Page 38 of Chained to the Horned God
“Itdoes,” I pant. “It’s been waiting for you.”
He flips us, placing me gently beneath him. He begins to thrust—slow, deep, relentless. Each stroke hits a place inside me I didn’t know existed. I cry out again and again, not caring who hears.
“I see you,” he whispers into my neck. “Not just your body.You.”
I wrap my arms around his back, nails raking down the fur. “I’ve never belonged to anyone before,” I whisper back. “But I want to belong to you.”
Our bodies slap together, slick and perfect. My climax builds fast—tight, impossible. I scream his name as I come, pussy convulsing around him, milking him. He follows seconds later, roaring as he spills deep inside me, filling me with his heat.
We lie there in the sweat-slick aftermath, the cot groaning beneath us.
He pulls me against his chest, still inside me, still hard. “You’ve ruined me,” he murmurs, voice dazed. “I’ll never be the same.”
“Good,” I say, pressing my mouth to his. “Neither will I.”
11
VALOA
Rain drips through the cracked stone of the infirmary ceiling, each cold drop landing with a hiss on our bloodied bandages, chilling the air until my breath puffs white. The torches struggle in the damp, casting quivering shadows that twist like dying figures. The sound blends with coughs, whimpers, the metallic stink of illness and open wounds. Supplies run low—poultices are soaked from reuse, clean linens dwindled to torn scraps, and water tastes like mud from overuse and too many hands dipping in. I work through the chaos, soaked, frozen, desperate to save someone—anyone.
The next round of fights begins, and they bring fresh injuries slamming through our doors like tidal waves. They carry in men and women with shattered limbs, crushed ribs, singed muscle, and ruined lungs. There’s no time for tenderness now. The floor beneath the makeshift slab is slick with fresh gore and spit as I struggle to keep up—stitching, cleaning, pressing—threading red-stiffened cloth into tissue that bleeds before it ever heals. I start losing people I thought I could save.
A boy with a crushed spine lies convulsed on the table. His eyes flip wild. He stops breathing after I stitch him. I watch thechest fall still, inhale hard, and move on before tears pour out. The next is a woman with a punctured lung; I hear her gasp once, soaked in froth, then breathe no more. The gasp is louder than screaming. It echoes like accusation.
I've seen death before—but this is different. This isn’t cleansing or just. It’s pointless. It’s entertainment. The arena continues above like nothing has changed, but here—I’m stitching corpse after corpse, wondering what I’m doing in this endless bleed show.
I snap at a guard tossing a corpse sack like trash into the pit-side corridor. “Show some goddamn respect!” I scream, voice raw. He glances at me, shrugs, and tosses the body harder. I throw back garbage at him—punched threats with spit encrusted on my fists—before he grabs his chain whip and lunges.
The slap cracks against my cheek, fire blossoming under my skin. I taste blood. He sneers, voice crooked. “Keep your mouth shut, healer.”
I don’t respond. I raise my chin.
That’s when Barsok steps in. I feel rather than see the weight hit the guard—a shove that topples him backward. Barsok’s footsteps follow, steady and heavy. He looms into view, armor drenched in blood from the hydra fight, muscles bruised and raw from last night’s cut. His silver eyes—haunted, tired, but steely—lock onto the guard. No words. Just presence.
The guard shakes. Fear seeps into his posture. He stutters, stumbling like he might run. The men beside him shift, uncertain who to defend. The moment stretches taut. Then he bows his head and backs away. His whip clatters useless to the floor.
I feel dizzy watching. That moment lays bare something both thrilling and terrifying: I realize just how much power Barsok holds now. He could start a fucking riot with a single word—or alook. The guards see it too. They shuffle back to their posts like beaten dogs picking scraps.
Then Barsok turns his head and meets mine. No pity. No mercy. Just something old and dangerous and tethered—like I’m still the one upending the arena, not them.
He steps back to let me breathe again. He guides me to the basin, presses warm water to my cheek, gentle—but firm. Effort without mercy. I taste rust.
He kneels beside me. There’s no speech, only the feeling of promise behind silent eyes: I’ve got you. Even when this hell doesn’t.
Around us, the infirmary hums on—fresh wounds slapped open, cries smothered by pain. We are chaos; we are still grace.
I reach for a fresh rag and twist it tight. He stays nearby, watching. I work again, pressing drops of bitterwater into my eye to wash the sting of fear. The drip of rain on stone echoes. There’s no place safe here—only moments.
But I hold one now.
I swallow back bile and dark thoughts and stand unshaken. I keep working, stitching wounds with hands steady because I remember why I'm here.
With him near, this place becomes slightly less hungry.
Barsok’s name is everywhere now. On the lips of slaves and guards alike. Whispered in fevered awe in the infirmary and roared like thunder from the stands.The Horned Storm,they call him, as if he’s no longer a man at all but a force of nature—something to be feared, admired, maybe even worshipped.
That’s what terrifies me.
