Page 61 of Chained to the Horned God
His silence is worse than yelling. He just stares at me, jaw clenching, something flickering behind his eyes. Maybe doubt. Maybe guilt. But he doesn't say it. Doesn’t say anything.
The fire between us isn’t warmth. It’s heat you don’t come back from.
I turn from him before I do something stupid, something permanent. My feet crunch through loam and fallen petals, boots slick with dew and regret. I lean against a tree, closing my eyes, trying to slow the hammer in my chest. I love him, gods help me. Even now. Especially now. That’s what makes this so much worse. We’re drifting. Each argument a fraying thread in the rope that once bound us so tight I thought we’d never come undone.
Footsteps rustle through the underbrush behind me. I brace, thinking it’s Barsok again, maybe ready to apologize or argue more—either way, I’m raw enough for both. But it’s not his gait. It’s limping. Dragging. Weary.
I whirl around just as a figure stumbles from the shadows of the trees. Dirty, blood-slick, panting.
“Beltran?” I gasp, sprinting forward as he collapses into me.
His body is half-dead weight, hot and trembling. His tunic is torn, one arm pressed to his ribs where blood leaks between his fingers like slow red ink.
“Valoa,” he chokes, eyes wild, lips cracked. “You have to listen. You have to stop him.”
“Stop who?” I demand, guiding him down gently onto the mossy ground, my hands already moving, checking his wound. “What happened?”
“Mike.” He grits the word like it tastes like bile. “He’s not what he says. Not freedom. Not liberation. He’s going to burn it all. Everyone.”
Barsok crashes through the brush behind us, his voice sharp with alarm. “Beltran?”
Beltran groans, gripping my wrist hard. His eyes meet Barsok’s, blazing with urgency. “He’s not just striking Kharza. He’s taking it. Occupying it. Owning it. You think he wants to share? No. He’ll crown himself king on a throne made of ash and bodies. He doesn’t care who dies in the process.”
The world tilts slightly under me. I feel it in my teeth. In my knees. In the tight, vicious squeeze around my heart.
I look at Barsok.
He looks at me.
All the noise of the jungle goes still. No birds. No wind. Just our breathing, fast and shallow, and the pulse of something bigger rising around us. We don’t speak, not with words. We don’t need to.
The decision is made.
The camp is quiet except for the hiss of the fire and the soft shifting of bodies asleep in their bedrolls. The jungle, restless and alive during the day, settles into a darker rhythm at night, pulsing with the chirr of unseen insects and the distant hoot of nocturnal beasts. My skin prickles with heat and something deeper, something I can’t name. My nerves buzz, but not from fear. Not from uncertainty. From need.
Barsok sits by the edge of the fire, staring into the embers like they’re speaking some truth he’s trying to memorize. His broad shoulders are slouched, fingers slack in his lap, jaw tense. He doesn’t look up as I approach, doesn’t flinch as I kneel behindhim and wrap my arms around his middle, pressing my cheek to the coarse fur of his back.
“I’m not going to fight with you tonight,” I murmur, the words sinking into the warmth of his skin.
His hand covers mine instantly, strong and rough, grounding. “Good,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. “Because I wouldn’t have the strength.”
He turns, and I climb into his lap without hesitation. My thighs bracket his, my hands sliding up the thick planes of his chest. His breath is hot on my face, his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them. The fire casts golden light across his features, carving shadows in all the right places. His tusks brush my bottom lip when he kisses me.
It isn’t soft.
It’s messy. Frenzied. A tangle of lips and teeth and breathless groans. We crash into each other like waves, like our bodies have already decided what they need and we’re just along for the ride. My back hits the ground, soft moss cradling me. His weight follows, comforting and heavy, pressing me into the earth like we could root ourselves here and stay forever.
Our clothes are gone before I even realize I’m shaking.
His hands find every part of me, rough and reverent, calloused palms brushing over my ribs, my hips, my thighs like he’s mapping me for the last time. His mouth follows, hungry and trembling, tasting every inch like it matters more than air. I clutch at his back, digging into his shoulders with nails and curses and whispered prayers.
There’s nothing polite about the way we move. Nothing careful. Nothing restrained. It’s survival. It’s desperation. It’s fear masked as passion and hope disguised as moans.
He thrusts into me with a broken sound in his throat, one that matches the sob that spills from mine. We move together, fast and frantic, chasing something we don’t dare name. Everydrag of skin, every snap of hips, every ragged breath is a promise we don’t know if we can keep.
“Whatever happens,” he says into the crook of my neck, breath burning, voice breaking, “I choose you.”
I don’t hesitate.
