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He growls again, low in his throat, his teeth grazing my jawline as he finds that spot inside me once more. My toes curl involuntarily, and I gasp around his cock while I bite my lip to stifle another moan. It's too much... But I can't get enough.
Karul's body tenses with each thrust, his muscles straining as he moves faster and harder. I can feel the heat emanating from our bodies, our skin slick and slippery against each other.
His grip on my hips tightens, and he spills into me relentlessly; I moan his name over and over again as the pleasure washes over me completely.
19
KARUL
The morning is gray as we make our way to the site, the rain pattering softly around us. Jasmine walks ahead, shoulders hunched against the chill. In her hands, she clutches a small bundle - a comb, a doll, fragments of the lives destroyed.
“Here, my sweet, wear this,” I insist, wrapping my cloak around her shivering frame.
We reach the charred remnants of her family's home. The smell of smoke still faintly hangs in the air even days later. She kneels and begins digging into the wet earth with her bare hands. I move to help, but she shakes her head, tears mixing with the raindrops on her cheeks.
This is for her alone.
I stand back in respectful silence as she works, excavating a shallow grave and lining it with stones. Her breaths come in ragged gasps, but she does not stop, driven by grief and the need for closure. Finally, she gently places the bundle in the grave.
She bows her head and whispers words I cannot understand. Prayers perhaps. Goodbyes left unsaid. When she finishes, we fill the grave together, the mud slick and cold on our fingers.
She marks the site with a wooden post.
Then she collapses against me, sobs wracking her slight frame.
The insipid rain soaks her jacket, and I instinctively pull her into a protective embrace. When the worst of the storm has passed, it’s hard to tell where the rain ends and her tears begin. She lifts her head, eyes holding sadness but also gratitude.
She sifts through the sodden ashes and charred debris, searching for any small memento she can salvage. I stand nearby, keeping a respectful distance but ready to assist if needed. Her face lights up as she unearths a small wooden box, singed around the edges but still intact.
She traces her fingers over the intricate symbols carved into the lid, a faraway look in her eyes. "My father's seed box," she explains, opening it carefully to reveal neatly organized packets of seeds inside. "He loved his little farm plot, and every week, he would get so excited to show us the new seeds he had collected that week at the market.
Other fathers would spend their week’s pay at the saloon. But not our Father… he was too good…" Jasmine handles the box gently as if it were a precious treasure. I can see it offers her some comfort, a tangible piece of the past she can hold on to.
The box is made from an old cigar box, and age and use seem to have smoothed its edges; an ordinary item transformed into something deeply meaningful. Sometimes, I envy the humans.
Wishing my life had meaning beyond my petty dreams of vengeance.
She selects a single seed and kneels by the grave. With delicate care, she digs a small hole and places the seed inside. As she covers it with dirt, tears shine in her eyes. "A tree will grow strong where our home once stood. Life from death. Hope from despair." Jasmine looks up at me then, managing a tremulous smile. "Thank you for staying. I know our ways must seem strange..."
I shake my head. "Not so strange at all. We honor those we've lost too in our own way."
"This is for you, Papa," she whispers. "For Mama and little Amara."
I stand quietly nearby as she speaks, not wanting to intrude on her private grief.
"I miss you all so much. My heart feels like it's been torn out." Her voice catches on a sob. "But I will keep living… for you. And I'll plant your seeds wherever I go, so you'll always be with me." She lowers her head. "I hope you've found peace. And I hope one day we'll meet again when I come to the crossing at the end of the path. Wait for me…”
She falls silent then, overcome with emotion.
When the only sound is the soft patter of rain mixing with her tears, I take her in my arms and slowly lead her towards the carriage. I'm not sure how long we stood there in the rain, each lost in our own thoughts.
Gradually, her tears cease, though grief still hangs heavy around her.
The journey back is a quiet one. I can’t stop thinking about last night. I feel the ghost of her lips on mine, the brush of her fingers over my skin. Something between us has shifted almost imperceptibly. Like the walls of mistrust and resentment have cracked. New feelings I cannot yet name flooding in.
I study her profile as she gazes out the window and notice there is very much a subtle beauty to her, a strength emerging from her grief. She has suffered much, yet perseveres. Perhaps this arrangement between us will not be as arduous as I anticipated.
When the rain-soaked inn appears through the gloom, just seeing the ramshackle exterior, it’s too much to handle after the taura shit today. I need to sleep in my bed tonight, and I refuse.
