Page 75 of The Monster You Made
The rebels nod, some relieved, some doubtful. Elira snarls but does not argue. Rourke spits into the snow. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, fear hollowing me. North feels less like a direction and more like doom.
***
That night, I dream of chains. They wrap around the mountains, binding the peaks, stretching across the valleys. At their center stands Declan, his laughter shaking the world. Lucian kneels before him, his hands bound, his head bowed. I run to him, screaming, but the chains rise like serpents, dragging me back. Marta’s pages burn in my hands. The flames lick higher, until even my voice turns to ash.
I wake with a scream lodged in my throat, sweat freezing on my skin. The camp stirs, whispers spreading. Lucian kneels beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes dark with something between fear and fury.
“What did you see?” he demands.
I clutch his wrist, trembling. “Chains. Everywhere. And you, ” My voice cracks. I cannot finish.
His jaw tightens. He pulls me into his arms, fierce, as though holding me can banish shadows. For a moment, warmth breaks through the cold. For a moment, I believe it might be enough.
His arms are a cage around me, his scent, sweat, leather, and something raw, filling my lungs. My heart pounds, the nightmare’s claws still digging into my mind, but his touch is an anchor, grounding me. I hate how much I need it, how his strength makes the fear recede. I shove against his chest, nothard, just enough to feel the resistance, to remind myself I’m not weak. His grip tightens, his breath hot against my ear, and I feel the shift, the moment his concern turns to something darker, hungrier.
“Don’t fight me,” he growls, his voice low, a warning that sends a shiver down my spine.
My body betrays me, heat pooling between my thighs, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my shirt. I want to snap at him, to push him away, but the nightmare’s weight lingers, and his presence is the only thing keeping it at bay. I lean into him, just a fraction, and it’s enough to ignite the spark between us.
His hand slides up my back, fisting in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat. I gasp, the sting sharp and thrilling, and his lips find my pulse, not kissing but biting, his teeth grazing my skin. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs, his voice rough, accusing, but there’s a tremor in it, a need that mirrors mine. I hate him for seeing it, for knowing how much I crave this, crave him.
The camp is silent now, the whispers faded, but the danger of being heard only fuels the fire in my blood. His body looms over mine, massive, imposing, and I feel small, exposed, but not afraid, never afraid with him.
He rips my shirt open, the fabric tearing with a sound that cuts through the night. My breasts spill free, the cold air biting my skin, but his hands are fire, rough and possessive as they knead my flesh. His thumbs brush my nipples, hard and aching, and I arch, cursing him under my breath. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat, just watches me, his eyes dark with a hunger thatmakes my cunt throb. I want to fight him, to make him earn this, but my body’s screaming for him, wet and ready.
“Your fears are mine,” he says, his voice a low growl, and I shake my head, defiant, even as my hips lift, seeking him.
His hand slides down, tearing at my pants, yanking them off with a violence that makes my pulse race. I’m bare now, vulnerable, but the way he looks at me, like I’m his to break, his to claim, makes me feel powerful, dangerous. His fingers find my cunt, spreading me open, and I moan, loud and reckless, unable to stop myself.
“Now about those juices,” he mutters, his voice thick with lust, and I flush, humiliated and aroused.
His fingers thrust inside, thick and unyielding, curling to hit that spot that makes my vision blur. I claw at the bedroll, my nails scraping the fabric, and he watches, his eyes burning as he fucks me with his hand, slow and deliberate, drawing it out until I’m trembling. I try to push him away, to regain control, but he grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand, his body pressing me into the ground.
“Don’t,” he warns, his lips brushing mine, and I bite him, hard, tasting blood.
He groans, a raw, animal sound, and retaliates, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that’s all teeth and fury. I fight back, my tongue battling his, but my hips grind against his hand, desperate for more. He pulls his fingers out, and I whimper, hating myself for the sound, but before I can protest, he’s unbuckling his pants, freeing his thick, heavy cock, the headglistening, and the sight of it makes my mouth water, even as I curse him.
He just lines up and thrusts, filling me up in one stroke. I cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder, my cunt stretching to take him. He’s relentless, each thrust deep, his hands gripping my hips, fingers bruising my skin. I meet him, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, challenging him to break me. The bedroll shifts beneath us, the ground cold and hard, but all I feel is him, his cock driving into me, his breath hot against my neck.
He growls, his hand sliding between us, finding my clit, rubbing it with rough precision. I shake my head, defiant, but my body’s betraying me, my orgasm building like a wildfire. He slows, dragging out each thrust, torturing me, and I whimper, my nails digging into his arms.
I come, screaming into his shoulder, my cunt pulsing around him, my vision blacking out with the intensity. He doesn’t stop, fucking me through it, his growls vibrating against my skin. When he comes, it’s with a roar, his cum hot and thick inside me, marking me in a way that feels permanent. He collapses over me, his weight crushing, grounding, and for a moment, his lips brush my forehead, soft, almost tender, and my heart aches with something I can’t name.
He pulls out, slow, and I wince, my body still trembling. “Stay still,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, and he pulls the blanket over me, his hand lingering on my hip. I want to shove him away, to rebuild my walls, but the nightmare’s shadow lingers, and his warmth is the only thing keeping it at bay. He lies beside me, not touching, but close enough that I feel him, his presence a shield against the dark.
“Sleep,” he says, his voice rough but steady, and I close my eyes, my body still humming with his touch. The camp is silent, but the air is heavy with our secret, a brand on my skin that I’ll carry into the dawn. He’s mine, whether I admit it or not, and I’ll fight for him, bleed for him, break for him. Always.
***
The nightmare clings to me even as dawn breaks. Chains rattle in my ears long after I wake, their phantom weight heavy on my chest. The rebels stir slowly, their movements sluggish from hunger and cold. Smoke rises thin from dying fires, a pitiful offering to the mountain air. No songs, no laughter, only the hollow shuffle of boots on frost.
I push myself to my feet, Marta’s satchel slung across my shoulder. Her words are all I have to fight the silence, even if they sound thinner each day. I gather a handful of rebels, Abigail among them, her doll clutched to her chest. My voice is hoarse, but I read aloud, forcing truth into the morning. The words cut through the cold, but I see how their eyes flicker, not with belief, but with desperation. They cling because there is nothing else.
Lucian watches from the edge of camp. His arms are folded, his face shadowed. The wind whips his cloak, but he does not move. His silence presses heavier than my voice can lift.
***
By midday, the march begins again. The path narrows, sheer cliffs rising on either side. Snow falls in lazy drifts, disguising the danger beneath. The freed stumble often, their strength fading. Elira drives them forward with hard words, her breaching axe resting across her shoulder. Rourke mutters curses, his flask empty now, his temper sharper than ever.
