The first thing Jorik noticed when he blinked awake was the absence of pain. No more feverish haze clinging to his skull, no dull ache throbbing in his muscles—just the crisp clarity of night air filling his lungs.
The second thing he noticed was Mara's absence.
The furs beside him still held the impression of her body, but the warmth had faded, leaving only the ghost of her scent—smoke and something earthy, like damp birch bark.
Moonlight bled through the gaps in the leather walls, painting silver streaks across the packed dirt floor. Jorik flexed his fingers, testing his limbs.
The stiffness was gone, replaced by a strange, humming vitality that thrummed beneath his skin. He sat up slowly, the furs sliding off his bare torso.
His body—felt different now. Lighter. Stronger. The scars that had mapped his ribs yesterday seemed faded, as if his flesh had been quietly stitching itself back together while he slept.
A low groan escaped his lips as he stretched, the muscles in his back popping pleasantly. The sound was deeper than he remembered, richer.
The fire had burned down to embers, casting flickering shadows that danced along the walls.
Outside, the village slept. Only the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant rustle of the wind through the pines broke the silence.
Jorik swung his legs over the edge of the pallet, his bare feet meeting the cool earth. He half-expected weakness, some lingering trace of the near-death state he'd been in earlier. Instead, his legs held him effortlessly, his balance sure, his movements fluid.
A noise at the entrance of the lean-to froze him mid-step. The leather flap twitched, then lifted, revealing Mara silhouetted against the star-strewn sky.
She paused when she saw him standing, her grip tightening around the waterskin in her hand. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then her eyes narrowed, scanning him from head to toe with a scrutiny that felt almost physical.
Mara's throat worked as she took him in—the way the moonlight caught the new ridges of muscle along his shoulders, the unfamiliar breadth of his chest.
Her nostrils flared slightly at the scent of him, muskier than she remembered, primal in a way that made the hairs on her arms rise. She blinked, hard, as if trying to shake loose the thought clinging to the back of her skull like burrs to wool.
"You're up," she said, her voice rougher than usual. Not the rasp of exhaustion, but something lower, thicker. The waterskin hung forgotten at her side, its contents sloshing softly as she shifted her weight.
Jorik watched the pulse jump in her neck. He'd seen that tell before—when hunters sighted prey, when warriors sized up an opponent. But this was neither.
The air between them crackled with something else entirely, a tension that had nothing to do with blades or blood.
"You're staring," he said quietly.
Mara's jaw tightened.
"You're standing." She strode past him, her shoulder brushing his bare arm—too deliberate to be accidental.
The contact sent a jolt through him, heat flaring where her skin had grazed his. Her braids swung like a pendulum between her shoulder blades, the beads clicking softly.
The waterskin hit the dirt with a wet thud. Mara didn't turn—just braced her hands against the central post, her knuckles whitening.
The firelight licked up the taut lines of her arms, catching on the old scar that jagged across her left shoulder like lightning. Jorik could see the rise and fall of her ribs beneath her wrap, too quick. Too shallow.
"You smell different," she said finally, the words gritted between her teeth.
Jorik's pulse hammered against his ribs hearing what she said, not from fear, but from the sudden, visceral understanding of what she wanted.
But just at that moment, a growl tore from Jorik's gut, that sounded more like a bear's rumble than human hunger.
Mara whirled, her braids snapping against her cheeks. Her gaze dropped to his abdomen as if expecting to see his ribs through skin—but his stomach was flat, taut with new muscle.
Her nostrils flared again. "When was the last time you ate?"
Jorik's borrowed memories supplied the answer before his lips could move: three days.
Three days of fevered thrashing while the tribe's healers poured broth down his throat only for him to vomit it back up. His tongue felt too thick when he rasped, "Not since..."
Mara's expression darkened. She kicked the waterskin toward him without breaking eye contact.
"Drink. Then we'll see if your stomach can handle more than liquid." The command should have rankled, but the way her throat worked when she said 'more' sent heat pooling low in his belly.
He caught the skin mid-air, fingers brushing the damp leather where her lips had been. The water was icy, shocking his system as it slid down his throat.
Mara watched the water trickle down his chin with unsettling focus. Her tongue darted out to wet her own lips before she visibly caught herself, turning sharply toward the dwindling fire.
"There's stew," she muttered, stirring the embers with more force than necessary. The stew pot clanged louder than necessary as Mara scooped a portion into a wooden bowl.
Jorik watched the tendons in her forearm flex—how had he never noticed the delicate tracery of blue veins beneath her sun-darkened skin?
She thrust the bowl at him, her fingers brushing his with deliberate roughness. "Eat. Slowly."
Jorik took the first mouthful, expecting the usual gamey bitterness of winter stew.
Instead, flavors exploded across his tongue—rich marrow, wild onions, some herb he couldn't name making his saliva pool. His stomach clenched violently, then settled as the heat spread through him like liquid sunlight.
The second spoonful hit differently; a tingling sensation raced down his spine, settling low in his pelvis. Mara's gaze flicked to his lap, then away.
"You added something," he accused hoarsely. His cock stirred against his thigh, the thin leather loincloth doing little to conceal the swelling.
"Wolf's bane. For strength." She leaned in, her braids brushing his shoulder. "And mating root. For the rest." Her breath hitched when her thigh bumped his erection.
The stew bowl clattered to the ground as Jorik grabbed her wrist. Her pulse hammered against his thumb. "You knew." His voice dropped to a growl, the vibration traveling up Mara's arm.
Mara didn't pull away. Her wrist twisted in his grip—not to escape, but to press her palm flat against his chest. The heat of her skin seared through him, branding him where her fingers splayed over his pounding heart.
"The mark changes you," she breathed, her voice raw. "But some hungers were always there."
Her other hand came up, fingers tangling in the loose hair at his nape, tugging just hard enough to make his breath catch.
The scent of her—sweat and leather and the bitter musk of arousal—flooded his senses. His cock twitched violently beneath the loincloth, aching against the rough seam where her thigh pressed into him.
Jorik's grip tightened on her wrist, dragging her closer until her breasts crushed against his bare chest. Mara gasped, her nails biting into his shoulder. "You don't know—"
"I know," he growled against her mouth, stealing the rest of her words with the crush of his lips.
Her taste exploded across his tongue—fermented mare's milk and iron, the sting of herbs clinging to her teeth. Mara snarled into the kiss, her hips jerking forward to grind against the thick ridge of her son's erection.
The leather between them was laughably thin. He could feel every shuddering breath she took, the way her thighs trembled as she rocked against him.Her nails raked down his back, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
"Prove it," she challenged, her teeth sharp against his lower lip.
----
If you're enjoying this novel, please add it to your library. Comments and Power Stones are greatly appreciated!