Brick & Bone - Ash

Every limb stretches, and so does my mouth. Into the widest smile, because the ache in my bones is gone.

Decadent muscle shakes shimmy up my whole body. Not even the gnarled mess in my thigh is throbbing. Everything moves like it's supposed to, smooth and effortless, and for a few stolen seconds, I feel like I've finally stepped out of someone else's nightmare and into my own body again.

I press a hand to my stomach and laugh, low and breathless, drunk on the feeling of not being in pain. It's absurd. I haven't felt this good since, I don't even know. Since before the alley. Since before hunger became a full-time job and pain my only consistent roommate.

Rolling onto my back, I let my fingers skim along my ribs, then up to my collarbone. Nothing. No bruises. No swelling, my skin is soft, clean.

Realization churns in my gut. Yesterday, I had one foot firmly planted in my grave. I knew I was dying. No way should I feel…good. I sit up too fast and the rush of it knocks the breath from my lungs. My heart starts racing, adrenaline kicking up late to a party. I throw the blanket back and scan my legs, my arms, my hands. Every inch of me should be black and blue and bandaged, but there's nothing. Not a scab, just perfect, unbroken skin. Like none of it happened.

I glance toward the corner and question why I expected anything else other than him standing there.

Posture relaxed, hands folded in front of him, he's been watching me sleep and enjoying the show. His eyes meet mine, and there's a flicker of something in them, satisfaction.

"I see you're feeling better," he says smoothly.

My body may be healed and happy, but my brain is ready for bloody war.

"You think this is a joke?" I snarl, already half off the mattress, teeth bared. "Playing house in my squat? Feeding me without asking? Watching me fucking sleep, creeper."

His silence is worse than a reply. It's the way he looks at me, every spark of rage coming off me is fuel for the fire building in him. He's not trying to soothe, he's enjoying this. I stagger upright and march straight toward him, ignoring the soreness still blooming in my muscles.

"You don't get to waltz in with your psycho god complex and talk to me like I'm a stray mutt."

Silence.

My hands are shaking, anger makes my vision pulse. "Get. Out," I snap, pointing at the door. "I don't care who or what you are, you don't own me."

A soft tilt of the mouth, he walks forward with all the theatrical flourish of someone humoring a child. His fingers curl around the door knob, turning it slowly, and throws it open. I step forward, and freeze. Brain trying to process what I'm seeing beyond where my stinking hallway should be, is brick.

A flat wall of mortar and stone, solid and seamless. I spin toward the window, heart hammering, and shove the curtain back. Nothing. The city skyline is gone, endless blue stretches in every direction, puffy white clouds float lazily past the edge of the atmosphere itself.

My chest tightens, my stomach knots, and that old companion called panic shoves its claws into my ribs.

Panic doesn't whisper this time. It roars. I spin in a full circle, my heart thundering, trying to find a crack in the illusion, a missed detail, anything that proves I'm not losing my mind. My fingers scrape the wall, I press my palms flat against the brick like I can push it open with force alone. I spin again. One more time. And then again, faster, dizzy, breath shattering in my chest.

"What the hell did you do?" My voice cracks.

"I warned you," he says. His voice is calm. "You're mine."

I march right up to him, eyes locked on his, every inch of me vibrating with fight. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to claim me."

My neck is stretched back just to look at his face. He's so tall. I jab my finger at his chest, the moment my skin makes contact, he moves. Faster than breath.

One massive hand slams to my throat, fingers almost meeting at the nape of my neck. We are moving together now. He slams me against the cool wall. Pinning me there with the kind of force that says he could snap me in half if he wanted. His body follows, hard lines, tailored suit, eyes that burn purple with something ancient and impossibly intimate. Fight or flight. Always choose fight. I claw at his wrist, my fingers scraping skin that feels like stone. He doesn't flinch.

A force presses against my knees, the warning rumble of something tectonic about to shift. I try to twist, to wrench away, see anything that's happening, but his grip on my throat keeps me locked in place, just enough pressure to own me without cutting off breath. His knee slides between mine with infuriating purpose, spreading my legs apart. The fabric of my joggers catches on his thigh as he shoves upward, forcing the solid heat of his muscles between my legs. One quick push upwards and my warm center sits on his thigh.

My body jerks in response, reflex or rage. I don't even know anymore. Just when I think it can't get any worse, he lifts his leg and my toes lose contact with the floor. My spine slams back against brick, my muscles lock, breath punches out of me in a sound I refuse to call a gasp.

He holds me like that, pressed open, suspended and trembling. Ever so slowly, he leans down, pausing with his mouth maddeningly close to mine. The growl in his throat thick and feral, not human at all. Every nerve ending lights up and I thrash more. Bad idea, terrible idea.

As my legs kick uselessly in the air, my thighs slide along the iron press of his, and I'm grinding against the thick thigh muscle lying tight against me. The seam of my pants catching in just the right place, heat flashes down my spine. I jerk again, desperate to shift away, but all I manage is another roll of friction that sends a jolt straight through me, sharp and shameful. I freeze.

Every part of me clenches at once, a full-body recoil of mortification and betrayal, because it felt good. And he knows it. The bastard's mouth curls near my jaw, and his chest vibrates with a deep, rich sound, amusement wrapped in hunger. His hand tightens at my throat, a little squeeze reminding me who's in charge.

My pulse is a roar in my ears, my breath short, my body caught between fear and something hotter, coiled low in my belly.

"Keep going Ash, I can smell how much you're enjoying it."

The blush starts at my toes, worming across my skin, flushing my cheeks and raising my heart rate further. I lock every muscle and stay stock still. His mouth brushes my ear, soft lips running up the shell, sending a shiver skittering and goosebumps raising.

"You will come to heel, pet."

The thigh between my legs flexes, sending another pulse of pleasure through me.

"Now," he whispers, his voice curling like smoke through my skull, "let's go home."