Chapter Three
Silas
I think she is aware that I watch her, but I don’t think she knows how often or that my eyes have traced over every single curve of her body. I’ve already mapped her with my hands, my teeth…my cock.
She got down on her hands and knees in the kitchens earlier, her dress pulled tight over that perfect round ass, and my jaw clenched so hard that it’s still aching even now.
While she was scrubbing the floors as if they’d personally wronged her, all I could imagine was shoving her down on those wet stones, hiking up her skirts, and claiming her right then and there.
Every interaction I’ve had with Beatrice so far, she’s snapped at me like a viper.
Instead of taking a hint, I wonder how sweet she would taste on my tongue.
If her thighs would tremble around me as I dropped to my knees and licked her until she’s sobbing my name.
I want to fuck her so deep she forgets how much she hates me—even if it’s just for a second.
I’ll be the Bull she asks to claim her.
I don’t flinch when she spits her venom or chase after her and try to placate her like everyone else does. I just watch and listen, and I think that unsettles her more than any argument ever could. Because it means I see her, and not just who she is trying to make everyone else think she is.
She’s all fury and fire, but I see the loneliness in her eyes when she watches the others laugh from a distance. Seeing her friend’s happiness without ever expecting to have it herself. I want to lift that weight off her shoulders. I want to put my hands on her hips and beg her to let me carry it.
Today, the clever little cow slips into the war room when she thinks nobody is watching, and I see the way her fingers trace the map’s edge, counting miles and measuring the distance between here and back to her village.
She’s planning her escape. Good for her.
She’s been caged for so long, she deserves to run and feel the earth beneath her feet, the wind screaming in her ears, the dizzying thrill of knowing no one can stop her. Not even me.
And if she doesn’t look back? If she leaves and never returns?
Let her.
Because she should have that choice. She should have everything—every wild, untamed thing her heart desires. Even if it breaks my own…and if she does decide to come back, I’ll be waiting.
Not as a conqueror.
Just as the man who loves her enough to let her go.
The other males think she’s too much trouble. Too mouthy, too hostile, too unwilling to submit. They don’t understand that’s what makes her perfect. She’s not some timid thing bred for obedience. She’s fierce. She burns, and I can’t stay away from her.
My duty as Dakar’s second would be to stop her now. Haul her back before she gets too far. But, I’m not going to. I want to see what she does with her freedom.
I’ll still go after her, of course, because I can’t not chase her. My blood howls for it, my bones ache with the need to pursue and conquer. Not like I’ve done in the past, though. When I catch her (and I will catch her), it won’t be to drag her back against her will.
It’ll be to sink to my knees before her, grip her hips, and beg her to stay.
I don’t care if she snarls and claws at me, if she spits curses as she fights and rages against me. I’ll take every scratch, every bite, every bruise like a sacrament.
Because beneath that fury is a hunger as deep as mine, and when I finally push her down beneath me, it won’t be as a warlord.
It’ll be as her worshiper.
My hands will skim over her luscious curves—the heavy swell of her breasts, and I’ll bury my face between her thighs. I’ll lick her until her back arches off the furs and her fingers grip my horns to pull me closer.
I’ll drag my mouth up her body, pausing to suck a bruise into the soft skin of her inner thigh, to lave my tongue over her stiffening nipples, to catch the first bead of milk on my tongue and savor it like sacred wine.
“Tell me,” I’ll rasp against her lips, my cock throbbing where it presses against her slick heat. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I’ll tease her until she’s mindless and grinding against me, her nails raking down my back, her breath coming in broken sobs. I’ll palm her breasts, massaging gently as I thumb her leaking tips, my other hand working her clit in slow, torturous circles.
“Please,” she’ll whimper, her hips rolling, her body begging for more.
Only then, when she’s writhing and desperate, when she’s chosen me as fiercely as I’ve chosen her, will I finally sink my cock into her.
And as her walls clench around me, her milk spilling over my fingers, as she comes with a cry that shakes the stars—
I’ll know it wasn’t because she surrendered to me. It will be because she chose me.
That’s when I’ll claim her.
Not as my captive.
As my mate.