Chapter 13 A Planned Attack #3
He leaned in as if to kiss me again, then paused, recognition dawning in his eyes. He took my hand gently, placed it over his chest. His heartbeat pounded against my palm—just like mine did the first time under the oak tree. “Do you feel that?” he asked softly. “I'm nervous too, Magda.”
“Why are you nervous?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He gave a soft, breathless laugh, then met my eyes. “Do you think I know anything beyond the obvious, Magda? Because I don't. You are my first.”
My lips parted in a silent oh, the realization settling over me with an unexpected tenderness.
I'd been so caught up in learning the finer points of kissing these past weeks that I hadn't thought of asking if he'd done this before.
He had said we would learn together. And only now did I understand that he had meant everything.
He tugged gently, coaxing me closer, and guided one of my legs across his hips until I was straddling him. My skirts gathered between us, his hands sliding up my thighs, and I felt the tremble in both our bodies—nerves, want, and the thrill of the unknown.
There was still too much between us—his trousers, my gathered skirts.
I ached to feel him fully, the heat of his skin pressed flush to mine.
With a needy breath, I hiked my skirts up around my hips, baring myself to him, desperate for his touch.
Then I leaned back slightly, fingers fumbling at the leather belt that held his pants in place.
He watched me with darkened eyes, lifting his hips when I tugged, helping me as I worked the fabric down. My hands slid along his thighs, easing the garment past his hips until—
His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and proud between us, and the sudden proof of his desire stole the breath from my chest. I had seen the male body before; babies and ailing old men—but never awakened by me. This was a first.
His hand moved between us, tentative at first, then bolder as his fingers brushed the slick heat between my thighs.
He explored gently, his fingertip dragging through the wetness he found there, teasing it back and forth until it glistened between us.
I gasped when his thumb found that aching place at the crest of me, moving in slow, languid circles that made my breath catch.
I had touched myself in secret, alone at night, muffling my moans in the pillow so as not to wake Buna.
But here, beneath the open sky, I was free—free to let Caius hear what his touch did to me.
Then he reached for my hand, lacing our fingers briefly before guiding mine down—between my own thighs, teaching me the motion he'd used. My skin flushed as he helped me slip a finger inside myself, coating it in the same silky arousal that now slicked his own.
When my hand was wet, he moved it to his cock.
It twitched beneath my touch, and I gasped again, surprised—the heat, the solid weight of him, alive in my hand.
I curled my fingers around his shaft, tentative at first, until he guided me—his hand enveloping mine, showing me the rhythm he craved.
The slow, deliberate strokes. The pressure that made his breath catch.
I imagined what it would feel like to take him inside me, to be filled by him completely—and the ache within me deepened, raw and insistent.
I rose up, needing him pressed against me, the friction unbearable in its absence.
With my hand, I drew him to me, dragging his length against my wetness, gliding the thick, warm ridge of him across my slick folds.
I caught him between my palm and my body, rubbing him there, watching the tension grip his face as he fought for control.
He groaned—a low, desperate sound—and I leaned in, kissing him deeply, hungrily, while his cock remained trapped between us, pulsing and hard, slick with both our desire. His hands clutched my hips, fingers digging in, and I could feel him trembling beneath me.
The knowledge that I could do this to him, that I could unravel the boyar's son with nothing but my body and my want, sent a thrill through me.
I felt powerful—more powerful than I had ever been.
And as his control frayed and his breath grew ragged, I knew we were both standing at the edge of something irreversible.
He pulled down the top of my dress, baring my breasts to the warm mountain air.
Then he rose onto one elbow, his mouth finding my nipple, drawing it in with a soft suck before biting down—just enough to send a jolt of exquisite sensation through me.
I cried out, my back arching, not from pain, not entirely, but from the overwhelming rush of feeling.
Something shifted inside me then. Thought gave way to hunger, to instinct. All hesitation burned away beneath the fire in my veins. My body knew what it wanted—what it had always wanted—and it was him.
I rose onto my knees, guided his cock to where I ached for him most, letting my slickness slide along his tip, circling, teasing, until we both trembled.
Then I stilled. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the pain I knew was near, the way I'd heard wetness softened it, turned pain to pleasure. I was ready now. For all of it.
His voice broke just as I was about to take him inside me.
“Wait—Magda…” he gasped, his chest rising and falling unsteadily.
“I'm scared I'll hurt you, but I can't—I can't hold back much longer.” His hands trembled where they gripped my hips.
“I want this more than I've ever wanted anything.
But once I'm in you…I won't be able to stop.”
I pressed my mouth to his, offering him the only answer I had: I was ready—for him, for this, for whatever came next.
I reached between us, guiding him to me, and eased back slowly.
He slipped inside just a little before my body resisted.
I knew what it was—the moment that would hurt.
Drawing in a steady breath, I willed myself to soften, to let him in.
Caius hesitated, holding himself still so I could lead. I pressed back, past the place my body resisted, and pain flared—first a sharp sting, then a burn, fire concentrated where we were joined. A cry tore from my lips as tears stung my eyes.
His hands steadied my hips, keeping us both from moving. He leaned up, kissing me in soft, tender brushes—my mouth, the tip of my nose, my eyelids. Each touch soothed, and slowly the burning eased, the tears drying before they could fall.
I rocked against him tentatively. The pain returned with each movement, and still I moved—slowly, carefully, inch by inch, until at last I had taken all of him inside me.
