Page 25 of Hunted By the Wraiths
She pulled back slightly. Her eyes searched mine.
“Don’t stop,” I said.
“You’re in pain.”
“I’m always in pain.” I kissed her again. “This is worth it.”
Because it was. She was worth every second of agony. Worth eight years of torture. Worth eighteen on an impossible pain scale.
Worth everything.
The thrum pulsed. The emerald held. The bond fought.
And somewhere in the back of my broken, conditioned biology, something shifted.
The war wasn’t over. But the signal was winning.
MARIS
His mouth was on mine and the world narrowed to this: his taste, his heat, the way his scales flashed emerald under my hands.
The kiss deepened. His tongue swept against mine, demanding and desperate. I made a sound I didn’t recognize, raw and hungry.
Years. Years of building walls so high no one could reach me. Of making myself cold because cold meant safe.
Those walls were burning.
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a low growl. “More.”
“What?” I was breathless, my hands on his chest.
“Don’t stop.” He kissed me again, harder this time, his grip on my arms possessive. He was the one pushingmeback against the cold rock wall, his body caging mine.
“Thoryn, wait.” I tried to create space, to think. The scales under my palms were hot, warring with themselves. Flashing emerald and gray. “You’re bleeding. Infected. You’re probably dying.”
“I know.” His voice was rough. Strained.
“This is insane,” I said, my voice shaking. “You need to rest. I’m... I’m making it worse. The pain?—”
“I don’t care.” His eyes were molten and completely focused on me. “I survived eight years of hell for this. Foryou.” His hand cupped the back of my neck, his claws careful against my skin. “I’m done being careful.”
He kissed me again, a raw, possessive claim.
He was the one who pulled at my shirt, his movements clumsy with urgency. I hissed as the rough fabric dragged across a scrape on my arm I didn’t remember getting.
“Maris—” he started, his hand hesitating.
“No,” I said, my voice mimicking his own intensity, my logic shattering. “You’re right.” I yanked the shirt over my head myself, dropped it on the floor. “I’m done being careful too.”
He looked at me. At my scars. At the way I was trembling.
“I want this,” he said, the words ripped from his throat. “I wantyou.”
The bond thrummed. I could feel it now. Not just his pain. But him. His want. His need. His absolute certainty that this was right despite the cost.
He bent his head, his mouth finding my jaw. My neck. I moaned, shuddering in his grip.
He yanked his own shirt off, the movement so violent it tore the fabric. He didn’t hiss when it dragged across his shoulder wound. He just threw it aside.
