Chapter 20: Chapter 19 - Bound

He stepped from the trees.

At first I caught only his eyes — that glow, unnatural and alive, brighter than the fire itself, blazing between us. They lanced through the dark, fixing me where I sat, rooting me to the earth as though he had pierced me with a bolt. I should have felt fear. I should have reached for my bow, or my knife, or at least found breath enough to run and forget this madness. But no such instincts stirred. I only sat, my back straight, my hands loose in my lap, watching as the rest of him, the fire-haired Fenrathi, followed.

He came forward as a man, though there was nothing tame in him. The forest seemed to bend with his steps, as though the very trees and stones and earth had always belonged to him. Red hair fell loose about his shoulders, catching on the glow of my fire like spilled flame and his skin, pale and sun-kissed all at once, washed in the moonlight. He was tall enough to dwarf the beast that still lay at the border of my clearing - he brushed a hand across its flank as he passed -, broad enough that even stillness could not soften the sense of him. His every movement was deliberate, the long, quiet tread of a hunter who had torn down every challenger until nothing greater remained.

And he was looking at me. No — not only me.

His gaze swept the clearing once, sharp as a blade through the dark. He saw the fire, the little circle of warmth I had built for myself. He saw the crude plate I had set out on the ground, awkward and a little burned but offered all the same. His eyes caught there, gold flashing brighter, and then they returned to mine.

The breath left me.

I had been right.

I knew it in the weight of that look. That kill had been no accident of abundance, no simple trick of a hunter showing off. It had been a gift. A claim, a betrothal offering — one of their customs I had studied, a ritual I had never thought to see with my own eyes. And here it lay between us, dressed and cooked by my clumsy hands.

Heat crept across my face before I could stop it at the sharpness in his expression, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he held back a grin. His gaze held me, steady and burning, and I felt as though his eyes had touched me physically, set something inside me smoldering.

I saw his nose twitch and couldn’t help but wonder what he must be smelling right now, what scents must be wafting off of me, curling towards his nose, the slight breeze offering hints of my thoughts to him without my consent. Not that I minded, if I had to ask myself.

He did not speak. He did not need to; that look — from the plate to me, back and forth with a weight that pressed the very air — said more than words ever could.

I could not help the thought that rose, unbidden and sharp — Lucen.

The comparison was pathetic and a snort almost escaped me. The Fenrathi’s head twitched as his eyes caught on my lips. His own lips quirked a touch in response and my blush deepened all its own.

Where Lucen had been fashionably slender, the kind of slim that made courtiers murmur of elegance, this Fenrathi was lithe in a way that spoke of strength wound tight, red-haired and alive with feral power. Lucen’s hair had been pale, always oiled and arranged just so; this male’s mane was wild flame, spilling loose and untamed as though even he had given up trying to master it.

Lucen’s eyes had been icy blue, polished glass, cold enough to unsettle but never warm. This one’s were gold — coin-bright and molten — glowing as if they held their own sun within them. They caught me, burned me, and heat crawled up my neck and pooled deep, pulling a tiny gasp free even as I tried to strangle it. His nose flared.

Lucen had slithered through life, all smooth words and hidden malice, slimy beneath his silks no matter how carefully he smiled. This male moved with the surety of a predator who had never once questioned his place in the world. Cunning. Confident. Every step calculated, yet none of it feigned.

At court, Lucen had always seemed acceptable, average, nothing more than what the nobles expected. By their standards he was adequate, perhaps even desirable. But if this Fenrathi walked through my father’s hall… gods. Every man there would pale beside him, their jewels and titles nothing against this kind of raw presence.

He stood head and shoulders above me, tall enough that Lucen’s proud forehead would scarcely brush his chin. The thought twisted something inside me — a bitter laugh caught behind my teeth. What a fool I had been, what a fool they all were, to think Lucen anything, worth anything, even remotely comparable beside the magnitude that was the Fenrathi prowling closer.

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He stood before it at last — the meal, crude and charred. He eyed it briefly but his attention was locked to the woman across the fire. The meal waited and behind it, the woman who had made it for him.

For him.

The thought caught in him like a fang in marrow, impossible to shake free. The human woman had taken his kill, bent over it with her small hands, burned and cut and done her best, and then set it out like a queen making an offering, to him, the god of this forest. As his eyes glanced over it he could see It was no feast and it was no skilled cook’s craft. But it was an answer. And that meant more than all the polished banquets and gluttonous grandeur of men.

She had seen his offering, weighed his want of her, and wanted him back.

The truth of it hit harder than any blow he had ever taken. For days, weeks, he had taunted her, prowled her little camp, torn down what she built only to see her rise again and again, despite his best efforts to break her. He had hunted and raged and cursed her stubborn silence and rent the very ground with fury at her insolence.

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And yet…she wanted him, feral beast he was.

His eyes darted over her camp, the cleanliness surprising him; when he saw her last her camp had been a war-torn slop of mud and branch and ash. Now, it was almost as it had been before. A touch of surprise and pride at her warmed his chest. His eyes flashed to hers and the blush on her cheeks warmed his chest even more.

He lowered himself to the ground before the crude stone platter slowly, deliberately, as though moving too suddenly would startle her, break the moment, send her running. He said nothing as he finally rested on the ground, only stared at her.

Her gray-gold eyes stared back at him. Her scent tickled his nose – sweet want, sour unease, bitter fear, warm hope, all tangled and woven into the other smells that must be hers alone -- ash and blood from the fires, mint and lavender.

