farm, we were on a schedule, milked at dawn, midday, and dusk every day like clockwork. My body remembers, and now, without relief, the ache is unbearable.
I squirm, biting back a whimper.
Dakar’s grip tightens around my waist. “Little cow.” His voice is rough with sleep, and I hadn’t realized how close we’ve gotten.
I’ve somehow ended up curled up against him, his body pressed to mine.
I can feel the heat of him against my back.
His hand slides up to my ribs, and my breath catches as his fingers brush the underside of my swollen breast. “What is wrong?” he asks.
My face burns. “I need to…” The words stick in my throat. I’ve said this before, but never to a male. Especially while curled against his bare chest.
His thumb circles my nipple through the damp fabric, and I gasp. “Need to what?”
His deep voice grumbles against my nape.
I squeeze my thighs together.
“I…I need to express them,” I whisper. “It's time.”
A low hum vibrates in his chest. “I think it's past time, little cow.”
Before I can stammer a reply, he’s sitting up, the furs sliding off his bare torso. I see the hard planes of his chest, and I should look away, but I’m finding it difficult to pull my eyes away.
He reaches over me, grabbing the empty washbowl from last night. “You’ll use this.”
I take it from him with shaky hands.
Dakar observes me, amber eyes half-lidded. “You know what to do?”
I do. But right here? With him watching me?
Then he rises from the furs, and I… Oh . He’s naked.
Morning light spills through the mouth of the cave, gilding over the powerful curve of his back, the thick, sculpted muscle of his shoulders.
He’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. The boys back home were sun-browned and lean from fieldwork, but Dakar…
Dakar is something else entirely.His dark horns are wicked-sharp, and my breath tangles in my throat as he stretches, the shift of his body revealing the heavy strength of his arms, the dusting of dark fur trailing down his stomach. Lower.
I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t help it.
His tail flicks lazily behind him, and when he turns around, my gaze is drawn to the swell of his…
Oh, mercy.
Even half-hard, he’s massive. My mouth goes dry. Surely the boys back home were not so brutal in size?
I wrench my eyes away, my face on fire, but the image burns behind my eyelids. His thick cock, the length of it curving against his thigh. Stars above, how would that even—
“Relax, little cow.”His voice curls around me, and I shiver.
He struts across the cave to the fire pit, glancing back at me over his shoulder, and the knowing glint in his eyes tells me henoticedme staring.
“I’ll make us food.”His forearm flexes as he grabs the handle of a pan.
“Unless you’d rather I stay…and help you first? ” He smirks at me with a raised brow.
My thighs press together, a traitorous pulse answering between them.
What is wrong with me?
But the answer is standing right there, all muscle and arrogance.
When I'm confident that Dakar is busy, I fumble with the wooden bowl, setting it on the bed between my knees. Mynipplesare so tight they hurt; stiff, and oversensitive. The second I peel the damp tunic off, they bead harder, the pink gone deep rose from the strain. I wince just looking at them. Gods, they’reswollen, my areolas puffy and stretched.
Just do it. Just get it over with.
I press my palm against the underside of my right breast, wincing at the heat radiating from it. My fingers try to mimic the motion I’ve seen Aunt Hettie do a hundred times, gentle, rhythmic squeezes, but the moment I apply pressure, pain lances through me.
A whimper escapes my lips.
I try again, firmer this time, desperate for relief. But my hands are clumsy, unpracticed, and all I manage is a few pitiful drops into the bowl. Frustration burns behind my eyes, and they fill with tears.
I flick a glance toward the fire.
Dakar’s back is turned, his shoulders flexing as he stirs the stew. Good.I don’t want him to see me like this.
I try again, pressing below my nipple the way the village women taught me, but the angle’s wrong and all I get is a sharpzingof pain. A thin stream arcs into the bowl and then stops.Damn it.
Another peek at Dakar.
He’s chopping herbs now. His forearms are corded, muscles moving as he uses the knife. I imagine those hands, rough from sword work, deft from skinning game, squeezing…
No.I bite my lip. Focus Maeve.
My next attempt goes worse. My thumb slips, and milk sprays my thigh instead of the bowl. I’mdripping, my nipples aching, but I don’t know what to do.
I see Dakar moving in my peripheral vision. He’s wiping his hands on a cloth. A scar down his jaw tightens as he tastes the stew.
Stop staring at him.
His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and my breaststhrob, a fresh bead welling at my left nipple. It rolls down shamefully before I can catch it.
There’s something seriously wrong inside me.
