Page 98 of The Monster You Made
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, and I feel the power shift, my control over him intoxicating.
I take him deeper, my lips stretching, my tongue working the underside, and he thrusts, shallow at first, testing me. I let him, my hands gripping his thighs, nails digging into his skin. He fucks my mouth, harder now, his cock hitting the back of my throat, and I gag, but don’t pull away, my eyes locked on his, daring him to lose himself. His groans are louder, reckless, and I feel him tense, his cock throbbing, so close to spilling.
But I stop, pulling back just as he’s on the edge, my hand wrapping around the base of his cock, squeezing to hold his orgasm back. He snarls, his eyes blazing with fury and need, and I smile, slow and wicked, relishing the power.
“Not yet,” I whisper, my voice hoarse, and I reach for the small blade at my hip, the one I always carry.
His eyes widen, a flicker of something, fear, arousal, both, and I press the flat of the blade against his thigh, the cold metal a stark contrast to his heat.
“Vera,” he growls, a warning, but I don’t listen.
I drag the blade lightly across his skin, not cutting, just teasing, watching the way his muscles tense, his cock twitching in my hand. I press harder, just enough to draw a thin line ofblood, a shallow cut that makes him hiss, his eyes darkening with a mix of pain and desire.
“You like this,” I say, not a question, and I lick the blood, my tongue hot against the small wound, tasting iron and him.
He groans, his hands shaking in my hair, and I know I’ve got him, mine, for this moment.
I stand, my pants already gone, kicked off in the heat of it, my cunt dripping, aching, but I’m not here for my pleasure, not yet. I push him back against the wall, his cock still hard, slick with my spit, and I straddle him, guiding him to my entrance. I sink down, slow, deliberate, taking him inch by inch, my cunt stretching around him. He’s thick, filling me completely, and I moan, the sound raw and unbidden. His hands grip my hips, trying to take control, but I grab the blade again, pressing it to his chest, just enough to prick the skin, another thin line of blood welling up.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice sharp, and he freezes, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and arousal.
I ride him, slow at first, my hips rolling, my cunt gripping him tight. He’s shaking, his hands bruising my hips, but I don’t let him move, the blade a constant threat. I fuck him, hard and relentless, my pace brutal, my cunt milking his cock with every thrust. He’s close again, I can feel it, his cock throbbing inside me, and I lean forward, my lips brushing his ear.
“Come for me,” I whisper, and he does, his groan loud and desperate, his cum spilling inside me, hot and thick.
I keep moving, drawing it out, milking every drop, but I don’t let myself come. This is about him, about my control,about making him feel the edge of surrender. He’s panting, his body slumping against the wall, exhausted, conflicted, and I see it in his eyes, the war between loving this and hating the loss of power. I pull off him, his cum dripping down my thighs, and I wipe the blade clean on my cloak, my heart pounding, my cunt still aching but unsatisfied.
“Vera,” he says, his voice rough, almost broken, and for a moment, his hand reaches for me, soft, almost tender, brushing my cheek.
I let him, just for a heartbeat, before I step back, pulling my cloak around me. “Go to sleep,” I say, my voice steady, but inside, I’m trembling, the power and the need warring within me.
He fixes his clothes, his eyes never leaving mine, and I see it, the flicker of loyalty, of need, beneath the anger.
I slip back into the shadows, my blade at my hip, my body burning with his touch, his cum. The hall is silent, the embers dying, but the air is heavy with our secret. He’s mine, whether he admits it or not, and I’ll carry this moment, this power, into the dawn.
***
Morning light spills across the village roofs, gilding frost in pale gold. For the first time in weeks, I wake without the bite of snow in my bones. The hearth’s warmth lingers in my cloak, and the air smells of bread rather than smoke or blood. Children laugh outside, their voices carrying like a hymn. For a heartbeat, it feels like peace.
But peace is fragile. I feel it crack even as I rise.
***
The villagers gather in the square at dawn. Men and women press food into our hands: cheese, salted meat, dried grain. Their faces glow with belief, voices rising in chants of Marta’s words. Some fall to their knees before Lucian, calling him the Breaker of Chains, the Wolf who shatters chains. He stands rigid, silent, their faith a weight heavier than steel.
I step forward, raising Marta’s satchel. “Do not kneel to us,” I call, voice carrying. “Kneel only to truth. It is Marta’s fire, not ours, that breaks chains.”
The villagers echo the words, but their eyes remain fixed on him. Always him. Lucian’s jaw tightens, his shadow long in the snow.
***
Later, I walk the lanes with Elira. She drinks in the sight of villagers sharpening breaching axes, youths drilling with spears, elders teaching chants. “They’re ready,” she says, pride gleaming in her scarred face. “Every village like this, another link in the chain we break.”
Rourke trails us, muttering curses. “Or another mouth for the Crown to starve. The more we gather, the louder their army comes.”
Both are right. Both are wrong. The truth lies somewhere between, and grows heavier by the day.
***
