Page 68 of Chained to the Horned God
So did I.
I don’t carry a weapon anymore.
Just a hammer.
It fits better in my grip now than any axe or blade. The thunk of nails driving into wood, the crack of beams locking into place—that’s the sound of peace to me. That’s the sound of a future.
When people pass by, they nod. Not out of fear. Not out of duty. Just respect.
Kharza is still healing.
So are we.
But the roots are deepening.
The air is thick with warmth and scent—basil crushed beneath our knees, lavender curling up from the edges of the stone path. The sun spills like molten amber through the leaves overhead, painting everything it touches in slow gold. The tree she planted last spring, the one that took root against all odds, leans over us like a sentinel, its branches whispering in the late breeze.
Barsok kneels before me, his massive form a silhouette against the falling light. Seven and a half feet of black-furred power, the silver streak running from his brow to his nose shimmering like a comet’s tail. His horns curve proud, arcing around a face too noble for the monster some used to call him.
But he’s no monster. Not here. Not to me.
His amber eyes, slitted and dark, lock with mine, and I see it again—that impossible gentleness that never should’ve survived the war. It lives in him still. He cradles it, like he cradles me now.
"You always look at me like I'm a gift you don’t deserve," I murmur, brushing my fingers against the velvet fur of his jaw.
He leans into my touch. “Because you are. I don’t know how I ever held back.”
“You don’t have to now.”
He exhales slowly, nostrils flaring as if tasting the promise in my voice. One of his hands—broad, four thick fingers and a thumb—rests against my waist. It spans almost the entire width.The size of him should terrify me. But it doesn’t. It thrills me. Because I know the strength in him is leashed only for me.
“I want to feel all of you,” I whisper, voice trembling. “No holding back.”
He kisses me then—not soft, not hesitant, but full, hungry. His tongue fills my mouth, tasting, teasing, coaxing every breath from my lungs. His body presses against me, a wall of heat and fur and control barely restrained.
His hands slide beneath my dress, and I gasp when his rough fingers meet bare skin. He growls low in his chest, his cock already hard and pressed against my thigh. Even through the thin fabric of his belt, I can feel the weight of it—thick, long, impossibly hot.
“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs, slipping a finger through the wetness between my thighs. “You want me.”
“I’vealwayswanted you,” I breathe, my legs parting on instinct. “Every time I looked at you and didn’t say it—this was what I meant.”
He doesn’t answer. Just lowers his head, licking a slow path from my collarbone to the curve of my breast. His tongue is long and hot, almost rough, but it sends sparks shivering down my spine.
“Say it,” he commands, his breath against my nipple. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want your mouth on my pussy,” I gasp, not hiding the flush in my cheeks. “I want you to taste me.”
A deep rumble of approval vibrates through his chest. He lifts me in one fluid motion and lays me back on the blanket beneath the tree. The grass cradles us, sweet and soft.
And then he’s between my thighs, his massive shoulders parting me like I’m a gift being unwrapped. I watch him, legs trembling, as he lowers his muzzle and drags that long, textured tongue across my folds.
“Gods,” I whimper, arching into his mouth.
He laps at me slowly at first, like he’s savoring a meal. Then deeper—his tongue curlinginsideme, thick and hot and alive. My back bows. My fingers clutch at the roots of the tree above me. I can’t breathe. I don’t want to.
“More,” I beg, my voice cracking. “Please, Barsok—don’t stop.”
He groans into me, the vibration against my clit sending jolts through my core. I come hard on his tongue, my cry lost in the rustle of leaves and the song of birds silenced by dusk.
