Page 31 of Bred By Fafnir

Oops.

“Tarzan, this warrior of old… the one you bedded with is—"

“A cartoon.”

“Not real?”

I shrug. “Only in my dreams.”

A shriek leaves my throat as his hand snaps out, banding around my chin like a vice, forcing my eyes to his. My back smashes into a row of dried herbs that go unused, upsetting the glass jars and their contents. I watch as red swirls, darkening the gold. My heart stilling for a few beats as he takes a deep breath, holding for seven, breathing for seven, the stunning golden color returning almost immediately. My chest swells with pride as I discreetly shove the bowl of spaghetti into a safe spot.

“You had me—" he cuts himself off, taking another seven-count breath.

I can’t help but smile.

“Maddening female.” He curses.

“If I didn’t know better Faf, I’d say you were terribly jealous.”

He huffs, releasing me with a soft pass of his thumb across my lips. My core throbs at the action despite having been fucked only an hour or two ago. “You are mine.”

The words are a quiet growl, a plea, and the long blurred lines are obliterated. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, my cheeks heating and God, how I wish that could be true. I clear my throat, retrieving the bowl. He watches, his eyes darkened not with red but with need as I plunk a noodle from the savory smelling mound, popping the end in my mouth.

He stares, dumbfounded.

I roll my eyes, offering the other end to him. He takes it… reluctantly.

Thengags.

My eyes snap wide, rearing back as his tanned, handsome face goes ruddy, his throat bobbing as if to choke something back. Then heglaresatme, as if I’d personally given him the palette of a toddler.

My laughter starts with this strange choking gasp before I can’t hold it in anymore. I’m laughing so hard tears stream down my face, my abs aching before he decides he’s done being the butt of my joke and gatherers me from the counter. I’m still rolling, gasping between bouts of laughter when hedrops gentlymore than sits me on the ground. My amusement fades to sniffles as I watch him lie back on the bed.

He hikes a brow, gesturing toward his head. “Come human, ride my mouth. I wish to rid myself of the rancid taste.”

My giggling cuts off abruptly. We do many kinds of things, things not capable of producing a baby. Which I can’t recall being in the contract, but I am far from minding. I rid myself of my clothes slowly, ignoring the sudden goosebumps on my arms and legs, the way my nipples harden with more than my growing need. The chill is noticeable, but not unbearable. He watches me with hungry, demanding eyes as I crawl up his towering frame. When I’m hovering over him, I grip his horns, lining the rings up on my palms with the rest of them. They have faded considerably, but they are there, noticeable and oddly warm, which bodes well for me often. A growl leaves his throat, his hand bands around my hips and slams me into his mouth.

I whimper as he flattens his tongue, dragging it up my soaked slit. He laps at me like that, languid and unhurried, his tail finding its way to my ankle, tethering itself there. When he gets to the front of my core, he curls the tip of his tongue, working my clit until I’m a wonton mess, grinding against his face. He releases the pulsing bud, shoving his tongue inside me, letting me ride it as I grind onto his mouth. My hips ache, but I barely feel it, a scream ripping from my throat as I come. He takes everything like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Then demands seconds.

I give them over willingly.

By the time Fafnir is done with his feast, I’m far too tired to force him to try the spaghetti again. My heart is fuller than it’s ever been as he gathers me to his chest, tucking us under furs I know are too warm for him. I’m asleep quickly, the world as it should be, as I wish it could stay.

It doesn’t.

When we’re woken in the middle of the night by a pounding at the door, my heart sinks so deeply I fear I’ll never be able to unbury it. Everything that happens next happens so quickly that my mind is left reeling. Fafnir forgets his calming exercises. Blood splatters against the stone of the hearth. Savage roaring mixes with my panicked screams until he takes a dart to the neck. His large body hits the ground so hard that I barely scramble away before I’m bludgeoned underneath it. I’m sobbing, crumpled on the floor as the males drag him from our home, assuring me everything will be okay. Looking at the hysterical female, like I’m every bit as dangerous as him. When I slap, scratch, punch, and kick, they leave me to my sobbing. They call it a trial; assure me he won’t be harmed. It falls on deaf ears, and when I’m left alone, it’s to stare at the uneaten bowl of spaghetti and spilled herbs. I don’t even glance at the cooling body of a male when they come back for it, leaving the door wide open until a single warrior comes and scowls at my shivering state on the floor. He tosses a pile of furs off the couch to me, then shuts the door, keeping guard in front of it. Whether it’s to keep me in or Fafnir out, I’m unsure. So long as the bastard freezes out there.

twenty-two

Lenora

The next five days are as effective of a reality check as a slap to the face. Still, I’m reeling. Still, I’m a hostage in his home. The same towering prison guard stands outside, looming like a silhouette in the brutal snow. I’d almost started to feel bad for him. It’s likely he’s only following orders. That was until the sixteenth time I’d sobbed and begged him to take me to Fafnir, and he’d gruffly declined, ushering me back inside. The only time I’m let out is to “care” for my “injured” Zylari, which he seemed deeply confused about, but allowed it. I don’t mention that the pretty blue snow bunny doesn’t require any care on my part, and is perfectly fine. Half the time when I “check” on her, she’s not even in the box. He hasn’t figured it out yet.

The food replicator dings, and already my stomach is soured at the thought of eating. The moment the pizza touches my lips, it well andtruly revolts. A hot sweat builds at my hairline, the food hitting the floor with a wet slap as I rush to the bathroom. I’m still getting to my knees as vomit surges up my throat, but I make it.

Mostly.

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