A hot tear slips down my cheek. Then another. I drop my hands into my lap, defeated. My chest shakes, my shoulders curving inward as I try to stop myself from crying. I’m exhausted, humiliated, and still so painfully full.
I sniffle quietly, hoping he won’t notice, but the soft clop of hooves across stone pauses.
I swipe at my cheeks too late. The scent of roasted meat and wild herbs hits me, and I realize how hungry I am.
“Maeve?”
I clutch his tunic over my breasts, curling tighter into the nest of furs, and turn my face away. “I’m fine,” I mumble, though the thick catch in my voice betrays me.
His heavy steps approach, and I hear him set the carved wooden bowl down on a flat stone.
The warm, savory scent drifts closer, and my stomach grumbles.
But all I can feel is the throbbing ache in my breasts, the damp cling of his too-large tunic where my milk has soaked through, and the sting of fresh tears at the corners of my eyes.
“I know you're crying,” Dakar says. He doesn’t move any closer. He doesn’t sound angry, or annoyed, just…worried?
I cover my face with my hands. “It’s nothing,” I answer miserably. “I’m just…I’m sore. It hurts. And your tunic’s soaked.”
There’s a long silence. I expect him to scoff or mock me, to tell me it’s not his problem.
Instead, I feel movement beside me, and when I peek between my fingers, he's seated next to me in the furs. His amber eyes are searching my face. Not leering at my chest or body.
“You should’ve said something,” he chides me softly. “You don’t have to hide your pain.”
I swallow hard, avoiding eye contact. “Why are you being nice to me?”
His jaw tightens. “Because you’re mine now. And I protect what belongs to me.”
The word mine makes my skin prickle. I don’t know if it should terrify me or comfort me. Maybe both.
When I don’t respond, he reaches out slowly, like he doesn't want to frighten me, and brushes a tear from my cheek with the back of one calloused knuckle.
“I know you don’t trust me yet,” he murmurs. “But I won’t hurt you. Not ever.”
His words make me begin weeping in earnest. How could I ever trust a beast that burned down my home? Who took me away from—
“Let me help you.”
I suck in a breath. Everything in me screams that I should say no.
I don’t know him. I shouldn’t trust him.
He stole me. He’s a Minotaur warlord, a monster, my captor.
But I also remember the way he held my hair back when I was sick, how he's given me food, warmth, and clean clothes without touching me or forcing himself upon me.
The ache in my chest is too much to bear.
I would be an idiot to not accept help from him now.
I bite my bottom lip and look up at him. He's waiting for my consent. My voice catches in my throat. I can't say the words, so I just nod.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just slides himself behind me with surprising grace for someone his size. I stiffen as he settles on the furs, his legs stretching out on either side of me, but he doesn’t pull me back against him.
“Lean back,” he says quietly, his voice is like gravel smoothed by wind.
I hesitate, my heart pounding. Then, inch by inch, I let myself relax until my back brushes his chest. I close my eyes and exhale, trying not to start crying again.
“You’re safe,” he rumbles in reassurance, as if he can feel my fear through my spine.
I don’t know if that’s true, but for some reason, I do feel safe with him, and that scares me even more.
Heat radiates off him like a hearth fire, his breath warm on my neck as his hands slide around either side of me.
I shiver when his fingers brush the underside of my breasts before he finally takes them in his palms. The first squeeze is firm, almost painful, and makes me gasp.
But then his thumbs press into my swollen flesh, working in slow, deliberate circles, and the relief is instant.
“Ah,”I bite my lip, but the sound escapes anyway.
Milk beads at my nipples before spilling over, dripping down his fingers.
He tugs, rolling my sensitive nipples between his fingers, coaxing out more, and my hips jerk when I feel his cock harden against the curve of my spine.
Every pull sends sparks through me, pleasure and relief tangled so tightly I can’t separate them.
“D-Dakar.”His name is a moan.
“Tell me to stop.”He doesn’t, though. His huge arms are caging me in as milk beads, then spills over his knuckles. The sound is obscene.
I arch, biting back a moan. Every pull of his fingers tugs at something deeper, hotter. My thighs are slick, my pulse throbbing between them. His breath hitches when I rock forward, just once, chasing the friction.
“Fuck.”His voice is raw.
I whimper again, and his grip tightens, his hands fisting my breasts like he’s stopping himself from taking me right here and—
He suddenly stops, jerking back like I’ve burned him. His breaths are heavy.
“Better?” he grits out.
No .My skin is on fire, my core clenching around nothing. But I nod, unable to meet his eyes.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. Then, “Eat.”He shoves the bowl toward me andmoves, quickly , toward the mouth of the cave.