Chapter 15
- Riley -
Nator’ax lays me down on the thick pile of furs spread across the warm rock, water still dripping from our naked bodies. Steam rises all around us in lazy curls, mingling with the cold winter air and creating a hazy veil that makes this moment feel even more private, more ours.
The hot springs bubble softly nearby, their warmth radiating up through the stone beneath the furs, chasing away any chill from the snow and ice surrounding our hidden sanctuary.
He follows me down immediately, his massive, striped body covering mine. Droplets of water trace glowing paths over his blue markings and the hard planes of his muscles. My legs stay curled around his waist, holding him close as both of his cocks press hot and heavy between us.
He brushes damp strands of hair from my face, eyes soft despite the hunger burning in them. “I’m happy you found this place,” he whispers, voice deep and reverent. “That village isn’t ours. It’s not us. But this place belongs to us now.”
My heart swells. I cup his strong jaw, thumb stroking one of his fangs and marveling at the sharpness of it. “It does. It’s all ours.”
He kisses me slowly and deeply, as he shifts his hips and presses the thick head of his larger cock against my entrance. I’m so ready for him it’s an ache deep inside. I swear I can smell my own arousal over the sulfur of the springs.
He slides in with one smooth, slow thrust, filling me completely. The stretch is intense but extremely welcome, my body opening for him because it knows what’s coming. A deep moan escapes me as he settles deep, our bodies perfectly joined.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against my lips, starting a slow, rolling rhythm. The smaller cock strokes my clit in gentle, perfect circles with every movement.
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding him as close as possible while pleasure builds between us. “Yes,” I breathe, kissing him again. “I am. I’m only yours. And you’re mine.”
That last part makes him draw his breath in sharply and he freezes, boring into me with his ice-blue eyes. “I’m yours?”
“Yes,” I groan, thrusting against him, wanting him to continue. “You’re mine.”
“We’re each other’s,” he marvels as he pushes in hard. “It’s fantastic.”
Our lovemaking is unhurried now, tender and deep.
Skin against skin, breath mingling with steam, soft words shared between kisses.
The heat from the rock and springs keeps us warm as snow falls silently just beyond the rocks.
My climax rises gently at first, then crashes over me in long, trembling waves.
I cling to him, crying out softly as pleasure floods every part of me.
He follows soon after, groaning my name into my neck as he pulses deep inside, filling me with heat while the smaller cock continues its sweet caress.
We stay locked together afterward, breathing each other in, safe in our own private world of steam and furs.
“Let’s never leave,” I breathe. “We’ll just stay here. We have water and warmth. And iron. We need nothing more.”
“No shamans,” Nator’ax rumbles. “No strange looks.”
I stay close to Nator’ax as we dress, reluctant to let go of the warmth of the spring.
For a little while, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of us.
There was no tribe, no danger, no expectations.
But the mountains are still there when I look up.
They’re tall and dark, with only the peaks partly covered in snow.
The darkness has to mean that the sides are so steep, the snow can’t gather.
I glance toward the black cliffs rising beyond the springs, their faces sheer and jagged, streaked with ice that never melts. We’re in three-quarters of a cauldron, with the mountains forming the deep sides, and the only way out leading straight to the Gar village.
“Do you think,” I start, pulling my fur tighter around me, “this is a good way to escape? Over the mountains?”
Nator’ax doesn’t answer immediately. He’s scanning the terrain again, the same way he always does. He keeps measuring and judging, never truly at rest. It’s reassuring, but also unnerving—he always expects danger, and he is probably right. I follow his gaze, trying to see what he sees.
“There are no tracks,” he says at last, as he tightens his sword belt. “The snow shows no footprints going that way. And the Gar aren’t careful about leaving tracks.”
I frown. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? No one comes this way.”
“It’s not a good sign for escape. Not here. If there was a path, even a dangerous one, something would use it. Small prey, hunters.” He gestures toward the cliffs. “Nothing goes there. Nothing comes from there.”
