Page 31 of Feral Keep

The third orgasm is building already. The tail is still on my clit. The knot is still locked. His cock is starting to soften—not weak, just transitioning to the lull-state—but the damage is done. My walls are too sensitive, too ready.

“Again,” I say. The word surprises me. I’m asking. I’m asking him to do it again.

His eyes drop to mine. Gold and dark and completely clear. He sees the choice. He sees the moment my camp training loses the argument to my body.

He kisses me.

His mouth is hot. It tastes like venom, copper, something that’s just him, his breath filling my next inhale with the same dense, warm smell that lives in the furs, in his skin, in me now too. His tongue slides in—prehensile like his cock, moving with intention, with feeling. The combination of his mouth, his cock, the tail on my clit—it’s enough to send the orgasm that was building into a full rip. I come against his mouth, my walls clenching, his cock throbbing in response, the vibration from the knot joining the pressure from the tail and the heat of his breath until everything blurs into one long wave.

The lull finds us tangled.

My leg is slung over his hip. His arm is under my waist. His cock is soft inside me, the prehensile flex gone completely idle, the knot still there but softened just enough to let blood flow, to let my walls relax. His cum is heavy and warm and endless inside me, leaking out slowly where the seal isn’t perfect, dripping onto the furs, marking the place where he keeps me.

I’m aware of my body in a way I never was before the camps. My muscles are coming back—not strong, not yet, but the outline of strength is visible under the skin, muscles remembering what they were supposed to do.

My hunger is honest now. Not the screaming panic of starvation. Just hungry. An ache I can live in. An ache he understands, because his hand is already finding food, already feeding me pieces of fish—softer than the meat, easier on the teeth, the nutrients different, intentional.

“Eat,” he says.

I eat. His hand comes away and my mouth opens automatically, a learned response that shouldn’t be learned in only seven days but my body has learned it perfectly. Food in. Swallow. Open. Food in. Swallow. His eyes are tracking the motion of my throat, tracking the point where his cum sits heavy below.

“Good,” he says. His voice is more human now. The feral edge fading back into the background, something steadier and more careful stepping forward in its place. “Body strong.”

“Yeah,” I say. The word feels true in a way it shouldn’t yet. “Getting there.”

His hand moves from my belly to my shoulder. Tests the range of motion gently. I roll it backward and the grind is there but the pain isn’t, just resistance and the knowledge that it’s improving.

He grunts. Satisfied. Reaches for more food.

Between the second and third fast fuck, I ask the question that’s been sitting in my body since the lull started.

“How long?” My voice is quiet. Conversational. The way you’d ask about weather. “The rut. How long is it?”

His hand stills on the food. His eyes move to my face. He’s considering the question the way a feral male would consider a threat—weighing, measuring, deciding if the answer is safe to give.

“Two more weeks,” he says finally. The words are slow. Chosen. The human part of him wrestling the answer into form. “Maybe three. Body tell.”

The light coming through the canopy gaps has gone the color of dusk, deep orange bleeding across his crimson skin, catching on the curve of one white horn. His face in that light looks less like a monster’s and more like a male working hard to get a sentence right.

Two more weeks.

Fourteen days of this cycle. Fourteen days of the lull, the fast fuck, the long knot. Fourteen days of knowing that when this rut ends, he might leave. The rut isn’t permanent. It always ends.

My throat closes at the thought of an ending, quick and mean, like a fist around nothing. There’s no practice for missing things before they’re gone. In the camps you didn’t get advance notice. This is worse: counting down days I can already feel losing, unable to make myself stop counting.

“Okay,” I say. Like it’s nothing. Like my clit isn’t pulsing with the knowledge that there are fourteen days left, and my body is counting them.

His eyes narrow. He hears the lie. He smells the lie—the spike of adrenaline, the shift in my scent that comes with the contradiction between my voice and my body. Feral males are built to read those contradictions.

“Scared,” he says. Flat. He already knows.

“No.” The lie comes out fast. Protective.

“Scared,” he says again. Definite. His hand presses harder against my belly—not checking. Holding. “Scared I go.”

The words land like a punch. Because that’s exactly what I’m scared of.

“I’m not—” But my walls just clenched around him and he felt it, so lying is pointless.