Page 27 of Chained to the Champion
Mine.
“Turn,” I commanded, my voice rougher than intended, strained.
She obeyed without argument, turning to face me. The thin fabric binding her breasts was now damp, clinging slightly where water trickled down from her neck. I swallowed hard, forcing my focus onto the task.
Clean off the filth. Nothing more.
I started at her collarbone, wiping away sweat and grime, acutely aware of the frantic pulse fluttering beneath the thin skin, a rapid, fragile bird-beat so unlike the slow, heavy thrum of my own heart. I moved lower, my hand hesitating instinctively at the upper edge of her binding.
“It's fine,” she murmured, her voice low, intimate despite the circumstance.
Before I could protest or retreat, she reached up, nimble fingers quickly unwinding the stained fabric, letting it fall away to pool at her feet.
The air punched from my lungs. Her breasts were revealed, small, high, perfectly formed, tipped with dusky pink nipples that tightened instantly in the cooler air. A sliver of rational thought screamedlook away, maintain control, this is madness!But I was transfixed, caught in the gravity of her unexpected vulnerability, her defiant beauty.
“Zarvash.” My name, spoken softly on her lips, jolted me back.
I blinked, realizing I’d frozen, rag hovering uselessly in my hand. “Apologies.”
I resumed the task, my touch less steady now. I wiped the damp cloth across her sternum, feeling the slight vibration of her heartbeat, then carefully around the gentle curve of each breast. Her skin pebbled beneath the cloth, tiny bumps rising in its wake. A reaction to the cool water. Or something else entirely.
My own scales felt suddenly too hot.
Her breath hitched when my cloth brushed over one tight nipple. The sound shot through me like a Narvix hunting bolt, straight to my cock, awakening something ancient, primal, and ravenously hungry. I forced myself to continue, moving down, mapping the landscape of her ribs, cataloging each bruise with a cold, mounting fury.
When my hand reached the waistband of her trousers, I stopped. This was already miles beyond propriety, beyond the jagged line I was struggling to hold.
“I can manage the rest,” she said, taking the cloth from my suddenly numb fingers. Our skin brushed again, the brief contact searing, sending another unwelcome jolt of electric awareness through my veins.
I should have stepped back. Created distance. Reasserted control. But I remained rooted, a statue carved from conflict, as she unfastened the crude ties of her pants and pushed them down her legs, revealing more pale skin marred by scrapes andthe darkening shadows of bruises. She wore some thin, practical undergarment beneath, a flimsy barrier that barely concealed the juncture of her thighs.
She began washing her legs, her movements quick, efficient, almost dismissive. But I watched, unable to tear my gaze away, as rivulets of dirty water trickled down her thighs, following the graceful, lean curves of her calves. She was built for speed, for endurance, tightly coiled muscle beneath deceptively soft skin.
A predator in her own right, trapped in a fragile form.
When she finally straightened, the damp cloth falling from her hand to the floor, her eyes locked with mine across the scant feet separating us. Something shifted in the air. It thickened, heavy now with her purified scent, clean skin overlaying that unique, intoxicating fire-spice that had tormented my senses for weeks.
It wasn't merely a smell; it clung to the back of my throat, a tangible taste on my hypersensitive tongue. Madness. Sheer, fucking madness.
“All clean.” She made no move to cover herself, standing before me, defiant and vulnerable in the thin, damp undergarment clinging to her skin, her gaze unwavering.
We stood frozen, inches separating us, bound by an invisible, crackling current. Her pulse beat a frantic tattoo, visible at the base of her throat. Mine pounded against my own ribs, a brutal war drum signaling the imminent, catastrophic loss of control.
Duty. Survival.Her.
“Vega,” I began, the name a rough scrape in my suddenly dry throat, unsure what I intended, an order, a plea, a warning against the inevitable.
She moved. A single, decisive step, closing the final, precarious distance. Or perhaps I surged forward, pulled by forces beyond my command. The distinction vanished as her mouth crashed against mine.
Hells below.
The impact jolted through my entire system, obliterating conscious thought, shattering control. Her lips were impossibly soft, yielding, despite the fierce demand in the kiss.
Instinct, ancient and overwhelming, slammed through me. My arms banded around her. My claws flexed, the tips pressing against her back, requiring conscious, agonizing restraint not to dig deeper, not to break her fragile form.
Careful. Do not shatter this.
My tongue, already hyper-aware, was scalded raw, ignited by the intimate contact. It swept into her mouth without permission, a desperate, hungry exploration, mapping every inch of her. This wasn’t gentle; it was primal claim, a near-violent, visceral need to consume, to devour.
