The Hunted Bride

Gervais sighed and pushed his body off the wall. With his hands tucked behind his back, he sauntered nonchalantly toward her, and she rocked back on her heels, wondering what awaited her. Reaching out, Gervais plucked a pin from her hair, then another, and the peach strands tumbled down, releasing the flowers that had adorned her head. The petals settled on her shoulders and gown.

“Turn,” he said solemnly.

She obeyed, knowing everything he wished was hers to give. He expertly rid her of the knots and bows that constrained her, slipped the gown from her shoulders and continued to unravel her layers. The corset was next, and the laces of her shift, and finally the beautiful gown slithered around her ankles and her bareness was revealed in its entirety.

“Step out,” he said softly in her ear.

He held her hand, and when she was free of all of her clothing, he unceremoniously kicked the bundle under the bed. She nearly giggled; it was so unlike him to be untidy.

“Amused?” he asked, noting her wry expression.

“What have I done to you, sir, that you care so little for your property. That gold gown was purchased from a silk merchant for a princely sum, and now it lies in the dust.”

“Its purpose is complete. You’ll not wear it again.” He rested his hands on her shoulders, her back still facing him, and pressed her down.

Matilda sank to her knees, grateful for the cushioning of fresh rushes. He circled her, the hunter surrounding his prey, and each circuit brought a quickening of her heart.

“I care very much for my property,” he said, and stooped to lift her chin.

She met his gaze. “Will you ever discard me?”

He clucked his tongue. “You questioned my promise? A few hours of wedlock and you think I have not fully understood my commitment to you?”

She blushed, aware of heat rising upward to her cheeks and bosom, colouring her crimson. “It is only that the man made that promise, what of your Zalim? How does that creature show his fealty, his promises?”

“Ah.” He rose to his full height and his shadow was long in the candlelight.

Sometimes, she was convinced the shape of that shadow was different to the body casting it. It had a breadth that stretched wider, and just his hands alone seemed to have grown talons on the ends of his flexing fingers. He itched, no doubt, to touch her.

“The Zalim is offended, Lady Baliol, by your lack of faith.”

Lady Baliol! The title sent quivers of excitement across her hot skin.

He folded his arms, but this time, there was tension in his elbow joints, and he had a disarming expression of severity. Again, another delicious spike of nervous energy struck her core. She was melting, knowing he was gradually introducing the Zalim, allowing it to surface naturally so not to frighten her. Not that she had ever been afraid of it, not like a woman should be. She hid her proud smile; she was special.

She also recognised another trait of Gervais’s other half—an inclination to discipline and apply gravity to the occasion.

“I’m sorry to offend. If I have. Surely, a rampaging beast has not the capacity to make honest promises? He runs wild, does he not, capturing women and forcing them to comply?”

He shook his head. “Tsk, my lady, you are no different from those minstrels who peddle myths. How do you apologise for such a remark?”

She took a sharp intake of breath. Had he ever heard the songs and fairy tales? Probably, and they must rile him. She might be provoking him a little, but the rumours spread by travelling folk would bring his kind despair and mistrust. Why wonder he was not one for feasts and festivals like many other nobles. Lowering her head, she stretched forward and pressed her forehead on the tip of his boot and raised her bottom high. The supplication had a desired effect.

Gervais growled.

Words weren’t necessary now. She had indicated her desire with one simple pose, and whatever Gervais wanted, he could take. The Zalim was about to make his promises in the only way the beast knew how—taking her boldly and passionately.

Fully clothed, he stepped behind her and dropped to his knees. Two heavy hands grasped her hips, the long thumbs prising apart her arse cheeks, revealing her core to him, and the openings he sought. She rested her head on her arms, her hair tumbling about her face in a curtain, and braced herself for the first demanding thrust.

The deep-throated growl enriched itself as he released his cock, the head of which he pressed between her thickened folds of flesh. Here she was at his mercy, a small thing beneath him, and desperate for every inch of his erection. The crudeness was astounding; a husband made love to his wife on their wedding night, not pounded her on her knees. Yet, she had made her wish clear to him—bring me your Zalim and conquer me.

There would be plenty of nights for lovemaking, sweet kisses, and poetry.

The spearing still took her by surprised. She gasped and clawed at the rush matting with her white-knuckled fingers. When he withdrew, emptying her, she shoved her bottom backwards and spread her legs wider, ensuring he saw that she was keen. What he heard was a noisy, incongruous display for the benefit of the demanding Zalim:

“Beast, please take me! I beg you for relief.” She followed the cry with a moaning whimper.

And he thrust again and again with vigour. The feeble sounds fed his Zalim while her body snared his cock, driving him to fuck her harder.