The sun had sunk low beneath the trees by the time they returned home. The air thick with the smell of warmed earth, heavy with the hum of insects. Shadows stretched across the dirt, and gold licked at the walls. The hut was shit, but it looked pretty in the forest, like a postcard of primitive homestead living.
She had a lot to do.
Sloane had to admit that it was a good spot, with the tiniest mountain stream circling their house just a couple of steps away. She'd used it to gut the fish and wash her hands, had eyed the clear stream for anything edible. But it really was just a tiny rivulet of bubbling water, just enough for cleaning and drinking.
No fish.
She sighed.
Riven started working on the fire immediately, kneeling before the hearth with twigs in his hands. His movements were practised, and it was clearly a familiar chore. He struck stone, a burst of sparks spitting from his fingers like the angriest of bees. The kindling flared, licking up into the air, spreading upon the splinters and spilling light into the room.
Fast.
Sloane watched, unable to stop herself from staring. Light carved the hollows of Riven's cheeks, drawing out the droop of his ears and the sheen of sweat on his throat. It transformed his face into something almost otherworldly. The slope of his skin lit a gorgeous amber, his cheekbones sharp, his lips vibrant, and his eyes a jewelled gold.
Beautiful.
A strange heat rushed up her cheeks, a low ache unfurling in her chest.
Fuck.
She cleared her throat, turmoil spinning within her. She didn't want to feed those feelings, not when Sloane had yet to prove herself. Not when they were still desperate for food and survival.
"I'll cook," she offered, her own voice too rough in her ears. He didn't seem to notice the crack in them, shot her a look, eyes narrowed, unreadable. She thought he'd argue, spit out his questions. But this time, he did not comment on it, shrugging as if used to her antics.
"Don't burn it."
"You can watch me," she said, but he only gave her a quiet scoff. He was still rattled from their argument, still unnerved. And she rolled up her sleeves, determined to make something good.
The oats were crushed into a stone bowl, mixed with water from a jug and a single egg that they had bartered for. She mashed up the ramps into a fine paste with a rock and crushed potatoes, stirring them into the batter. The scent rose from the bowl. Wild, green and sharp. When she poured a thin thread of honey into the mixture, the smell turned divine, blossoming into something so good it made her hunger roar.
Riven's breath stuttered, nose twitching. His eyes darted over from the fire, and her smirk grew.
He had a small cup of oil hidden at the back of the pantry which she used sparingly. She poured out a single coin-sized pool, enough to hiss and bloom in the pot, bubbled away over the fire. When she laid fish in it, the skin buckled and popped, spitting fat as it hit the metal. She dropped a sprig of thyme, then a sprinkle of salt.
The smell filled the room immediately, so rich it was almost unbearable. Salty, savoury, meaty and smoky, strong enough to make her eyes sting and her mouth water. It all clawed at her throat, making her stomach clench and twist.
Riven remained bowed by the fire, but she could see the fluttering pulse in his neck, the bob of his throat as he swallowed desperately. His ears were raised high, listening, waiting.
Eager.
The fish were done soon enough, and she set them close to the fire so that they would stay warm.
"We need more wood," she said. "More fire for the pancakes—"
He was gone before she finished, back in seconds with his arms filled with logs, the chill of the air still clinging to his skin. He crouched close, feeding the flames, and the fire roared, golden against flushed skin.
When the batter hit the pan, the sound was like music. Oats sang as they set, edges browning. The cakes grew crisp almost immediately, steam rising in tendrils. The smell of good things filled every inch of the air, carrying with it the scent of fried fish, grain, greens and honey. It had been so long since she'd eaten fresh food, and just the thought had her mouth watering.
The first pancake turned golden in the pan, and she flipped it carefully with two sticks. They did not have any kitchen utensils, and so she had to make do with long twigs and thin wood. The edges of the cakes were rough, but the centre puffed up perfectly into a pretty yellow gold, flecked with green ramps and dotted with potato crumbs.
She made eight oatcakes to go with their fish. And Riven reached for his plate when she was done, sitting cross-legged on the ground. The low dining table was a makeshift plank of wood balanced over two stones, but it worked well.
She was surprised to see that he waited, that he'd gone out to wash his hands. He'd also gotten two cups of water, setting them aside on their table. A nod from her, and he was tearing into the food like he was starved. Feral and desperate, he scarfed it all down and then slowed to chew. She watched out of the corner of her eye as his eyes fluttered half-shut, a glare forming on his brow.
