Page 35 of Moonlit Desires

Lyra meets his gaze steadily. "Does it matter?"

"It matters." His fingers dig into the furs beneath him, claws momentarily extending then retracting—a brief slip in control quickly corrected. "Especially since you're here alone."

She pours water into a shallow bowl, the liquid catching moonlight in rippling patterns. "I've seen your wounds before. I helped bring you back from the forest, remember?"

"I was unconscious then." Thorne shifts, creating space beside him on the fur-covered platform, though the invitation comes reluctantly. "I'm very much awake now."

As Lyra moves closer, bowl in hand, she notices how Thorne's muscles tense, his body coiling with a readiness that suggests flight or fight—both equally possible. She sits carefully on the edge of his bed, the furs surprisingly soft beneath her. This close, his heat radiates against her side, fever-warm and unnaturally intense.

"You shouldn't be here," he repeats, but makes no move to stop her as she sets the bowl down and reaches for the edge of his bandages. "I'm not... stable when I'm hurt."

"I'll be careful," she promises, fingers finding the knot that holds the wrappings in place.

His hand catches her wrist, not roughly but with unmistakable strength. "It's not your care I doubt," he says, golden-brown eyes now more gold than brown, pupils contracting to vertical slits then expanding again in his struggle for control. "The beast rises closer to the surface when I'm wounded. Instinct overrides reason. I might—" He cuts himself off, releasing her wrist as if the contact burns. "I don't want to hurt you."

The concern in his voice touches something in Lyra, a recognition of how carefully he holds himself in check, how conscious he is of the power contained within his skin. Rather than retreat, she continues unwrapping his bandages with gentle determination.

"I trust you," she says simply.

The last layer of bandage peels away, revealing four parallel gashes across his ribs, the flesh angry and inflamed around each wound. The forest creature's claws had cut deep, leaving furrows that would have killed a normal man. Even with his accelerated healing, the injuries remain serious.

Lyra dips a clean cloth in the herb-infused water and begins to clean the wounds. At the first touch of damp cloth to raw flesh, Thorne's entire body goes rigid. A sound escapes him—not quite a growl, not quite a moan—as his skin ripples beneath her fingers. Fine golden fur sprouts along his forearms, then recedes, only to appear again seconds later along his shoulders. The transformation fluctuates, his body caught between forms as sensation overrides his careful control.

His teeth clench, canines visibly elongating then shrinking back, the cycle repeating with each careful stroke of the cloth across his wounds. His hands fist in the furs, claws fully extended now, tearing into the pelts beneath them as he fights to remain still under her ministrations.

"Breathe," Lyra murmurs, continuing despite his reaction. "Focus on my voice."

Thorne's eyes squeeze shut, a tremor running through his powerful frame. When he opens them again, they're fully gold, the brown completely consumed by his animal nature. "Your scent," he manages, the words strained through a throat that wants to produce growls instead of speech. "It's everywhere. In my den. On my skin."

His chest rises and falls rapidly beneath her hand, muscles shifting and bunching beneath skin that can't decide whether to remain smooth or sprout fur. Sweat beads along his brow, testament to the effort it takes to maintain his human form.

Lyra reaches for the salve, fingers dipping into the cool mixture. When she applies it to his wounds, his back arches involuntarily, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. His reaction isn't entirely from pain—something else flickers across his features, a response to her touch that has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with the predator barely contained within human skin.

As she works, her fingers brush across other scars—older wounds that have long since healed but left their mark on his body. A jagged line across his collarbone. Three parallel ridges along his side, similar to his current wounds but faded with time. A starburst pattern just above his heart, as if something had tried to claw its way inside.

Without thinking, she traces the edge of this last scar, feeling the slightly raised tissue beneath her fingertip. Thorne's breath catches, his hand shooting up to capture hers, holding it pressed against his chest.

"Don't," he says, voice barely recognizable, roughened to a growl. The gold in his eyes pulses like captured sunlight, brightening and dimming with each rapid heartbeat she can feel beneath her palm. "Don't explore what you don't understand."

But Lyra doesn't withdraw her hand, her gaze meeting his with quiet challenge. "Then help me understand."

____________

The moment stretches between them like heated glass, fragile yet dangerous. Thorne's fingers remain wrapped around her wrist, the pressure firm enough to feel the flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb. His skin burns against hers, fever-hot and vibrating with barely contained energy. The struggle plays out across his features in shifting patterns of gold and shadow—human reason fighting animal instinct, neither fully winning as his pupils dilate then contract, his breathing growing shallow and quick.

"You don't know what you're asking," he says, voice rough-edged and low. Each word seems to cost him, as if human speech becomes more difficult the longer she remains within his territory, her scent mingling with his, her hand pressed against the map of old wounds etched into his skin.

Lyra doesn't look away, doesn't withdraw. Instead, her fingers spread slightly against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath her palm. The mark between her shoulder blades warms in response to his proximity, a gentle heat that spreads outward like ripples on still water.

"I'm not afraid of you," she tells him, the words simple but heavy with implication.

Thorne's laugh is a broken sound, more air than humor. "You should be." His grip on her wrist loosens slightly, though he doesn't release her entirely. The pad of his thumb traces small circles against her pulse point, the contact feather-light despite the tension coiled in every other part of his body. "Everyone else is."

His gaze drops to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable hunger before rising again to meet her eyes. The gold has consumed the brown entirely now, turning his irisesto amber fire ringed with darker gold. Behind that fire lurks something ancient and untamed—the beast that shares his skin, watching her through human eyes.

Lyra shifts position to continue bandaging his wounds, her hip brushing against his side as she reaches for the clean linen strips. The movement brings her body closer to his, her hair falling forward to create a curtain of auburn waves between them and the rest of the room. The subtle privacy emboldens her, makes her less careful about maintaining distance.

As she begins wrapping the fresh bandages around his torso, her fingers accidentally brush against an unmarked patch of skin just below his ribs. The contact is brief, unintentional, but Thorne's reaction is immediate and visceral. A growl tears from his throat—a sound no human could produce, resonant and primal, vibrating through the chamber like distant thunder.

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