Chapter 12 The Weight of Shame #2
I grab her around the waist, dragging her onto my lap. She’s so beautiful, the curves of her body soft and real beneath my fingers. I kiss her harder, pouring every apology, every regret, every terrible secret into her mouth.
She bites my lip, drawing blood, but I like the sting.
My hands are everywhere—her ribs, her back, the inside of her thigh. But she’s not a shy little virgin princess any longer. She moans into my mouth, grinding against me, her fingers fisted in my hair.
We tear at each other’s clothes, buttons flying, seams splitting. Her shirt goes first, and then mine, and then we’re skin on skin, the heat of us steaming in the cold.
I slide my hand down, finding her wet and ready, her slickness making me groan.
She breaks the kiss, gasping. “Here?”
“Here,” I say, my voice raw.
She laughs, a wild, broken sound, and pushes me back onto the log. She straddles my lap, her knees gripping my hips, her hands braced on my shoulders.
I line myself up and push inside her, savoring the stretch, the perfect fit. She throws her head back, and the sound she makes is pure fucking music.
I thrust up, hard, and she yelps, grabbing my face in both hands. She kisses me again, frantic and sloppy, teeth clacking, tongues fighting.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her so tight I think I might break her. But she’s not breakable. She’s fire and lightning and storm, riding me like she owns the world.
We fuck with everything we have, every ounce of pain and forgiveness and need poured into the motion. The world narrows to the slick slide of her cunt, the heat of her breath, the taste of blood and tears.
She comes first, clenching around me, her nails biting deep into my shoulders. I follow, my hips jerking, seed spilling into her as I bury my face in her neck and sob.
We collapse together, shivering and panting, release washing the guilt and shame away.
She curls into my chest, her hands tracing circles over my heart.
“You’re not a monster,” she whispers. “You’re just a boy who made a mistake.”
I close my eyes, letting the words sink in.
Maybe she’s right. Or maybe it doesn’t matter. Because here, in this moment, I don’t feel like a monster. I just feel alive.
We lie tangled in the wet grass, steam rising from our skin, the world gone soft and quiet except for our ragged breathing. For a minute, I think the universe might give us this, just a little peace, just a few seconds where the past can’t find us.
But the world is never that kind.
I hear them before she does, a quick snap of twigs, the hush of boots on moss. Instinct takes over. I roll off her, grab my knife from the mud, and shove her behind the nearest tree.
“Stay down.”
She doesn’t listen—of course, she doesn’t—but I don’t have time to fight her, not when the first man bursts through the thicket with a crossbow leveled at my head.
I drop, the bolt whistling past my ear, and charge him low. The knife is part of my hand now, an extension of every bad thing I’ve ever done. I drive it up into his guts, twist, and he goes down.
There are two more behind him, both armored, both bigger than me. One swings a mace, the other a sword.
I duck the mace, kick the fucker in the knee, and he screams, collapsing. But the swordsman is fast. He catches my side with a slash, sharp and hot, right beneath the ribs. Blood pours out, hot and sticky, soaking through the remains of my shirt.
I keep fighting. I have to.
The swordsman lunges again, but I grab his wrist and bite down until he yowls and drops the blade. I headbutt him for good measure, feel his nose break under my skull, then gut him with my own knife, a perfect red smile opening beneath his armor.
Someone else is screaming. I think it’s Raisa. I look over and see two guards dragging her out from behind the tree, her arms pinned, her mouth open in a howl of pure rage.
I see red.
I stagger to my feet, knife in hand, vision swimming. The wound in my side is bad—really bad—but I don’t care. I will kill every man in this forest before I let them take her.
I throw myself at the first guard, slice him across the face, then twist the knife up under his jaw. He drops, twitching.
The last one tightens his grip on Raisa, yanking her back as a shield. He pulls a dagger and presses it to her throat.
“Come any closer, and she dies,” he snarls.
I pause, just for a second, weighing options. I could throw the knife. I could charge. I could—
He knees Raisa in the gut. She doubles over, gasping. That’s all the opening I need.
I throw the knife.
The blade lands in his shoulder, not enough to kill, but enough to make him drop the dagger and howl in pain. Raisa rips free, kicks him in the balls, then grabs the fallen dagger and stabs him, over and over, until he stops moving.
She turns to me, hands shaking, her face white as death. “Sable–”
I try to answer, but the world is getting fuzzy around the edges.
“Sable!”
I stagger toward her, blood slicking my side, every step heavier than the last.
She catches me as I fall, clutching my face in her hands. “No, no, no–”
I try to smile, but it hurts too much. “Told you the forest was the least of your worries,” I manage.
She laughs, but it breaks apart into sobs.
I reach up, smear blood across her cheek, just to know she’s real. “Run now, little bird.”
“No.” She presses her mouth to mine, desperate and wild, and I kiss her back with everything I have left.
There’s shouting in the distance—more men, more danger—but all I can see is her.
I want to tell her I’m sorry, but the darkness is coming fast now, curling in around the edges of my vision.
I reach for her, but my arm won’t work.
“Run, Raisa.”
Her face is the last thing I see.
Then nothing.