He swallowed, a faint unguarded groan escaping his throat. A sound caught between a sigh and a moan, it mewled out of him, twisting softly in the air. His lips parting slightly, tongue flicked out to catch the droplets of fat. He sighed then, cheeks pink as he went in for the second bite.
Sloane looked away, her pulse rising, warmth coiling in her belly, but she ignored it.
She took her own plate then, pancakes still steaming, fish crisp and glistening with fat. The first bite overwhelmed her. The oats were nutty, coarse on her tongue, but so fucking good. A dense, crispy mixture of crunch and melting batter. The ramps were filled with flavour, the potatoes fluffy, the honey clinging and stringy, tearing on her teeth like sweet silk with each bite. The fish flaked, perfectly cooked, pulling easily from the bones, salt and herb calling forth saliva.
The steam filled her mouth and her chest, heat spreading until she felt dizzy from how good it all was.
Sloane hadn't realised how grey her memories of food had become, how faint and pale it all was in her head. Years of shit, of bark, of blood and rotting meat, of bad, expired cans had ruined her. It had dulled her tongue, had real food blistering in her head. She had forgotten what it was like to taste fresh produce. But now there was colour on her tongue. Colour so sharp it made her want to cry. The textures. The flavours. The warmth.
This was heaven.
She ate slowly despite the hunger, forcing herself not to devour it all down. She wanted to appreciate it, wanted to taste every grain, every drop of honey, every flavour. She rolled it all carefully on her tongue, allowed white flesh to flake, thin skin to crackle, and pancakes to melt. She ate until her belly was more than full, and still her mouth wanted more of that fish, more of that salt.
It was so good; it was almost sinful. She was almost in tears.
Riven was licking his plate when she looked up, his face soft in the firelight, the furrow on his brow had eased. His mouth glistened, lips shimmery. His fingers were sticky with honey. The firelight kissed his skin, and his eyes were dark now, dilating softly from a gentle carnation to an endless void, ears droopy from contentment. He looked almost boyish then, beautiful in a way that made something twist in her belly. He sank back, looking so content that it filled her whole.
She'd made too much, and now a small pile of pancakes remained in the pot.
Too much was a good thing.
They'd have it again for breakfast.
"That was okay," he said begrudgingly, feigning indifference, but his eyes sparkled. The softest, sweetest trace of his scent filled the air, revealing his truth. A warm smell of gratitude, aching with contentment. Heated sugar, but better.
Sloane smiled faintly, chest growing tight. She'd remember this. The sight of him with his lips glistening, with the heat growing between them. The sight of him coming almost undone by something as simple as food.
Purpose filled her mind then.
She was going to make sure Riven was well-fed and happy.
*
Dawn came soon enough, thin and grey, a weak spill of light through the fog. It filtered down into the hut in narrow, cold ribbons, painting the ground a mossy green. The fire had long burned to a soft ash; but warmth remained clinging to stones. Sloane woke first, blinking through the crust of sleep. She was used to waking early, preparing herself for battle with her heart pounding hard. But the hut was quiet, save for the slow, gentle sounds of Riven's breathing.
Peace.
She relaxed back into her bed.
They shared a straw mat. The thing was large and hard, spread over the floor with a crumbling blanket each. But it was thin, worn from age. It must be awfully cold when used in the winter. She left Riven sleeping in the hut and placed her own blanket over his shoulders.
Hunger had dulled for now, and it was replaced by a strong, steady resolve. She washed her face, brushing her teeth in the tiny stream. A chewed stick was what she used as a toothbrush, which she scrubbed over her molars. Hygiene was not something she was willing to give up. The water bit into her skin, sharp enough to sting her nose. It woke her up and got her mind working hard.
If they wanted to eat more, they'd have to catch more fish, sell more goods. And Sloane was curious about her powers. Her ability to draw fish to her hands was disgustingly convenient. Her eyes swayed back to the hut. She could try to catch some before Riven woke. He didn't seem to be doing so well, and her heart ached at the thought of him panting through the hike up the mountain.
He was weak, maybe a little weaker than her. It was quite clear that he hadn't had enough rest in days. And perhaps, he'd spent most of his time trying to nurse her back to health.
She could go up on her own. Catch a fish or two for breakfast, maybe six if they wanted to sell it in the market. She'd be fast, and she could get it all done before he awoke. She made her decision then, swallowed down a chilled pancake from the pot, and set out into the forest.
