Page 57 of The Monster You Made
I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, whisper her name like a prayer. And I wonder: When the fire consumes, will truth survive the ash?
Chapter 25 - Lucian
The songs follow us now. They rise from villages as we pass, carried on voices cracked with hunger but sharpened with fire. They call me wolf, breaker of chains. They call VeraFlame, Bringer of Truth. They call the rebels Storm. I do not seek it, do not want it. But it clings like smoke. And smoke, I know, always draws fire.
The men and women who follow me look for direction in every silence, in every glance. When I sharpen my blades, they whisper of battles to come. When I walk through the camp, they straighten their spines. When I speak, even briefly, they listen as if the words are prophecy. They do not see the chains still heavy in my marrow. They do not hear Cassian’s voice still echoing in my skull. They see only what they need: a weapon turned against its master.
Elira fuels it, steady and unyielding. She speaks of me to the rebels not as a man but as a symbol. “He has walked their chains and broken them,” she says. “If he can, we all can.” Her belief is not flattery. It is armor she forges for us all. Yet armor can cut as much as it protects.
The camp is quiet tonight, the fires low, the air thick with the scent of pine and ash. I’m restless, my blood humming with the weight of eyes that follow me, with the songs that name me something I’m not. I need to move, to breathe, to feel something real.
I find Vera at the edge of the camp, near the old mill, its broken wheel creaking in the wind. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders, and her shirt is untucked, clinging to her curvesin a way that makes my cock stir. She doesn’t look up, but I know she feels me, the same way I feel her, always.
“Keep staring, and I’ll carve your eyes out,” she says, her voice low, sharp, a blade wrapped in velvet.
She doesn’t mean it, not really, but the challenge in her tone sets my blood on fire. I step closer, my boots crunching on the gravel, and she finally looks up, her eyes meeting mine, defiant, daring. They’re green, like the forest after rain, but burning with something dangerous, something that calls to the beast in me.
“You’d have to catch me first,” I say, my voice rough, laced with the anger that’s always simmering beneath my skin.
She stands, setting the hatchet down, her movements slow, deliberate, like she’s taunting me. Her shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin above her waistband, and my hands itch to touch, to claim. I don’t ask permission. I never do.
I close the distance, grabbing her by the hips and shoving her against the mill’s weathered wall. The wood creaks under the force, and she gasps, her hands flying to my chest, pushing back. But it’s not resistance, it’s a fight, a dance we both know too well. Her nails dig into my skin through my shirt, sharp enough to sting, and I growl, my mouth crashing into hers. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and hunger, her tongue fighting mine, refusing to yield. She tastes like defiance, like fire, and I want to consume her, to break her open until she’s mine in every way.
“Fuck! Lucian,” she hisses against my lips, but her hips grind against mine, her body betraying her words.
My cock is hard, straining against my pants, and I press it against her, letting her feel what she does to me. She moans, a low, desperate sound that she tries to swallow, but I hear it, and it fuels the need raging in my veins. I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand, my other tearing at her shirt. The fabric rips, exposing her breasts, full and heavy, her nipples already hard in the cool night air. I don’t hesitate, my mouth closing over one, sucking hard, my teeth grazing the sensitive peak until she arches, cursing me.
“You look too edible to resist,” I growl, my hand sliding down to her pants, yanking at the buckle. The leather resists, but I’m stronger, tearing it free, shoving her pants down her thighs. She’s bare beneath, her cunt glistening in the moonlight, and the sight of her, so ready, so fucking mine, makes my head spin. I drop to my knees, not caring about the gravel biting into my skin, and bury my face between her thighs. Her scent is intoxicating, musky and sweet, and I lick her, slow at first, savoring the way she trembles. My tongue finds her clit, circling, teasing, and she bucks against me, her hands pulling at my hair, trying to control me.
I don’t let her. I grab her thighs, spreading them wide, my fingers digging into her flesh as I suck her clit, hard and relentless. She’s moaning now, loud and reckless, and I love it, love the way she’s unraveling, the way her defiance cracks under my touch.
“Lucian,” she gasps, her voice raw, and I thrust two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that makes her shake. She’s tight, wet, and so fucking perfect, and I fuck her with my fingers, my tongue never stopping, until she’s trembling on the edge.
“Not yet,” I say, pulling back, my lips wet with her.
She glares, her eyes wild, but I stand, freeing my cock, thick and aching, the head slick with precum. I don’t give her time to argue, lifting her against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist. I thrust into her, hard and deep, her cunt gripping me like a vice. She cries out, her nails raking down my back, tearing through my shirt, and the pain only makes me fuck her harder.
“Harder,” she demands, her voice a snarl, and I obey, slamming into her with a force that shakes the wall.
The mill groans, the night swallowing our sounds, but I don’t care who hears. Let them know she’s mine. My hand slides between us, finding her clit, rubbing it with rough precision, and she’s shaking now, her moans turning to screams. I feel her clench around me, her orgasm building, and I slow, dragging out each thrust, torturing her.
“Beg,” I growl, my lips against her ear, my voice thick with need. She shakes her head, defiant, but her body’s betraying her, her cunt pulsing around me. “Beg, Vera,” I repeat, and she breaks, the word spilling out.
“Please,” she gasps, and I give her what she wants, fucking her fast and brutal, my fingers relentless on her clit.
She comes, screaming my name, her cunt milking me, and I follow, my cum spilling inside her, hot and claiming. I hold her there, pinned against the wall, my cock still inside her, our breaths ragged, mingling. For a moment, I press my forehead to hers, my lips brushing her temple, soft, almost tender, and I feel her tremble, not from cold but from something deeper.
Then I pull out, setting her down, and she sways, her legs unsteady. Her eyes meet mine, fierce and unguarded, and I see it, the crack in her armor, the need she hides. She turns away, slipping into the dark, but I feel her still, her heat burned into my skin.
***
Our strikes grow bolder. Caravans vanish in smoke. Outposts fall silent. Banners burn. Each act feeds the fire, each fire feeds belief. But with each wound we carve, Declan answers with ten. Villages ash. Fields salted. Gallows filled. The Crown bleeds, yes, but it does not stumble. Not yet.
Rourke sees it too. One night, drunk but clear-eyed, he leans close and growls, “We’re poking a bear with twigs, Lucian. One day he’ll turn, and when he does, he’ll crush us flat.”
I do not answer. Because he is right. And because I know we have no choice but to keep striking.
***