I study them more carefully now. Up close, they’re worse than they looked from below. They’re too steep, too smooth in places, too broken in others. Trained mountaineers from Earth could probably climb up, using ropes, pegs, and all kinds of equipment. Everyone else would need a helicopter.
“And if we did manage to get up there?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Then we would still be nowhere, with no food and no roof over our heads. Just more ice and stone.” His gaze comes back to me. “And the saucer is the other direction.”
“So if we run…” I say slowly.
“We run back toward it,” he finishes. “And then we hope it will work. Because there’s nothing in that direction, either. Just the glacier and the mountains beyond.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The wind moves through the rocks with a low, hollow sound, like something breathing under the earth. I don’t like it.
“All right,” I say finally, forcing a small nod. “Then at least we know.”
He gives a single nod in return. “We know. The chief was being truthful.”
He gathers the red iron stones in a pouch he fashions from a part of his fur, and then we start back.
The walk feels different now. The light fades quickly, the cold settling in deeper as the sun slips behind the mountains.
We don’t talk much. Not because anything’s wrong, exactly, but because something has changed.
The springs felt like a pause, but now we’re walking back to the real world, and it’s a cold world in more ways than one.
By the time the village comes into view, it’s already dark.
Firelight flickers between the huts. I spot the chief almost immediately. He’s standing near the center, exactly where he was this morning, as if he hasn’t moved all day. His eyes find us without effort, and he watches us walk in.
Around us, the rest of the tribe goes quiet in that subtle, collective way I’m starting to recognize. Conversations fade. Movements slow. People look, then pretend they aren’t looking.
We take food without asking and sit a little apart at the central fire, just the two of us. No one joins us. No one challenges us, either. Nator’ax is calm beside me, as always, but I can feel the tension under it now, coiled and ready.
When we’re done, we don’t linger. We head straight back to the cave.
Inside, the darkness feels familiar, almost comforting. I sink down into the furs with a quiet exhale, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me.
For a moment, I just lie there, listening to his movements, the steady rhythm of his breathing as he settles beside me.
I turn toward him without thinking, fitting myself against his side, enjoying his heat and how it spreads through me.
Whatever else is waiting for us out there, whatever this place is going to demand next, it can wait a little longer.
For now, I close my eyes.
Morning comes too soon. I wake to movement and sound instead of quiet. There are low voices outside, the crackle of fire, and the sharp clangs of something heavy striking metal. For a moment, I lie still, reaching for the warmth beside me, but Nator’ax is gone.
I push myself up and wrap the furs tighter around my shoulders as the cold seeps in. The hammering sound comes again. It’s unlike anything I’ve heard in this village before. The tribe doesn’t like using iron, or they see it as unnecessary, except for their spears.
I step outside and shield my eyes against the morning sun.
The village has gathered in a loose half-circle near the kiln and the old forge, the one that’s been covered in a layer of snow since we arrived.
Smoke drifts low in the cold air, carrying a strange, bitter scent. At the center of it all is Nator’ax.
He’s stripped down to his loincloth despite the cold, his skin flushed from heat and effort.
The kiln glows behind him. Beside it, there’s a rough setup I don’t fully understand.
There’s stone, fire, and something that looks like a makeshift anvil.
In his hand is a hammer, bigger than any metal object I’ve seen here before.
He brings it down, and the sound rings out across the village, clear and hard, echoing off ice and stone.
The forge becomes the center of the village, with everyone looking over from wherever they are.
All the boys are gathered around Nator’ax, watching with great interest and thoughtful commentary.
I move closer, drawn in despite myself. Some of the rusty stones he gathered yesterday are in a heap at his feet, while some of them have been turned into a weird, congealed piece of gray iron that Nator’ax is hammering.
I’ve seen it done in the Borok tribe, but they have a larger forge than this, and more tools.
Nator’ax only has a hammer and some wooden tongs that are already burned black.
His hammer falls again and again, and the boys clench their hands over their ears. Each blow shapes the iron, slowly turning it flat. I can’t tell what he’s going to make, but it should be something the tribe can use, something that shows them that they’d be better off with him alive than dead.