Page 73 of The Fated Hunter Wolf
The desperation in his voice broke the last of my restraint. I fed deeper, taking a little more than I should have, and he gave it willingly.
The bond between us, damaged and desperate, seized on the exchange. It was knitting itself back together, not healing so much as evolving into something new. Something that required this kind of intimacy to survive.
“Fuck,” he moaned.
Neither of us wanted it to end.
25
RHYS
When she finally pulled away, we were both shaking.
My chest heaved like I’d run miles instead of lying still while she fed from me. The wounds she’d left—the slashing cuts from her earlier attempt to sever our bond—were still there but looked different now. Silver-edged, like they’d been cauterized by moonlight. They gleamed against my skin like some kind of supernatural tattoo, and when I touched them, they didn’t hurt.
They hummed.
She straddled me, her face still hovering over my chest but high enough that our eyes met. Her fangs had retracted, but I could still feel her. She’d left part of herself behind in my bloodstream, woven into my pulse.
“That was…” I started, then stopped because every word that came to mind sounded inadequate. Like trying to describe lightning to someone who’d never seen a storm. How did you put into words the sensation of your life force being drawn out through willing veins? The way her feeding had felt less likebeing drained and more like being completed—two halves of something finally clicking into place?
My wolf hummed with satisfaction, sprawled contentedly in my chest. Meanwhile, my human brain scrambled to categorize what had happened, to file it away under something manageable likemedical necessityorsupernatural dependency.
It hadn’t felt medical. And it sure as hell hadn’t felt like dependency.
It had feltright.
“I know what you mean,” she said quietly, and I was grateful she didn’t make me finish the thought.
We stared at each other across the few inches that separated us on the couch, both of us trying to process what had just happened. What it meant. What we’d become to each other while her mouth was on my chest and her fangs in my skin.
The silence stretched until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I touched the transformed wounds on my chest, tracing the silver edges with my fingertips. They didn’t hurt anymore—if anything, they felt expectant. Like they were waiting for her to return to them.
Iwaswaiting for her to return to them.
Her gaze followed the movement, and when she looked back up at me, her eyes had darkened with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the connection we’d just forged.
“These aren’t going away, are they?” I asked, still tracing the silver lines.
“I don’t think so.” Her voice had gone soft, almost reverent. “They’re like markers. Signs of the bond.”
“Permanent ones.”
“Yes.”
The weight of that settled between us. Whatever we’d just done, there was no taking it back. No pretending it hadn’thappened or that it meant nothing. The silver wounds on my chest were proof that we’d crossed a line.
She lay down on me, and heat radiated from her skin now, hotter than she’d ever been. Her hand hovered over one of the wounds, not quite touching it, but I could feel the energy between her palm and my chest.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Different.” I caught her hand, pressed it flat against the silver-edged cut near my heart. The contact sent electricity shooting through my nervous system. “Stronger. Like something that was broken got fixed.”
Her breath hitched as she traced her fingers along the other cuts on my chest. The silver edges seemed to pulse under her touch, responding to her in ways that probably violated several laws of physics.
“Rhys,” she whispered. She didn’t pull away. Quite the opposite. She dragged her fingers down.
