Page 82 of The Monster You Made
“Take it,” she says, her voice sharp, commanding, and I grab her hips, pulling her down.
My tongue finds her clit, licking, sucking, and she moans, loud and reckless, her hands braced against the tree. She’s wet, dripping, and I devour her, my tongue thrusting inside, tasting her, claiming her. Her hips rock, riding my face, and I let her, let her take what she needs, but my hands grip her thighs, hard enough to bruise, a reminder that I’m still here, still in control.
She’s shaking now, her moans turning to cries, and I feel her getting close, her cunt pulsing against my tongue. My cock is hard again, aching, and her hand finds it, stroking, her fingers rough and perfect.
“Fuck, Lucian,” she gasps, her voice raw, and I suck harder, my tongue relentless on her clit.
She comes, screaming, her thighs clamping around my head, her orgasm flooding my mouth. I drink her in, my cock throbbing in her hand, and she strokes me through it, drawing out every shudder, every pulse.
She collapses against me, her body trembling, and I pull her close, my arms wrapping around her. For a moment, I press my lips to her temple, soft, almost tender, and she doesn’t pull away. Her breath is hot against my chest, her heart pounding, and I feel it, the crack in her armor, the need she hides.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, my voice rough, and she doesn’t argue, just buries her face in my neck.
“Get up,” I say, softer now, and she does, pulling her clothes back on, her movements slow, unsteady.
I fix my own, my body still humming with her taste, her touch. She grabs her cloak, her eyes meeting mine, fierce andunguarded, and I see it, the fire, the defiance, the want. She slips back into the camp, but I feel her still.
***
The next day, we march again. The path bends low through a hollow where black pines rise, their branches heavy with snow. The scouts return with a warning: another camp ahead, smaller than the last, but guarded. The freed gasp, whispering. The rebels murmur, eager, afraid.
Elira grins, breaching axe across her shoulders. “We break it.”
Rourke curses, flask sloshing. “Or we walk into another snare.”
They look to me. My chest tightens. The chains coil. Declan whispers:Say yes. Spill more blood. Every strike binds you closer.
I close my eyes, Vera’s voice echoing:Not while I’m here.
When I open them, I say, “We break it. Fast. Clean. No more bleeding than we must.”
Cheers rise. Hope flares. But in my chest, silence grows heavier. Because I know the truth: Every choice I make is his, even when I try to fight him.
***
The camp below is smaller than the last, but no less cruel. Stockades squat in the snow, barbed wire biting through the drifts. Lights flicker along the fence line, throwing shadows of soldiers against the night. The freed press close to us, eyes wide,some whispering prayers, some clutching each other as if they might vanish without touch.
The rebels wait for my word. Their faces are drawn tight, but their hunger for meaning glows. I see it in Elira’s grin, in Rourke’s grimace, in Abigail’s too-wide eyes. My chest tightens. The chain pulls.
“We break it,” I say. My voice is iron. It has to be.
***
The strike comes before dawn. Snow muffles our steps as we slip through the trees. Elira leads the vanguard, her breaching axe glinting dully in starlight. Rourke shoulders his rifle, muttering curses under his breath. Vera walks near me, Marta’s satchel clutched tight, her breath quick but steady. Her presence is the only warmth I feel.
The first tower falls with a hiss of arrows. A soldier gurgles, crumples into the snow. Rebels surge, cutting wire, forcing the gates apart. Horns blare, shattering the night. Rifles crack. Shouts split the silence.
Chaos floods.
I leap into it, sword raised. Steel meets flesh, snow drinks blood. The world narrows to the rhythm of strike and breath, strike and breath. The rebels roar. The freed scream. Soldiers scramble, stumbling, their discipline shattered by the ferocity of hunger-driven wolves.
Cassian's whispers surge louder:Yes. Spill them. Tear them. Every chain you break is mine. Every life you take is mine. You cannot fight me; you are me.
For a heartbeat, I almost yield. The rage swallows thought, swallows memory, swallows self. My blade rises to cut down a man already broken, bleeding, begging for life.
Then Vera’s cry splits the storm. “Lucian!”
Her voice sears me. My hand trembles. The blade halts. Instead of cleaving, I slam the hilt into his skull. He falls limp. My chest heaves. My throat burns. The whispers recoil, but they do not leave. They never leave.
