COMPLETED
"Let me see your face."
Savage, fierce, unforgiving, the world of the Far North is nothing like the land of Dunes where Bessa was birthed.
From the first moment Bessa's feet touch the Far Northern land she has to fight tooth and claw for...
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Dignity is held in the noble stance of the Wild.
The palm of my hand feels the bunched up muscles that are starting to calm down with each stroke into the fur. The curvature of her body relaxes...
I breathe her into me.
Everything else is eaten away, devoured.
Leaning into her body, inhaling. I can't stop myself from consuming everything that the Wild is offering my soul.
This is a feast of plenty.
The Wild growls internally, his. Only his.
Jealousy seeps in — she's mine too.
Her teeth retract from my throat leaving a hollowness in its place that I have never felt before. To mourn the loss of touch so acutely that the Wild within wants to whine out his anguish. I feel the anguish of the loss of connection.
Oh by the Moon I feel the loss.
Bending down, bringing her forehead against mine. Our eyes hold.
A hunger grows - primal needs rush inward, sinking deep to always have those eyes.
Only those eyes.
A lick to my neck with her tongue tries to topple the muscles of my thighs from holding me upright. I shake with each stroke. I almost fall.
For the first time in my life, I am unsteady. Yet, I feel unbelievably solid. Almost complete.
She flashes the side of her Wars of white. The sharp points edge themselves out while the dilated eyes of the Wild scream triumph. The Wild slowly picks up the dress in her muzzle, almost reverently before nudging the door open and disappearing inside.
Murmurs shuffle through the crowd. Is it hope for the future or condemnation I am hearing?
My father holds my eyes. No word while the blood from my throat trickles down my chest. The wound is deep.
Elska is no longer leaning in the shadow of the tree, she's crawling in the light of day with the handle of the ax gripped desperately in her hand. The ax blade catches the rays - her nails dig into the cold ground. She turns her head, mud is smeared on edge of her cheekbone. I have no choice but to hold my spot, even when her eyes beg me to go to her. They beg me to come to her, her lip trembles — so does mine. Her tears hurt, there is nothing that can be done to stop them.
I have to hold my ground.
A cold shiver oozes down the length of my spine when her hollow eyes make contact with mine. I hold my spot. The Wild within is smug without a care in the world at the way the female on the ground looks. He resents everything about her. Even with her desperation leaking out of her eyes, I have to hold my spot.
