Scold Bridle の小説・ストーリー

Ava sat quietly on the sofa wearing the clothes my assistant had delivered. They were pink. The fitted dress hugged her figure far too well, soft fabric outlining every dangerous curve. The short skirt exposed part of her pale legs, and the instant my eyes landed there, I noticed it. A long, ugly scar. It crawled across her leg like a grotesque centipede burned into her skin. I froze and suddenly couldn't stop imagining what kind of suffering could leave a scar like that behind. My wolf went silent. Ava noticed my stare almost immediately. Her scent sharpened with embarrassment and defensiveness.

I reach out and grab his collar, yanking him close as I try to say calmly but it only comes out a growl, "Fight for your life,” He whimpers. He looks scared, terrified. He swings, my head moving instinctively before it can meet my face. It’s too slow and my hands are already wrapped around his neck, snapping it before I can stop myself. I watch him fall to the ground, my irritation worsening as I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck. She’s so beautiful. That’s the worst part. And she knows this. She knows the hold she has over me and I can’t fucking concentrate— AND WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SCARED OF ME? SHE’S A WOMAN AND SHE OWNS ME UP ON MY BULLSHIT,”

, with a smirk on his face, he turns to Fraya and gives her a wink. Putting on the hat, he made sure that it was tight enough around my chin. I took Fray’s hand and we followed Bruce to the outside where two horses were waiting. One was very big, about 15.3 hands, with a long, arched neck and a well-chiseled, short-eared, “Spanish-type” head. Its coat was pure black and shined as the sun reflected on it. “Old Blaze here is a Friesian. He is very gentle even though he looks scary. Hailey, you will be riding him."

Tristan walked towards her. - Well, friend, why are we talking? “I missed your impudent face,” Tantario admitted honestly, burying his fingers in the thick, rich purple mane of the Nulliard. The mare turned her head and touched Tristan's face with her velvety black nose. He gently kissed her on the nose, causing the horse to shake its head, pretending that these “calf tendernesses” were unpleasant to her, but quickly “gave in,” gently biting her beloved owner. Tristan noticed that Belian was wearing equipment that consisted of a small, silver-cream saddle and a thin rope bridle without iron. Looking at the headband, he frowned in confusion, but immediately calmed down when he saw the signs o

No, not scared but embarrassed and frightened like she had seen a ghost. For eliciting this kind of fear in her, I am tempted to go along with my first option and shoot her. Fuck the part that she was my to-be bride before I left for the army or the part where she’s the Pakhan’s granddaughter and he’d skin me alive literally if he found out that I hurt his precious relative.

It was in an open circle in front of a huge tree trunk that was covered in vines shaped like hands reaching out hungrily toward them. Scar tried not to look around at the faces of the goblins gathered there, instead keeping her head high and staring straight ahead. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her fear or her sadness. The gentle morning breeze carried the scent of flowers, and she breathed it in, trying to keep her heart from running out of her chest.

He scolded them. “We're sorry, leader.” They both apologized. He turned to the warrior who was certain that Scott must have been dead, “And you, do you just jump into conclusions when there are no concrete evidences to backup your claim? How can you be so sure that he is dead just by seeing a blood-stained piece of cloth? You don't even want to find his body at all? Really? Is that how quick you want to get out of here? Is this how you will lead when you become a Leader some day?” He spoke angrily. “Such a coward!” He spat.

The air shimmered with heat, and the familiar scent of brimstone mixed with hay filled my nostrils. "And this," I said with a flourish, "is where we keep the hell horses." Sebastian's jaw dropped as he took in the sight of the massive, obsidian-black steeds, their manes and tails flickering with ethereal flames. I approached one of my favorites, a mare named Ember, and stroked her flaming head. The fire licked at my skin, warm but not burning. "Holy shit," Sebastian breathed, his eyes wide with fascination. "They're... beautiful."

It creaks open. Inside: letters. Dozens of them. Tied with brittle twine and sealed with a faded wax emblem. Maddox crest. A wolf’s head. I take the top one and peel it open carefully. October 12, 1887 Dear Ellis, The girl has not eaten in days. She speaks of a shadow that follows her from the well to her room. Says it whispers in her sleep. Father thinks she’s touched by grief—but I see it too, at the corners of mirrors and in the glint of water. We were warned. Blood cannot be mixed without consequence. The Watcher does not forget.

The scent of smoke clung to the horizon before they saw the flames. Veyra gripped the reins tighter as her mare galloped alongside Jon's hulking black steed and Zarek's midnight-gray warhorse. The wind lashed through her braid, tangling it in wild strands around her face, but she didn't care. The village they rode toward—Thornveil—was a Moonfang border outpost, small and largely peaceful. Or it had been.