Page 22 of Ashborne: Defiance

And I was alone.

And once again torn in two pieces, because one side of my soul sang with joy that she was there, and I could sense her, even when she moved away.

While the other gasped and ached, hollowed and cold. Because the second heart that my ribs had shifted to make room for, had rejected me.

8. In the Furs

~ GRACE ~

A few supplies had been left in the cave. There were furs, and tools to start a fire. Even a book. No food. But those weren’t the hunger pangs I suffered anyway.

With shaking hands and a stomach that felt slightly sick with unspent energy, I unrolled the furs and fashioned a nest.

Yet, even when I took off the boots and ill-fitting trousers, let the shirt fall to my knees and let down my hair, slipping the pins into the pocket of the trousers, my body still felt tight. Tense. Uncomfortable.

I was exhausted, but I stood there as Vane drew further and further away, and the urgency to follow increased, as the dragons called and sang together, and the churning in my stomach became a boil. I ached.

Not with pain. But with need. I felt hollow, and frustrated, and lacking.

I’d never felt anything like it.

Any moment I didn’t concentrate, I turned toward the cave mouth, found myself staring in the direction of the dragons.

I swayed.

I took one step. Then another. Then caught myself, shook my head, and turned back to the furs.

I needed to rest. Vane was dangerous. The dragons were consumed. I needed to sleep, and pray that this insanity would stop by morning.

Muttering to myself, I lay down on the bedding, pulling the second layer over me, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground only padded by fur.

The sensation of the soft, dense fur against my thighs was stunning. I lay on my side, but soon found myself on my back, arms splayed, running my hands and arms across the soft surface, my skin pebbling with the delicious sensation. But, as lovely as it felt, that hollow ache, low in my belly, only grew worse.

I shivered, but not with cold.

No.

My skin felt hot. Raw. Something deep inside pressed at me. Wanted to drive me out of the furs, out of the cave, out of my mind.

With a frustrated whimper, I rolled onto my stomach, one arm under my head for a pillow. But the dragons began to croon, and my hips rolled. I trembled, locking my thighs together in an attempt to ease the ache, but only succeeded in stealing my own breath when the pressure of my thighs squeezed at places I usually tried not to think about—because they were the very places that tradition insisted made me valuable to men of the blood.

But now, lying there in the dark, alone, with fire in my veins, my skin so sensitive even a breath seemed like silk, suddenly, all thoughts of tradition and noble blood fell away.

As the dragon’s calls increased, and that driving hunger clamored for some kind of release, I rolled onto my back, eyes screwed tightly shut, with a curse dancing on my lips.

There was a flash in my mind—the dragons, twisted together, twined, tails lashing—and then, Vane.

Staring at me with dark eyes.

Kissing me, his breath roaring.

Hands, so large and rough, yet somehow as tender on my skin as they were demanding.

And that ache deep within became a chasm of need.

I cupped myself between my legs, begging my body to stop, only to discover even that small pressure on my sacred places brought a staggering thrill.

My breath rushed out of me, then sucked back in, my chest rising and falling too fast.