Page 9 of Claimed By the Forest Reaper

He tugs the fabric around us both. His thigh brushes mine. The bond-thread hums, insistent.

Rain drums harder.

“Why don’t you talk?” I ask.

He traces a claw over his throat. Shakes his head.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

He taps his chest—where a heart would be—then mine.

“You… lost your voice?”

A nod.

“Because of the curse?”

He hesitates. Nods again.

I swallow. “Does it hurt?”

His fingertips brush my windpipe. Gentle. Questioning.

“You can touch.”

His hand settles warm and heavy on my throat. Not squeezing. Just… holding. My pulse kicks against his palm.

“See?” I whisper. “No pain.”

His thumb strokes my jugular. The world narrows to his eyes, his breath, his hand.

The storm fades.

When he leans in, I think *finally*. But he pauses a hair’s breadth from my lips, waiting.

“Do it,” I breathe.

He crashes into me.

Cold lips. Hot tongue. The taste of lightning and pomegranate. I fist his hair, dragging him closer. He growls, hauling me onto his lap. His hips roll up, and I feel him—*all* of him—hard and insistent through the layers of clothes.

Shadow vines erupt around us, coiling up my legs. I moan into his mouth. He tears away, panting, sigils burning white-hot.

“Don’t stop,” I beg.

He grips my waist, holding me still. His whole body shakes.

“Kaelith—”

He flinches at his name.

“You’re not hurting me.”

A ragged sound escapes him. The vines tighten, lifting me off his lap. He sets me aside like damaged goods and vanishes into the rain.

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I find him at dawn, soaked and still shaking.