His eyes grew heavy, teeth clenched as I moved against him. The burning gave way to a tingling heat—like the first time he'd slipped his fingers inside me—and my own wetness eased the way, letting me move faster, freer.
His breath soon turned ragged, uneven, and I knew he was losing his grip on control.
I couldn't decide what thrilled me more—the deep, consuming fullness of him inside me, or the power of knowing I made it impossible for him to hold back.
I pressed my palms to his chest for leverage, my dark hair spilling like a curtain between us.
Caius caught it in his hand, winding the strands around his fingers, and yanked me down just as he thrust up into me—no longer content to let me lead.
His grip in my hair, his breath hot against my throat, unraveled me.
Every groan that rumbled from him as he struck the deepest part of me sent a shiver spiraling through my body.
And each small, helpless sound I gave in return only drove him closer to breaking.
His release hovered just at the edge, and I could feel it in the tremor of his body beneath mine.
“I love you Magda,” he said as he held me. The words came out rough, the rhythm out of time with the movement of our bodies.
Those were the words I had longed to hear—the proof that what we felt was real, that this was right. The sound that left me was as much from the force of his body as from the impact of his vow; I moaned aloud in triumph. He was mine. And I was his.
The sound I made pushed him over the edge. He cried out as he pulsed inside me, his arms locking around my body until at last he stilled.
I hadn't reached the same release I'd known alone, but I understood—sometimes it didn't come the first time. There would be more chances, more time to learn each other, to discover how to please and be pleased.
When our breaths finally steadied, I eased from atop him.
Caius slipped free, though he didn't loosen his hold, and I curled beside him in the grass.
In the fragile afterglow I felt suddenly shy, exposed in a way I hadn't expected, while Caius seemed utterly untroubled—his gaze fixed on me as though I were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
The illusion shattered with the thunder of hoofbeats. A rider burst from the trees. We scrambled upright. I turned away at once, dragging my skirts down, folding my arms over my chest as Caius's hand flew to his blade—then stilled. When I turned back, I saw recognition on his face.
His father's man, Ivar. And behind him—Dani.
Ivar reined in sharply, his horse snorting as his mouth twisted into a knowing, lewd grin. “Caius—your father calls for you. Our men clashed with a raiding party from the south. He sent your friend with me to find you. Leave the girl—“
But I wasn't looking at Ivar. Dani sat atop his horse several yards away, as though an invisible boundary held him there.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. The shock on his face hollowed quickly into something worse—hurt so raw it looked like pain made visible.
Not anger. Not accusation. Just the quiet devastation of understanding all at once.
Then he turned his horse. He kicked it into a gallop and fled back the way he had come, leaving behind a silence so complete it rang in my ears.
Neither Caius nor I spoke. There were no words that could have followed him—none that could have undone what he had seen, or softened the betrayal he must have felt.
With Dani gone, I turned to face Ivar. Though I had straightened my blouse and tugged my skirt back into place, I felt stripped bare beneath his lingering stare. His gaze traveled over me slowly, assessing, as if what he saw were goods left out in the open market.
“Well,” he said just after he spit on the ground, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth, “I suppose some girls are eager to earn their place.” The words landed like a punch.
Caius stiffened. His gaze snapped from Ivar to me, then back again. “Mind your tongue,” he said, irritated. “She's with me.”
With me. Not she is not what you think. Not speak of her with respect.
Just a territorial claim. Heat crawled up my throat—not from shame at what we had done, but from the way they stood there measuring one another over me.
Caius bristled, stepping slightly in front of me, shoulders squared, ready for a challenge.
But it felt like he was defending ownership, not honor.
And somehow, that hurt more than Ivar's words.
Ivar only laughed. “So I see.”
Our villagers feared enemies at the gates, men who came with banners and blades.
My dread was of a different kind altogether.
Ivar and his men were less soldiers than hired brutes—the sort Caius's father kept close for tasks too ugly to soil his own hands.
Violence made official. Cruelty given leave. He and his men made my skin crawl.
“We'll follow you down the mountain,” Caius told him as I gathered the reins and swung onto my pony. I was grateful Ivar's only reply was a derisive huff before he spurred his horse into a hard gallop down the trail.
As we neared the village, I turned west, urging my pony into a run.
I needed to reach the cottage, to help Buna tend the wounded.
She asked no questions when I burst through the door after stabling my pony.
She had returned to gather supplies, and together we hurried back to the square, where a makeshift shelter held the injured.
We worked deep into the night, scrubbing and binding wounds. Some men would live to see another dawn. Others would not.
By early morning, Drago Burián moved among the pallets of the injured, dispensing measured words of praise and consolation.
He paused beside the families of the dead, commending their sons' bravery, assuring them their sacrifice had preserved our safety.
To those whose loved ones still clung to life, he spoke of vigilance—of readiness, of the need for more men, more provisions, more coin should our enemies rise again.
And then his gaze found me.
It was not long, nor obvious. But it lingered a fraction too long to be accidental—cool, assessing, as though weighing something newly discovered. I felt it like a hand at my chin, tilting my face for inspection—forcing a chill down my spine.
Had Ivar spoken? Had he told the boyar what he had seen when he found Caius? The thought hollowed my stomach. His expression gave nothing away, yet something in it had shifted. I was no longer invisible to him.
When I finally stumbled home in the gray light of dawn—two days since I had last slept—I peeled off my bloodstained skirts. The soldiers' blood had dried in dark streaks across the fabric.
And there, smeared between my thighs, was more dried blood.
My own.