Page 21 of Bought by the Broken Beast
He stays still inside me, letting my body adjust to the sheer size of him. I can feel the powerful throb of his cock deep within me, a second heartbeat that matches the frantic rhythm of my own.
“Magnificent,” I whisper, my hands roaming over the vast expanse of his chest, the coarse fur a delightful friction against my palms. I trace the lines of his muscles, the breadth of his shoulders. “You are so magnificent.”
A low groan escapes his lips, and he begins to move. Slowly at first, a deep, rocking rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through me. There is no pain. Only a perfect, all-consuming friction.
“Fuck me, Votoi,” I moan, my hips rising to meet his thrusts. “Please, fuck me.”
His control snaps. The rhythm becomes harder, faster, a desperate, punishing pace that is a perfect match for the storm of need raging within me. He is no longer holding back. He is claiming me, branding me, fucking me with a raw, possessive intensity that leaves no room for thought, no room for fear. There is only this. Only him. Only the glorious, mind-shattering friction of his body moving in mine.
“Votoi! Votoi!” I scream his name, my voice a raw, broken thing. I am close, so close, my entire body a tightly coiled spring of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
“You feel… perfect,” he groans, his voice a guttural roar. “Like you were made for me.”
He drives into me, again and again, and the world dissolves into a white-hot explosion of pure sensation. I come apart in his arms, my body convulsing around him, my scream a high, pure sound of absolute, soul-shattering release. My climax triggers his own. He roars, a deep, primal sound of a beast unleashed, and I feel his hot seed flood me, a final, possessive claiming.
We come down from the high together, a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and ragged breaths. He doesn’t pull out of me. He stays buried deep inside, his heavy, comforting weight pinning me to the soft leather. He rolls onto his side, taking me with him, his arms a cage of warmth and safety around me.
We lie in silence for a long time, the only sound the crackle of the dying fire and the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against my ear. The fear, the desperation, it’s all gone, replaced by a deep, profound sense of peace. Of belonging.
“Bella,” he murmurs against my hair, his voice a low, rough thing.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
He is quiet for a moment, and I can feel the gravity of his unspoken words.
“When this is over,” he says, voice a solemn vow that echoes in the quiet of the forge, “I will take you to the sea. I will show you my home.”
It is not a declaration of love. It is something more. It is a promise of a future. A future that, in the heart of this cold, dark forge, I finally, desperately, allow myself to believe in.
16
VOTOI
The pre-dawn air is cold and heavy with the salt spray of the sea. A thick, wet fog clings to the western docks, a shroud of grey that muffles sound and turns the towering cranes and stacks of crates into monstrous, slumbering beasts. It is a perfect cloak for an ambush.
I crouch on the roof of a fishmonger’s warehouse, the rough tiles digging into my knees. Below me, my small, desperate army moves into position. The hunters, led by Grak, melt into the shadows of the alleyways, their movements as silent and fluid as the fog itself. The gladiators, my brothers in disgrace, find cover behind stacks of barrels and coiled ropes, their scarred bodies coiled springs of barely contained violence. They are a collection of broken things, of forgotten souls, but as I watch them, a flicker of something I thought long dead stirs in my chest. Pride. They have placed their lives in my hands, not because of a title or a bloodline, but because they believe in the honor I spoke of. They believe in me.
Bella is hidden in a small alcove on the warehouse roof across from me, a position I chose for her myself. It offers a clear view of the docks but is far enough from the expected fighting to keepher safe. Kor, the one-eyed gladiator whose life I once saved in the arena, is with her, his massive form a silent, unmoving sentinel. My gaze finds her, a small, cloaked figure in the gloom. Even from this distance, I can feel the fierce, unyielding intensity of her spirit. She is the heart of this rebellion. She is the reason I fight.
The promise I made to her in the forge, the taste of her on my lips, the feel of her small, perfect body shattering in my arms—it is a fire in my blood, a warmth against the cold certainty of the coming battle. For the first time in years, I’m not only fighting for vengeance. I am fighting for a future.
A low, mournful horn blast echoes across the water, cutting through the fog. TheSea Serpent. She is here.
My hand tightens on the hilt of my sword. I give the signal, a low whistle that mimics the cry of a night bird. Below me, my men tense, their weapons ready. The tension is a physical thing, a wire pulled taut, humming with the promise of violence.
The ship, a dark, hulking shadow, glides toward the pier. Its sails are furled, its movements unnervingly silent. There are no sailors calling out, no lamps lit on its deck. A cold knot of unease tightens in my gut. Something is wrong.
The gangplank is lowered with a dull thud. The cargo hold opens. I expect to see thugs, hired mercenaries, struggling with heavy crates of “festival supplies.”
Instead, the first figures to emerge are soldiers.
They move with a crisp, disciplined efficiency, their black armor gleaming even in the dim light, the snarling wolf’s head of Vorlag’s personal guard emblazoned on their shields. They are not thugs. They are a legion. They form a perfect, impenetrable shield wall at the base of the gangplank, their spears held at the ready. Dozens of them. More pour from the ship, archers taking up positions on the deck, their bows drawn.
And then he appears. Captain Vorlag himself, stepping onto the pier, his cruel face twisted into a triumphant sneer. He scans the silent, fog-shrouded docks, his eyes seeming to pierce the very shadows where my men are hidden.
It is not a shipment. It is an army. It is not a smuggling operation. It is an execution.
It is a trap.
