Page 65 of Marked By Feral Monsters
My hum is a low, dull vibration now, but I send one last burst, flick my tongue over her clit, and finally,finally, sapped of all restraint, her physical orgasm bursts, and she comes with a guttural scream. Thrashing beneath me, her sweet cunt floods my mouth, and I drink from her release, oblivious to her heels pounding into my shoulders.
And when her body is limp and sated, both of us transformed, I gently lick her pussy one more time before pulling back.
There's no silence in the wake of the cleansing. It's all heavy breathing and emotions. I can feel everything. Her insecurities, her hopes, her fears, her love and excitement, all of it. I feel therise and fall of her chest, the beating of her heart. And she can feel mine, too. We are together, we are one.
She's panting, and even though I told her to stay put, she tugs on my horns, sending another shiver through my body. I climb onto the bed so she can lay back, though I'm not sure she could move right now if she tried. I'm quite pleased with my docile human. The heap of her makes me laugh, and she giggles.
I have no words. Neither does she. She shivers, wraps her legs around me and squeezes as tight as she possibly can.
It fills my heart with joy.
"Zair…" she eventually whispers. I lean away so her eyes can meet mine. Lovely, inquisitive, and—finally, truly—relaxed. "I can feel you."
I say nothing, just stare into her watering eyes. Give her space to think, to process. A tear leaks, tracking down her high cheekbone. I watch it move, then lick the salty water.
She swallows and says, "I can feel everything. My heart… My heart feels so full. I can feel you everywhere. Is it… will it always be like this?"
I don't bother explaining the intricacies of minotaur mates. Kink-mates, a sexually inimitable pair, compatible beyond measure. I wondered it when I read her file, suspected it when she snuck out of her bedroom, fearless and fierce and needy.
And I knew for certain, yesterday when she let me fuck her in the ass after an hour of prep, then later insisted we watch some bad reality show on the couch after she demanded takeout from two different restaurants—one had good dumplings, but the other had better noodles. She's high maintenance and a hot-fucking-mess, but she owns it.
She may not be perfect, but she's perfectfor me.
We're just two unlikely lovers ready for a new beginning. Together.
Calista
I can feeleverything. Zair's confidence. His affection. He shared something with me that, if I'm reading this connection right, most minotaurs only share with a partner once in their lifetime.
I have no idea what to do with that.
But for once, I'm not tempted to fix it. To analyze it to death. I'm okay just letting him take care of me, to guide us both through whatever's coming. All my insecurities from earlier fade away completely.
I snuggle deeper into Zair's chest. For once, he falls asleep before me, the cleansing ritual taking more out of him than he probably expected. My smile, genuine and so big my cheeks ache, feels ridiculous in this late afternoon sun as my lover naps beside me.
My smile feels unnatural, but welcome. The potential for happiness feels overwhelming.
Being with Zair doesn't fill the void in my life. But I suspect he'll be the catalyst for something greater. I'm starting to realize that giving up control, or sharing it with him, doesn't take mine away; it just leaves room for more.
More everything.
The Haunted Victorian
Dina
When I got the call four years ago that I would inherit my great-aunt Greta's ancient Victorian, my naïve-self thought it was a gift. I imagined strolling through overgrown moon-lit gardens, making homemade bread on the original butcher's block island, scrubbing cast-iron pans in a deep-set farmhouse sink. I'd seen pictures of the place, old black and whites, and the house looked like a dream. How could I do anything but romanticize a life so different from mine?
Yet, if I could've foreseen the past four years, I'm not sure I'd have accepted my legacy so easily.
I don't regret it. The old Victorian, and all the secrets within, are mine now.
Still, I could have done with less murder.
On speakerphone, my parents listed all the problems keeping the house would bring: expensive upkeep, high maintenance inits old age, reminding me of all the money I could make by selling it. I could picture my mother on the other line, anxiously wringing her hands, knowing Greta's house had become my responsibility.
Originally built by my great-great-grandfather, the house remained in my family through the years, eventually passing to my great aunt, a woman I'd never met and my mother rarely spoke of. But I was the youngest in her line, untethered by domestic expectations—I had no family of my own, no mortgage, I worked from home—and though we had no relationship, Greta chose me to guard the estate.
I drove across three states to see it in person. The Victorian was a stunning hundred-year-old, three-story house with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a massive kitchen, and two sitting-rooms. The exterior boasted an asymmetrical facade, decorative spindles framing massive bays, and atop the steep roof, an enclosed widow's walk, appropriately fitting for a New England town so close to the ocean.
