Page 118 of Aryn

My body is heavy as he finally settles beside me, and I’m barely awake long enough to register the gentle kiss he presses to my lips before I’m gone to the world.

Aryn

I wake before dawn with Cato curled against my chest. His breathing is deep and even, one arm slung possessively over my waist while his face is tucked into the crook of my neck. The two puncture marks on his shoulder are scabbed over this morning, and I stare at them for a long time.

I’ve never bitten anyone before.

To our people, a bite is the ultimate sign of claiming. It’s the deepest show of trust between partners. Cato knows the damage my fangs could inflict. He knows if I shifted my mouth a few inches higher on his neck and bit hard enough, I could tear his flesh away and drain him dry before he could fight back.

But beyond that, it’s a primal, ancient urge to show the world exactly who he belongs to.

The monster inside me purrs as I stare at the wounds, wanting to pin him down and bite him everywhere. It wants to leave marks on his neck and down his arms, then spread his thighs and mark him there too.

My instincts roar to life with an intensity that makes me shudder. Everything inside me wants to spoil him—feed him, clothe him, pamper him, and fuck him until he’s dripping, then keep doing it until his belly swells with my young inside. It wants to build a home around him and keep him until the world outside no longer matters.

I close my eyes and breathe through it, forcing the urge back down where it belongs. Reasonable thought doesn’t matter to that side of me—it doesn’t care that he can’t biologically carry a child.

It just wants it.

It wants everything.

But despite Cato’s near-confession last night, I’m not sure he’s ready for that depth of claiming yet. Not fully. Hells, it’s barely been a week since I stormed through those gates and gave in to this madness, but that doesn’t seem to matter.

Nothing about this fits into any mold.

He takes a deep breath and snuggles in further. I let the instincts settle as I pet his hair and kiss his forehead. Even without giving in to them, I can take care of him. I can give him this.

I slip from the bed without waking him and dress quietly, then head out to the market. When I return a short while later, I carry a tray of warm breakfast. Fresh sweet bread steams from the oven, and I grabbed some soft cheese and sliced melon as well, along with a mug of vark for myself. When I set it on the table, Cato stirs, blinking sleepily up at me with that rumpled, confused expression that always makes my heart clench.

“What’s this?” he mumbles, pushing himself up with a small wince.

I rush to his side, fingers drifting over the bite mark as I examine his face. “Are you sore? Did I hurt you?”

“I mean, you pounded my ass into next Tuesday,” he says with a huff, “then basically stabbed me with those daggers in your mouth.”

“Let me see,” I murmur as I tug him closer, dragging my thumb over the bite. It’s not infected or angry, just bruised. “I lost my healing salves with my pack, but I can go buy some. They’ll help with both.”

Cato stares at me for a long second, then blinks a few times. “You’re absolutely, one-thousand-percent, never going to put a healing salve on my asshole. Are you serious right now?”

My mouth opens and closes before I scoff. “I will if it’s hurt!”

“Oh, my fucking gods,” he groans, dragging his palm down his face. “Aryn, I’m fine.”

“Will you at least let me bring you breakfast?”

He stares at me wide-eyed for another long second before his gaze drifts to the food on the table. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” I adjust the pillows behind him, then bring the tray over and settle it across his lap. “Eat while it’s warm.”

His expression is equal parts bewildered, fond, and exasperated, but he picks up the bread and takes a bite. I sit on the corner of the bed and drink from my mug, making sure he eats enough. When he’s finished, he heads into the bathroom, but as soon as he’s done, I’m waiting to help him into his clothes. I kneel and hold his pants out, being extra careful as I work them over his ass, then press a kiss to the bite mark as I pull his shirt over his head.

Cato finally huffs and catches my wrist. “Aryn, what the fuck is going on?”

“Last night was a lot and—”

“I’m not fragile,” he snaps as his patience wears thin, “and I don’t need to be coddled. I can do this myself.”

My fingers pause on the hem of his shirt, knuckles brushing his stomach underneath. The truth rises so strongly I almost say it out loud.