Chapter 36 - Vera #2
He growls, his hand sliding between us, finding my clit, rubbing it with rough precision. I shake my head, defiant, but my body’s betraying me, my orgasm building like a wildfire. He slows, dragging out each thrust, torturing me, and I whimper, my nails digging into his arms.
I come, screaming into his shoulder, my cunt pulsing around him, my vision blacking out with the intensity.
He doesn’t stop, fucking me through it, his growls vibrating against my skin.
When he comes, it’s with a roar, his cum hot and thick inside me, marking me in a way that feels permanent.
He collapses over me, his weight crushing, grounding, and for a moment, his lips brush my forehead, soft, almost tender, and my heart aches with something I can’t name.
He pulls out, slow, and I wince, my body still trembling.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, and he pulls the blanket over me, his hand lingering on my hip.
I want to shove him away, to rebuild my walls, but the nightmare’s shadow lingers, and his warmth is the only thing keeping it at bay.
He lies beside me, not touching, but close enough that I feel him, his presence a shield against the dark.
“Sleep,” he says, his voice rough but steady, and I close my eyes, my body still humming with his touch.
The camp is silent, but the air is heavy with our secret, a brand on my skin that I’ll carry into the dawn.
He’s mine, whether I admit it or not, and I’ll fight for him, bleed for him, break for him. Always.
***
The nightmare clings to me even as dawn breaks.
Chains rattle in my ears long after I wake, their phantom weight heavy on my chest. The rebels stir slowly, their movements sluggish from hunger and cold.
Smoke rises thin from dying fires, a pitiful offering to the mountain air.
No songs, no laughter, only the hollow shuffle of boots on frost.
I push myself to my feet, Marta’s satchel slung across my shoulder.
Her words are all I have to fight the silence, even if they sound thinner each day.
I gather a handful of rebels, Abigail among them, her doll clutched to her chest. My voice is hoarse, but I read aloud, forcing truth into the morning.
The words cut through the cold, but I see how their eyes flicker, not with belief, but with desperation.
They cling because there is nothing else.
Lucian watches from the edge of camp. His arms are folded, his face shadowed. The wind whips his cloak, but he does not move. His silence presses heavier than my voice can lift.
***
By midday, the march begins again. The path narrows, sheer cliffs rising on either side.
Snow falls in lazy drifts, disguising the danger beneath.
The freed stumble often, their strength fading.
Elira drives them forward with hard words, her breaching axe resting across her shoulder.
Rourke mutters curses, his flask empty now, his temper sharper than ever.
The scouts return with grim news. “Soldiers,” one reports, his voice ragged. “Closer. Their banners carry the Crown’s mark. Days behind, maybe less.”
Fear ripples through the ranks. The freed cry out, clutching one another. The rebels look to the council, then to Lucian. He says nothing, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the cliffs.
It falls to me. I step forward, raising my voice. “We knew this would come. Declan cannot hide forever. We have endured storms, hunger, and loss. We will endure this, too. The Crown bleeds, and we carry that proof. Every step we take is a wound in his chains.”
Some cheer weakly. Some bow their heads. The fire does not catch as it once did. Still, it burns faintly, and that must be enough.
***
By dusk, we find shelter in a narrow cavern.
The rebels huddle close, fires small, their bodies pressed together for warmth.
I sit near the entrance, Marta’s pages open on my knees.
My voice cracks as I read, but I do not stop.
Even when my throat burns, even when the words feel like ash, I keep speaking. If I stop, silence wins.
Lucian stands just beyond the firelight. His sword rests across his lap, untouched. His eyes are fixed on me, dark and unreadable. For a moment, I think he might come closer. For a moment, I think he might speak. But the moment passes, and he turns away, vanishing into the dark.
***
That night, whispers spread through the rebels.
Fear turns to doubt. I hear fragments as they huddle together: The Wolf is broken.
The girl’s words are lies. Declan cannot fall.
I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, fighting the despair clawing at my chest. Each whisper feels like a stone hurled against me, breaking me piece by piece.
Abigail crawls into my lap, her doll pressed between us. “Tell me it’s true,” she whispers, her eyes wide, pleading. “Tell me he can’t win.”
I hold her tight, my voice shaking. “It’s true. He can be broken. I swear it.”
The lie tastes like blood on my tongue. But her head rests against my chest, her breathing steadies, and I know I would lie a thousand times more to keep her hope alive.
***
At dawn, the scouts bring worse news. The soldiers have split, flanking the passes.
Declan is closing the jaws around us. The council gathers, voices sharp with fear.
Elira demands they turn and fight, her breaching axe gleaming.
Rourke insists on scattering, vanishing into the peaks.
Their words clash like steel, but no decision holds.
All eyes turn to Lucian. His silence is a wound. I feel the weight pressing on him, the chains I dreamed binding tighter. I step closer, laying my hand on his arm. “Say something. They need you.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and haunted. For a heartbeat, I see the man beneath the shadow. Then he shakes his head. “Every path leads to him.”
The words steal the breath from me. Around us, the rebels murmur, restless, afraid. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, my heart breaking. If even Lucian yields to despair, what hope remains?
***
That night, I dream again of chains. This time, they coil not only around Lucian, but around me.
Around Abigail. Around every rebel, every freed, every soul that dares whisper freedom.
Declan stands above us, his laughter a storm.
The chains tighten until I cannot breathe, until even Marta’s pages burn to ash in my hands.
I wake with tears freezing on my cheeks, my body shaking.
The fire has died. The cavern is dark, the rebels silent in their restless sleep.
I clutch Marta’s satchel to my chest, whispering her words into the dark, too soft for anyone to hear.
I whisper until my voice is gone, until silence swallows even that.
And still, somewhere in the dark, I swear I hear Declan laughing.