The woodlands remained hushed, dark beneath the canopies and thick with the scent of pine. She hiked to the stream carefully, noting landmarks and paying attention to animal tracks. It would serve them well if she could hunt for some game. Riven might be a beast man, but it seemed that meat was still on the menu.
When she arrived, the rush of water was a welcomed sound, but a thick fog had now settled over the creek, concealing the view. Mist curled over every surface. Sloane crouched above the stream, dipping her hands into the currents. It numbed her immediately, ice on her fingers. But just as before, the fish were attracted to her hands. They shimmered, swimming to her palms as if baited. She pulled them out of the water easily; the harvest filled her with triumph.
Convenient.
She began to experiment then. Her powers seemed to work within a certain radius. Only fish that were within view would swim towards her. And the stream here was limited, overfishing seemed possible in the small creek. She'd have to be reasonable, think about sustainability. Worry was etched on her brow.
Crack.
The sound startled her. It was too soft for the average human to hear, merely the crunch of leaves, of weight against the earth. But it was the sound of something moving. She straightened then, the hair on her arms rising. It wasn't a deer or boar; she was sure of that. Trained from her time back at the apocalypse, she knew immediately that it was slow, heavier. It was a sound that rolled through the air.
The air seemed to grow still, heavy with moisture and danger.
Her mind blared. Alarm bells ringing.
She froze then, and the smell reached her next. Wild, thick and oddly sweet. It travelled with the wind, a crush of fur, pine and berries. Thick musk that made her nose twitch. She backed away slowly, eyes darting through the mist. The fog was so thick she could barely see anything through the veil of white. And the edges of the forest swayed, branches rocking, concealing her and whatever the fuck was coming closer.
It must be human, her mind worked. Or feral.
She made a beeline towards the trees, careful to keep her steps quiet, to avoid twigs and dead leaves. But the branches scratched at her hands, tangling in her hair. If the thing came this way, it would see her from the creek.
She looked up into the fog, eyes on the branches. Climb. Her mind screamed. She caught the lower limb of a tree and started climbing, her breath coming in short, jagged bursts. The wood bit into her palms, and her legs trembled as she hauled herself up, hopefully disappearing from view.
A sound drifted through just as she settled upon the branch. A low rustling, too steady for the wind. And then something slow and deliberate. The drag of claws over the earth. The thump of paws. A shape emerged from the fog, enormous, fluid, gold-striped.
A tiger.
What the fuck?
Her mouth fell open. The massive tiger glided in with a grace that made her chest lock. Every motion was precise, silent except for the faint rustle of each paw. It was beautiful. Its eyes caught in the soft morning light, twin embers on glowing coals. It lifted its head, nostrils flaring.
And her heart stuttered as she pressed herself flat against the tree. A tiger? In these parts? With this size? It didn't seem like the right climate or region. It was monstrous, maybe three times the size of an average tiger. Her hands clamped tighter on the branch. But God, tigers could climb trees. It could run. Her breath seized. It must be able to smell her on the wind.
But thankfully, the breeze had tipped, with winds coming from the opposite end.
A miracle.
The tiger prowled to the edge of the stream, shoulders rippling as it sniffed the air. Then a sound escaped its lips. Low, ragged, with a growl building from within. It slid a paw into the water. Then its body shuddered, twisting rapidly. And her eyes widened in disbelief, surprise searing through her.
It was transforming.
Muscles flickered along its body; the flesh within it was shifting. The great bulk of fur and muscle began to thin, receding and sinking inwards like smoke. She blinked, certain she was delirious from hunger. But the shape before her was changing, the thick pelt shrinking to skin, the muzzle drawing back into a face. The sinews seemed to snap into new flesh; the bones shifted and collapsed inwards.
A beat later, and a man stood where the tiger had been.
Steam rose from his skin in the cold air, puffs of it hot in the breeze. Even from where she stood, she could almost feel the fever radiating off him, sweeping across the creek. His breath was ragged, shoulders rising and falling. The man was tall, broad-chested, every line carved and hard. 6 feet of pure, tanned gold muscle. Black hair, curled damp against his neck.
He was beautiful, terribly beautiful. Golden tiger eyes and lush lashes. Features that seemed carved by a Greek God's hand. Marble statue godly, long-legged and lithe, yet stretched with the thick muscles of a true predator. Rosebud red lips. Her pulse pounded in her throat.
