Page 97 of The Monster You Made
***
We march again at dawn. Snow softens under new sunlight, though the cold still gnaws bone and marrow. The freed stumble, steadied by rebels’ arms. Prisoners we freed drag chains still clamped to their wrists, the metal rusted and raw against skin. Elira hacks at them when she can, her breaching axe biting iron as if it were wood. Each shackle broken draws cheers, small victories in the long march north.
Lucian leads in silence. His shadow stretches across us all, heavy, unrelenting. He has not spoken of the depot since we fled. He does not need to. The weight shows in the set of his jaw, the hollow in his eyes.
At midday, scouts return. A village lies ahead, one not yet garrisoned, its fields buried under snow, its houses still standing. Smoke rises from chimneys. Life lingers there.
The rebels murmur, eager for rest, for warmth. Rourke shakes his head. “Too quiet. Could be a trap.”
Elira spits into the snow. “Or it could be food, drink, fire. I’ll take the chance.”
Lucian studies the horizon silently. Then, at last, he nods once. “We enter. Careful.”
***
The village stirs as we approach. Doors open. Faces peer out, men with lined brows, women clutching children, elders leaning on canes. They do not flee. They do not bar their doors. Instead, they step forward, cautious but not afraid.
An elderly woman meets us in the square, her cloak patched, her eyes sharp. “You are the Wolf,” she says, her voice carrying. “And you are the Flame.” Her gaze lands on me, steady. “We have heard the whispers. We know the truth Marta carried.”
Murmurs ripple through the rebels. I clutch Marta’s satchel tighter, my heart leaping. “Then you believe?”
The woman nods, slow. “We believe chains break. And we will shelter those who break them.”
Relief floods through me. The rebels sag, weary, grateful. Children run forward with baskets of bread, bowls of broth steaming in the cold. Laughter rises, fragile but real. For the first time in weeks, we step into warmth without fire or blood.
***
That night, the village hall fills with voices. Rebels and freed sit shoulder to shoulder with villagers, food passed hand to hand. Marta’s words are read aloud, carried on my voice, then echoed by others:Chains rust, truth endures.The villagers chant it with us, their voices weaving hope into the rafters.
Elira drinks deep, her laughter booming. Rourke mutters, but his flask is full, and even he smiles. The freed sing an old hymn, voices cracked but rising strong.
I watch Lucian from across the hall. He sits apart, shadows clinging. Children gather near him, curious, unafraid. One offers him a carved wooden wolf. His hands shake as he takes it. For a moment, the shadow lifts.
Later, when the hall empties and the fires burn low, Lucian’s eyes find mine. “They see me as more than I am,” he whispers. “They believe in something I can’t be.”
I grip his hand, steady, unyielding. “Then be what you are, with me. Let me carry what you can’t.”
His gaze lingers, haunted but softening. For a heartbeat, the chains loosen.
The hall is nearly empty now, the last voices fading as the villagers and rebels drift to their beds. The fire’s embers cast a dim glow, shadows dancing on the wooden walls. Lucian’s hand is still in mine, his calloused fingers rough against my skin, and I feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze. I don’t ask. I don’t wait. I pull him toward the darkest corner of the hall, where the shadows pool like ink, hiding us from any stray eyes. My heart pounds, not with fear but with hunger, a need to claim him, to break through the walls he builds.
“Vera,” he says, his voice low, a warning laced with exhaustion. “Not here.”
But his eyes betray him, dark and burning, his body tensing as I press myself against him, my hands sliding up his chest. His shirt is rough under my fingers, his muscles taut,and I feel the power in him, the beast he tries to cage. I want to unleash it, to push him until he snaps, but tonight, I want something else, control, his surrender, even if just for a moment.
“Shut up,” I murmur, my lips finding his jaw, kissing the rough stubble, tasting the salt of his skin.
He stiffens, his hands hovering at my sides, as if he’s fighting the urge to grab me, to take over. I don’t let him. My kisses trail lower, along his throat, where his pulse hammers under my lips. I bite, not hard, just enough to make him hiss, and his hands clench, but he doesn’t stop me. My fingers work his shirt open, buttons popping free, and I expose his chest, broad and scarred, the firelight flickering over his skin.
“Vera, stop,” he growls, but it’s weak, his voice thick with want, and I ignore him, my lips finding his nipple, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud.
He groans, a low, guttural sound that sends a jolt to my cunt, already wet and aching. I suck, hard, my teeth grazing, and his hands fist in my hair, not pulling me away but holding me there. I move to the other nipple, licking, biting, and he’s trembling now, his breath ragged, his control slipping. My hands slide lower, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump under my touch.
I drop to my knees, the wooden floor cold and rough, but I don’t care. My fingers tug at his belt, unbuckling it with a clink that echoes in the silent hall.
“Vera,” he says again, sharper, but his cock is hard, straining against his pants, and I know he wants this as much as I do.
I free him, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, the head glistening with precum. My mouth waters, and I don’t hesitate, my lips brushing the tip, teasing, tasting. He groans, his hands tightening in my hair, and I take him in, my tongue swirling around the head, sucking passionately, savoring the way he fills my mouth.
