Page 41 of Cursed Alien

She frowned at him. “You did this to yourself?”

He couldn’t explain how he’d thrown himself against the unyielding forest, how he’d welcomed the physical pain as a distraction from the turmoil within. How could he tell her that he’d been fighting a war against himself, against the beast that both was and wasn’t him?

But as she continued to touch him, to trace the lines of his body with gentle fingers, something shifted inside him. The beast, which had been raging and clawing for control, began to settle. Not retreating, but merging with something else—something that remembered what it was to be Vultor, to be male, to be Malrik.

The change started slowly. First, the fur along his arms began to recede, revealing slate-gray skin beneath. His claws retracted fully, his fingers lengthening into the strong, dexterous hands of his Vultor form. He felt his face shifting, the muzzle shortening, his features becoming more defined.

Not wholly Vultor—the beast was still too close to the surface for that—but more so than he had been since his initial transformation.

She watched the change, her eyes widening as his face transformed before her. When it was done, she reached up to touch his cheek, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, now angular rather than lupine.

“Malrik,” she whispered, and the sound of his name on her lips sent a shudder through him.

He looked down at her, seeing her clearly for the first time with eyes that were more Vultor than beast. She was so beautiful—not in the cold, distant way of the Vultor females who had once been paraded before him, but in a way that reached inside him and touched something he’d thought long dead.

The sight of her—vulnerable, trusting, her body bared to him—made him hesitate. The beast urged him to take, to claim, to mark. But the part of him that was awakening, that remembered honor and duty and the weight of choices, made him pause.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough but the words distinct. “This is what you want?”

Her smile was like sunrise after an endless night.

“Yes,” she said simply. “It is.”

He shook his head, even as his body trembled with the effort of restraint. “I cannot hold this form,” he warned her. “The beast… it will return.”

She only shrugged, her hands continuing their exploration of his transformed body. “It doesn’t matter to me,” she told him. “Beast or Vultor—you’re still Malrik. You’re still mine.”

The words broke something open inside him—a dam that had held back emotions he’d refused to acknowledge, even before the curse. Relief, gratitude, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to name, flooded through him.

With a groan that was half beast, half Vultor, he lowered himself to her, careful to distribute his weight on his forearms. She was so small beneath him, so fragile compared to his bulk. Yet there was nothing fragile about the way she wrapped her arms around him, drawing him closer.

Their lips met again, but this kiss was different—no less passionate, but tempered with something more. Tenderness. Care. The acknowledgment that this was more than the satisfaction of a primal need.

Her hands moved over him, learning the contours of his body as it shifted between forms. Sometimes her fingers encountered fur, sometimes skin, but she never faltered, never showed disgust or fear.

He explored her with equal fascination. The softness of her skin amazed him, as did the small sounds she made when he found particularly sensitive spots. He traced the curve of her waist, the swell of her breast, marveling at how perfectly she fit against him despite their differences.

When his hand moved between her thighs, finding her wet and ready for him, the beast surged forward again, demanding satisfaction. But he held it in check, determined to give her pleasure before taking his own.

He watched her face as he touched her, memorizing every expression, every gasp and sigh. The way her eyes fluttered closed. The way her lips parted on a moan. He kept his touch light at first, teasing her until her hips lifted from the furs, urging him on. Then he slid one finger inside her, feeling her inner walls clench around him.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He added a second finger, curling them slightly as he withdrew, seeking the spot that would make her gasp. When he found it, he stroked it again and again, his thumb circling her clit.

Her breathing grew ragged, her skin flushing pink. He could feel her tightening around his fingers, her body drawing closer to release.

“Mine,” he growled again, his voice almost unrecognizable as he fought to hold the beast in check.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word. “Malrik, please.”

The sound of his name, spoken with such need, nearly undid him. He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice deeper than usual as the beast stirred restlessly.

Her eyes opened, meeting his without hesitation. In their depths, he saw not just desire but acceptance. Trust. She knew what he was—beast and Vultor both—and still she welcomed him.

With a single, powerful thrust, he claimed her.

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