Page 20 of Bought by the Broken Beast
I can see it. I can see him, a young, proud Vakkak, his horn unblemished, his heart full of the honor of his name, standing at a window and looking out at a future that was as vast and as limitless as the ocean. The image is so clear, so painful, it makes my own loss feel sharper. We are two ghosts, haunted by the lives we were supposed to have.
“We will get it back for you,” I say as a fierce, impossible promise. “Your name. Your home.”
He looks at me then, and the distance between us collapses. The air grows thick, heavy with a profound, aching vulnerability. The firelight catches the moisture in his eyes, and I realize with a jolt that he is not just a monster, not just a warrior. He is a man who has lost everything.
“Bella,” he says, my name a rough, beautiful sound on his tongue.
He reaches across the small space between us, his massive, calloused hand cupping my cheek. His touch is not possessive, not demanding. It is impossibly, heartbreakingly gentle. A thumb strokes the line of my jaw, sending a shower of sparks down my spine.
This is more dangerous than any assassin’s blade. This quiet, tender intimacy. It is the promise of a future we will likely never see. And I want it. Gods, how I want it.
I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut. My hand comes up to cover his, holding him to me. The rough texture of his skin, the sheer size of him, it is no longer a source of fear. It is a source of comfort. Of safety.
He rises, pulling me to my feet with him. He leads me to the pile of soft leather aprons that has become our bed. He kneels, pulling me down with him, his gaze never leaving mine.
“Last time…” he begins, his voice a low, guttural thing, “was about survival. About rage.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Tonight,” he says, his hand coming up to trace the line of my lips, “is not about that.”
He kisses me. And this kiss is nothing like the brutal, claiming collision against the wall. It is a slow, deliberate exploration, a question and an answer all in one. It is a taste of woodsmoke, and sorrow, and a desperate, fragile hope.
My hands are in his hair, which is surprisingly soft, thick and coarse like a horse’s mane. My fingers trace the elegant, deadly curve of his horns, the unbroken one smooth and cool, the splintered one a landscape of jagged edges. He is magnificent. A creature of myth and legend, and he is here, with me, his mouth a gentle, devastating fire on mine.
The kisses deepen, becoming more urgent, more hungry. He groans, a low, guttural sound of pure, undiluted need, and pushes me back onto the soft leather, his massive body covering mine, a mountain of heat and muscle.
“I need to feel you, Bella,” he rasps against my skin, his lips trailing a path of fire down my throat, across my collarbone. “All of you.”
His hands are on me, but this time, there is no tearing of fabric. His touch is reverent, worshipful. He slowly, deliberately, removes my torn dress, his gaze following the path of his hands as he reveals my skin to the firelight. I am laid bare before him, my pale, human form a stark contrast to his dark, powerful one. I should feel vulnerable. I have never felt more powerful.
“You are beautiful,” he breathes, the words a thing of awe. “Like the heart of a pearl. So perfect it hurts to look at you.”
My fingers, trembling, find the laces of his breeches. “Then let me look at you,” I whisper.
He helps me, his movements sure, his gaze locked on mine. He is a masterpiece of sculpted muscle and raw, masculine power. The firelight glints off the dark, rich fur that covers his broad chest, narrowing to a line down his hard stomach. He is not a man. He is something more. Something primal. A web of scars crisscrosses his chest and arms, a testament to the brutal life he has lived. I trace the largest one, a jagged line that runs from his shoulder to his hip. “This is not you,” I murmur, pressing a soft kiss to the scarred skin. “This is what was done to you.”
A shudder wracks his massive frame. He pulls me to him, his mouth finding mine again, and this time, the kiss is a desperate, consuming thing. His hand slides down my stomach, then cups my breast. His thumb circles my nipple, the rough, calloused skin a delicious friction against the sensitive peak. I gasp into his mouth, my back arching. His touch is electric, a brand of heat and possession. He teases the hardened nub, rolling it between his thumb and finger, and a low, needy sound escapes my throat.
His other hand slides down my stomach, through the curls between my legs, and finds the wet, aching heart of me. I cry out against his mouth, my hips bucking against his touch.
“So wet,” he growls, his fingers slipping inside me, stretching me, preparing me. “So ready for me.”
“Please, Votoi,” I beg, my voice a raw, broken thing. “Take me. Make me yours.”
He moves between my legs, and I see him. All of him. His manhood is a thing of breathtaking size, thick and heavy, a weapon of pleasure that seems impossibly large. But there is no fear. Not this time. Only a deep, aching, desperate need to be filled by him, to be claimed by him so completely that there’s no room for fear, no room for the ghosts of our pasts.
He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt tip of his cock pressing against my wet folds. The friction alone is enough to make me cry out. He pushes, just the tip, and the sensation is a slow, delicious burn. I am tight, but my body is ready, slick and yielding.
“Look at me, Bella,” he commands, his voice a low, guttural rumble.
I open my eyes. He is watching my face, his expression a mask of intense concentration, of raw, unguarded emotion.
“I will not hurt you,” he says, the words a solemn vow.
“I know,” I whisper, and I reach down, my hand closing over his, guiding him. “Take me.”
He thrusts, a single, slow, powerful movement. He fills me completely. The feeling is… indescribable. A perfect, stretching fullness that borders on pain but is pure, unadulterated pleasure. I am full of him, possessed by him. My body, which has only ever been a cage, is now a temple, and he is the god I am worshipping.