And he was naked.
Thick pecs. Pink nipples. A heavy cock swelling between his thighs, curved upwards and riddled with throbbing veins. Sticky-tipped sexy. It bopped as he moved, velvety skin, ridiculous in width and length. A pink shaft, ruddy red thing, nestled in a bed of dark curls that travelled up his belly. It was fucking pornographic. He lifted his head and scanned the trees, eyes golden as the tiger's had been. They passed right over her hiding place, unseeing.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was feral.
She was sure of it. The other beast men could not do this; they were always half animal, half human. Transformation was not part of their capabilities. This was a man more connected with his beast. And the ability to transform back into a human was a secret that the others were not privy to, or at least it was not common knowledge. It was always assumed that the ferals were all just massive, colossal animals.
She had discovered something new.
Riven was going to kill her.
He tilted his head, listening. And then he turned slowly, every movement filled with an animal's grace, with hungry anticipation. His eyes passed once again over her hiding place. She didn't breathe. Not even when her lungs burned and her body screamed. After a moment, he straightened, gaze cutting away. The weight left the air. Sloane exhaled. She'd been trembling the whole time, tension flooding the air.
She was in no condition to fight him.
She was going to have to wait for him to leave.
The smell of sweet musk only grew thicker in the air. Ripe berries, forest pine. Her body ached with the effort of being still, and her heart felt too big for her ribs, pounding hard. But beneath the fear, something burned within her, a strange heat growing, and the space between her thighs pulsed. Her eyes snapped to his body, flushed hard at his nudity.
She felt awful watching him, but she couldn't look away. Not when viscous pre-cum dripped from a mushroom tip. His cock was throbbing. And the feral was clearly not in the creek just for a quick bath. He settled into the water, leaning against the rocks where the stream was shallow.
His hands were now running up lean golden abs to play at a nipple, thumb and forefinger rubbing at the pert nub. Fuck. And then he began to drag his hands over his shaft, getting it all wet. He circled his hands around his girth, allowed it to twitch in his palm.
Her pulse rose.
He began to fuck his fist.
He was fucking masturbating.
She watched him as his eyes closed, back arched. The sounds were lewd, slick and wet as he fucked into his fists at a slow, steady pace. He was relaxed, lips parted, tongue out. And little moans began spewing from his tongue, soft exhales as he spread his legs wider, threw his head back. He stroked long and hard, biceps rippling, using the web of his palms to strum at his frenulum, thumbing the eye of his cock. His noises were sweet, a warm gasp, then a sharper dulcet.
Wanton.
She felt like static, warm all over, going liquid inside. And the space between her thighs began to drip, clit tingling. What the fuck was going on? Her mind was blank. What the fuck was she seeing? But all she could do was stare at the monster cock and the gorgeous man.
Her first taste of feral.
Her heart soared.
His pace was growing obscene, blindly fucking into a bruising grip, fists so tight she could see the white of his knuckles as he squeezed. And she watched as he hammered in, jerking himself so hard it was as if he were trying to milk it all out. Sweat beaded over his brow, cheeks flushed a rosy red. And she watched transfixed as his face scrunched into one of ecstasy and almost agony. His lashes fluttered.
"Alpha," he panted. "Alpha, Alpha, Alpha—"
His voice was gorgeous, a velvety baritone, the darkest of chocolate. She inhaled, and somehow it was as if the air was now flavoured with cocoa. She must be going insane; she swore she was.
She knew he was going to cum, because soon he was whimpering, begging almost pathetically as he stroked his cock at a rapid pace. A pretty quiver running up his body, spine curving to meet each desperate stroke of white hot pleasure. She stared as his eyes rolled back into his skull, half-lidded. His pre-cum was frothing in his hand, strokes all harried with his toes kicking in the water, struggling to sit upright.
Then he tensed and shivered, legs bucking, spreading wider, then finally slamming close. He came hard with a hand gripping his chest and another squeezing his cock, breath hitching into an almost scream. He spurted three times, jerking himself off with a groan that spilt into the air and echoed across the creek. The ropes of cum were puddling all over his fingers, pearls on his neck, almost to his face.
And then he seemed to settle content, satisfied and spent. The tiger collapsed onto the rock, heaving, cum dripping into the stream. But not before his head turned, settling to look at the fish on the rocks. He stared at the heap, blinked once, then twice.
Her fish.
His eyes widened, lips parting into a startled roar.
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