Unnatural Instinct: Blood Run

10.

You shudder against him, unable to keep the tears from flowing, as you grip him tightly, enjoying his warm, safe, strong arms as he embraces you just as tightly. Neither of you speak as he sits amid the pelts and you sprawl in his lap, your chin braced on his shoulder. You gaze up at the sky, the moonlight blurred against the tears in your eyes. Your cheeks are sticky and you feel exhausted, both from crying and the terror of the day.

It's so easy to stay as you are, consumed by your emotions, revelling in the safety and comfort of his presence, but soon you have to pull away. You give him a smile and look away, embarrassed and confused. His hands are on your waist and they're so big and hot against you.

He grunts. 'Hurt?' And wipes away a tear on your cheek.

You shake your head. 'No.' You swallow. 'Scared.'

He frowns and cocks his head, puzzled by the unfamiliar word—or perhaps it's an unfamiliar emotion. Does he get scared? Does he know what's happened? He frowns further as he brushes away another tear, then sniffs the air. He looks at you, his forehead furrowed, then studies the shelter. He turns—and that's when he notices the missing rabbit carcass.

He turns back, pushing you out of his lap as he looks you up and down. He grabs the back of your neck as he probes your head. 'Hurt?'

'My knee.'

He drops his eyes to your legs and gently cups his big hand around the bear's scratches. The skin's inflamed but barely broken. You pull back when he suddenly bares his teeth. Grabbing your hips, he flips you over onto all fours. There, he checks the back of your head, your back, your belly and breasts, before smoothing his hand over your arse and probing between your legs, checking every square inch of you for any further injuries. It must be hard to see, and you wonder if he can see in the dark like so many of the forest's creatures. There's so much you don't know about the male of your species.

Apparently satisfied, he rolls you back over and turns to your knee.

You almost laugh when he leans over and begins licking it. Is that all he knows? 'You probably shouldn't do that. It'll cause an infection.' But he doesn't listen and you don't stop him.

Soon, he's done. His eyes glitter at you in the moonlight before he turns away to a stack of sticks and grass in the corner of the shelter. Kneeling amid the pelts, you watch, fascinated, as he constructs a little fire pit.

Back home you have fireplaces that light themselves at the flick of a switch: no chopped wood, paper or dried kindling required. He rubs a stick furiously between his hands, the end smoking as it twists into a rock. It looks like hard work; he's soon panting and his biceps bulge at the effort. Smoke billows and a tiny flame catches the dried grass. Dropping the stick, he quickly and gently blows against it.

You can't help but laugh and clap as the fire flares, jabbing at the sky like flaming fingers. He sits back, looking at you with a small smile as the firelight dances against his face. It catches you by surprise—you didn't think him capable; he hasn't smiled before. It almost makes him look ... well ... human.

He stands and moves about the shelter, bringing over two tall, skinny poles, the ends of which are wrapped in what looks like some kind of sticky moss. He sinks the mossy ends into the flames, they catch, and he shoves the other ends of the posts into the ground on either side of the shelter. Torches. They're torches. Their flames dance alongside the small fire, throwing a show of light and shadow across the forest.

For some reason the sight of these fires uplifts you. You like the way they flicker. You like the heat of them. You even like the smell of the smoke. There's something about fires like these that the fireplaces back home lack. There's a wildness to them. They seem to prick at some kind of prehistoric nerve at the back of your brain.

Your heart starts to race. You smile and laugh for no reason. And as your male sits down to gaze at the flashing forest and twinkling sky, you shuffle in beside him, close enough your thighs touch. He glances at you, then looks away as he rests his hand upon your scratched-up knee.

It sends a tingle up your spine. Like the smile, it's such a human-like gesture that it takes you by surprise. You feel an urge to rest your hand on top of his but don't, fisting them both in your lap.

You don't know how long you sit there quietly together but it's long enough that the flames burn low and you begin to sway with fatigue. The air has turned chilly and your skin puckers with goose bumps. He squeezes your knee and your eyes snap open. He gives a grunt and stands before moving deeper into the shelter to sag amid the pelts. And there he watches you, waiting, his eyes gleaming against the flames.

Wobbling a little, you do the same, though you choose a spot a couple of arm lengths away from him. His eyes continue to gleam. Sitting up, he crawls over to you, his muscular arse in the air, his big shoulders bulging as he moves on his knuckles. His balls dangle low between his legs, and unusually, his manhood sags limp and wrinkled. He must be tired. Unsurprising, considering how long he was out hunting for.

For several anxious moments you wonder what he's going to do. Upon reaching you, he grabs you around the hips, pulls you close, then takes your knees and thrusts open your legs. Your anxiety fades; with all that's happened today, you've forgotten about his usual ritual.

Lying back, you allow yourself to relax, letting your knees fall wide open. He lowers his face with a grunt. As you gaze up at the thatch ceiling, you listen to the sounds of the night. Despite the lateness of the hour the forest is noisy. The monkeys sound like they're having a party: hooting and growling, yelping and screaming. Bats screech. Night birds squawk. You close your eyes, half-asleep, soothed by his rhythmic motions. Strangely, you don't feel so cold anymore; his breath is hot against you and sweat beads your chest.

He finishes with a smack of his lips and you open your eyes. Sitting back, he wipes his mouth. There are shadows under his eyes now. He's more than tired—he's exhausted. He flops down beside you, and you don't resist—what's the point?—as he pulls you against him, curving his big body around yours so his groin is pressed up against your rump and his hard chest presses up against your back. He's so close his hot breath blows through your hair. Every now and then he licks his lips. His arm is draped across your hips

Though you were tired only moments before, you're not now, staring at the flickering torchlight, at the twinkling stars and the sea of trees. If you were back home, you'd be up late marking papers, your eyes tired, as you lie to yourself that you're not dreading getting up the next morning to endure another long day; nor dreading the day after that and the day following that—until the day you're too old to go on.

What are you dreading now?

You can't think and it terrifies you.