The fire turned her brown hair a warm chestnut where the few locks that framed her face, loose from the braid, caught the light. Her sun-kissed skin was smooth and looked soft and his fingers flinched with the sudden urge to touch and see.

Moments passed. Her pulse thundered to him from across the fire. Her eyes never left his.

He held her gaze, unblinking, and let her finally see it — the want of her. Her eyes widened suddenly as though surprised and the smell of her fear sweetened. A growl almost escaped before he smothered it down deep where it belonged with the rest of his feral intentions.

For a long time, he did nothing but sit, the food untouched, the silence deep, the world narrowing to her face, her fire, her answer.

The fire crackled. Smoke curled between them, carrying the scent of char and her. He watched her closely, every twitch of muscle, every flicker of breath. He needed to be sure; this could not be an accident, could not be some human trick or another maddening prank pulled on him in the cruelest of ways possible. If she knew this for what it was meant, the kill and the presenting, he must be certain she meant this offering in return.

So he stilled himself and watched.

Her pulse beat fast, steady enough but strong in his ears. Her eyes flicked once to his nose as he scented her, and when they darted back he caught it — the pretty blush climbing her cheeks, the warmth staining her skin.

That was answer enough.

A rumble started low in his chest, not quite a growl, not quite laughter. He leaned forward at last and reached for the platter. His fingers closed around the first piece of meat, blackened at the edges, imperfect and small. It stank of charcoal. He raised it to his teeth all the same, bit, chewed.

And it was the best damned thing he had ever tasted.

Not for its flavor, that was for certain, not for salt or spice — it had none. It was heavy with smoke, rough with ash, clumsy in every way.

But it had come from her hands, laden with her choice, prepared for him in answer.

She had chosen him.

That was what made it exquisite. That was what made it more than food.

He felt it swell in him, hot and sharp — the feral delight of a king dining, the triumph of being chosen. Not even his brother, the great Rulvek, perfect and laden with mantle, had ever known triumph like this. No throne, no crown, no war-won feast could rival this moment: a woman’s offering, the first true answer to the hunger that had been eating him alive since he laid eyes on her.

He ate every blackened piece, wiped the last smear from the platter with his thumb, savored it, then set the empty platter aside. Rising, he uncoiled to his full height, broad and endless in the firelight. The fire threw his shadow back across the trees, the forest itself bowing to his shape.

She rose too, sudden and clumsy as though in answer.

Her knees trembled, her balance was unsteady and she almost toppled – his hands flinched at the urge to right her–, but her spine stayed straight and she found her footing. Her eyes met his and the blush on her cheeks and the scent of her embarrassment cracked a smile onto his lips. He could almost hear her thoughts, would have loved to hear her words say Please say you didn’t just see that. His smile climbed into a grin and her eyes glared at him.

Delightful.

She did not yield, though, as he watched her. It made something low and warm stir in his chest — a fragile courage wrapped in trembling limbs. A sound slipped out of him, rough and soft, half chuckle, half purr. Endearing, that this human was bold enough to answer his offering with one of her own and then bold enough to quake after.

He circled the fire, slow but certain as the turning of seasons, each step deliberate until the crackle of wood filled the silence between them. She did not flee. Instead, she pivoted, turning as he rounded towards her, meeting him square, a human woman with nothing to defend herself from him but her bare hands.

The unbidden thought of her wanting to protect herself from him stirred a keening whine in his chest. Never. He would never hurt her; she would never have need to protect herself from him.

At last he stood before her. The fire painted her skin in bronze, kissed her throat and cheeks until she glowed. Her eyes held his, and there it was again — that uncanny shade, too gold to belong wholly to men, too alive to look away from. His own reflection burned back at him, molten mirrored in molten.

He raised his hand. Rough, scarred, Fenrathi. He held it out between them palm-up and fingers open, waiting.

She broke the contact with his eyes and looked down at the offering — his hand waiting for hers. She lifted her own hand and the size comparison made something deep in him stir. She was so small, her hand seemed like a bird's wing against his open palm, fragile, breakable. Her gaze climbed, slow, up the strong line of his arm to his face, back to his eyes. The world itself seemed to hold its breath.

And then she placed her hand into his.

It was tentative at first, the brush of softer skin against the calluses of a hunter’s palm, electric with contact, but once her fingers settled, once her warmth seeped into him, he curled his hand around hers and pulled.

She stumbled the smallest step into him, and the world shifted in his favor. Her body fell into his side with her stumble, pressed against the wall of him. The tiniest oomph left her lips as her free hand darted up to steady herself against his chest, right under his heart. His other hand wrapped her from behind, pulling her even closer until she was tight to him, sheltered in him, safe in him. Her breath tangled with his as they stared into each other's eyes. Breathless. Just as he was in this moment, the first true contact with the woman he wanted.

The firelight spilled over both of them, molten ribbons binding them together.

He grinned down at her suddenly, mouth too wide and sharp with teeth and savage joy, predator’s triumph mingled with something deeper, unnameable, terrifying in its depth and roots in his chest.

The bond was made in that instant — not by word, not by ceremony, but by her hand in his, her body sheltered by his, her answer met with his acceptance.

Before gods that would not dare defy a Fenrathi, men who would tremble at the sight of him, the forest that breathed as he did, she was his.

And gods help the world if it took her from him.