Page 112 of Lost to the Woods

A wail rips from her raw throat as she realizes she’s the offering. And fuck me, she’s beautiful like this. Terrified. Wild-eyed.Holy.

“You should be honored,” I hiss. “You’re not just dinner, Bunny. You’re the final piece.”

The candles flare, tongues of flame licking high in the stale air as smoke coils in the corners like watching eyes.

“Show her,” Doruun murmurs, handing me the dagger. “Show her how sacred it is to be marked by us.”

I smile as I press the obsidian blade to her chest.

“Lucky rabbit,” Varekka rasps, hardly controlling his excitement, tail wagging fast behind him.

Bunny screams when I make the first cut. The blade slides clean, leaving a thin ribbon of blood that trails down her sternum, over her stomach.

We moan in unison—the sight is too erotic, her scent too tempting.

I carve the first rune into the flesh, slowly, with reverence. The symbol is primitive—nothing from books, nothing that ever touched a page. It's a shape we remember. A map of hunger. A brand of belonging.

It sears into her. Her body jolts, seized with the burn of it as more blood spills, soaking into the fur below her

“She bleeds easy,” Zhyra purrs, tracing Bunny’s inner thigh with a claw, not cutting. Just feeling her shake.

“It means the body accepts us,” Khalok says. “It means the spirit listens.”

She sobs harder, her voice echoes off the wooden beams like a hymn. She writhes. Bucks. Tries to twist, but the bindings hold, keeping her right where she belongs.

We take turns, not with our cocks, but with our blades this time. Every stroke is precise. Intentional. Violent and loving. Not too deep—we don’t want to lose her yet. Enough to brand her soul. Each mark has a meaning only the trees understand.

She’s not just scared now. She’s overwhelmed. Gone limp in parts. Raw. Fucked without penetration.

But of course, her cunt glistens in the candlelight.

“She’s wet,” I tell my brothers, sliding the edge of the blade along her slit. “Wet while we carve her. He will love that.”

She cries for mercy until her throat goes raw. But it’s too late for mercy. She was claimed the second she stepped into these woods.

I engrave the final sigil directly above her womb, slicing in slow, curving strokes that make her entire body shiver. Blood rivers between her leg, across her spread pussy lips. I lap it up, groaning, rutting against the edge of the table like I’ll come from the taste alone. It’s sweet, laced with terror. Pure.

Her lips are trembling. Eyes unfocused. She’s drifted to that space between pain and pleasure. That place we brought her to, again and again. The one she learned to love.

The others follow—each licking from her wounds, letting the blood trail down their jaws, their chests, their cocks.

We begin to whisper against her ruined skin.

Not in English. The language isn’t for her ears. It’s for the thing that watches from the woods. The old god. The forest itself.

The ancient tongue makes the candles flicker, and the room feels tighter, smaller, the walls closing in, leaving no air for her to breathe. The words are alive, like insects crawling over skin. The blood from her wounds pulses harder, darker, as if called by the chant. Her soulfeelsit even if her mind can't decipher it.

She’s shivering violently now, eyes wide with shock. Terror has stolen her voice, but her body won’t stop writhing. Her skin burns with the carved symbols, the power they hold sinking in deep—into muscle, into bone. Her blood drips off the edge of the table and soaks into the hardwood… into the soil below.

Then, a whistle pierces the night like a howl.

Again. Long and low. The sound is disturbing, like there are too many notes in it.

Bang.

Something slams against the cabin wall.

She flinches. My brothers stop dead. But I grin.

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