CHAPTER TEN（Untitled）Branikk

CHAPTER TEN

Branikk

All my earlier determination to go slow and thoroughly woo my bride flees at the thought of sharing a tent with her. How am I to resist such temptation? Especially when she smells so amazing? Her scent goes straight to my cock, stirring it to aching awareness.

Thankful for keen eyesight even in low light, I gaze down at her. The deep vee of her shirt offers the most alluring glimpse of her skin. I want to hook my tusks in the cloth and peel it from her glorious breasts.

"You can call me Grace." She lifts her chin and steps away from me. "We're not sleeping together."

"I only have one tent." I point to it. "If you want separate accommodations, you're more than welcome to conjure something." I should offer to sleep outside, away from her. But I don't. I won't bed her unless she wants it, but I also won't squander any opportunity to be near her. And I do only have one set of sleeping furs.

"Fine." Her wide mouth presses into a flat line, her eyes flashing with a fire that only makes me want her more. She raises her hands and stares at the ground beside the tent for several seconds before letting out a huff of air. "It's not working."

The crystal nestling between her breasts remains dark. I point to it. "Maybe if you hold it and speak your wish aloud? I've seen the other witches do that." Taylor and Krivoth told me all about her training sessions when she first learned her powers.

Grace grips her necklace in one hand and extends the other. "I wish for something to sleep in."

Magic tingles in the air, like the feeling right before a lightning strike, and a filmy piece of cloth pops into existence draped over my bride's outstretched hand.

She holds it up. It's a light pink sheath of sheer material thinner than any silk I've ever seen.

I rub it between my thumb and forefinger. "It's so soft. What is it?"

"A negligee." She glares at it and then into the surrounding woods, raising her voice. "This is not what I meant by wanting something to sleep in."

"Who are you talking to?"

"God, not this again. Can we call it a day and stop with all the pretending?" She flutters a hand at me. "Don't you need to take the makeup off or something?"

"Makeup?"

"Cosmetics."

"Are you saying I'm attractive?" I step closer. "I promise you that nothing about me is elfin glamour. This is my true face and form."

She swallows, her eyes going wide. Then my moon bound shakes her head and takes a step back. "We'll share the tent." She balls the transparent fabric up in one hand and crawls into the tent. "But no touching."

Leaving my bow and arrows outside on top of the saddlebags, I follow, laying my sword against the tent wall, out of our way but in easy reach. I remove my boots, then reach for hers.

She flinches when my hand brushes her calf, her human eyes wide and unseeing in the dark. "I said no touching! What are you doing?"

"Making you more comfortable. Nothing more." My fingers figure out the unusual closures and pull her boots free.

We lie on the furs on our sides, facing each other. Her scent already fills the space, and my cock hardens fully, demanding to claim her. I suppress a groan.

I finally have my bride on my furs, and I can't touch her without making her even more wary.

Goddess, it's going to be a long night.

I come awake instantly, my ears straining to detect what sound woke me. Long years of lone camping during hunting trips have honed my senses until I can sleep while maintaining a basic awareness of my surroundings. Only in the comfort of my village do I allow myself the full rest of true oblivion. I have even more reason to be wary now. Have ogres found us, looking for my precious bride?

The first hint of dawn light filters through the leather of the tent walls. The loud call of an owl greeting its mate echoes through the forest in a mix of short and long hoots, who-who-who-whoooo-whoooo.

My muscles relax, allowing me to finally notice a much more pleasurable sensation. Grace sleeps pressed to my side. We've moved toward each other in the night. Her long legs rest against mine, her head on my outflung arm.

The low light brings the first bit of color to her golden hair, strands of it escaping her bun to cover her face.

As gently as possible, I tuck them behind her ear so I can see her face. How different she looks in sleep, brow smooth, golden lashes feathering her cheeks, wide mouth soft, her lips gently parted. Her face appears so relaxed and peaceful it makes me realize exactly how tense and uncomfortable she was all yesterday, and I hate that she's felt that way. I must put her at ease, even if it means denying myself what I most want—her, truly in my furs.

Yet I'm not an expert hunter for nothing. Haste means missed shots and empty bellies, a lack of furs on a cold night. A good hunter learns the patience to stalk his prey, to strike when the time is right.

I will hunt her, stalk her, charm her every moment, night and day, until she craves me as much as I desire her.

Her beautiful blue eyes blink open, still hazy with dream.

"Good morning," I say.

They focus, locking onto mine, and her body tenses. I still hate it, but I have a plan.

Instead of allowing her to shy away from me, I move first, gently pulling my arm from under her and rolling up to sitting. "Are you ready for breakfast?"

Then I'm out of the tent and shoving my feet into my boots. I set out the cleaning cloth and waterskin for her before gathering wood for another fire.

By the time she joins me at the edge of the meadow, I hand her a pewter mug of mint tea.

We sit side by side on a log, hands wrapped around our warm drinks, looking out as the first rays of sunshine bathe the grass in bright green. There's a noticeable lack of bluebells and red clover on this side of the meadow, Aurora having eaten her fill. As grumpy as my friend always acts, it's endlessly amusing how much she likes sweet berries and flowers.

Meadow larks emerge from their barrows to flutter up into the air, their sweet songs, greeting the sun.

I always enjoy the quiet beauty of nature when I'm by myself, but I'm also a people person. It's strange to sit quietly like this when with someone else. Yet I remind myself that good stalking requires lulling my prey. I will let my bride speak first, let her come to me.

She takes a drink, then gestures with her mug toward the view. "It's beautiful here. Where are we?"

"I'm not sure it has a name," I say. "We're off the edge of the known maps."

"Huh. I thought it might be Hungary. I think they film parts of Witcher there."

"You're hungry?" Latching onto the one word that stands out, I pull out the hard biscuits of travel rations and the bag of blueberries I picked for her the day before. "I can't wait to get you back to the village. Our baker makes some of the finest bread you've ever eaten."

Grace shoots me a bemused look but takes the food. "This is fine."

It's not. I'm used to eating like this on longer hunting trips, but I wish I had better to offer her. How am I to woo my bride if I can't show her I think she's special? I'll have to find other ways.

I pour her more tea, my hand cupping hers to hold her mug steady. I offer her blueberries straight from my fingers. I touch her as much as possible, in little ways that seem innocent.

They aren't.

I have the sweetest of prey in my sights.

I will not lose.