The Lycan's Queen : A tale of fate

"Come closer to me, wife. Let me help you bathe," Theron said, his voice calm yet commanding.

Elara hesitated, the water rippling gently around her as her feet remained rooted. Her ears rang with a silent plea for this moment to end, yet she knew she couldn't refuse him. This was her reality now, no matter how much it clawed at her soul. Slowly, she glided across the water toward him, her movements fluid but heavy with dread.

When she reached him, she stopped near his feet, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Turn around," Theron said, his voice void of malice but firm.

She obeyed without a word, turning her back to him. Her hands trembled slightly as she gripped her bracelet, seeking solace in its cool, metallic touch. Suddenly, something cold grazed her skin, making her flinch. Theron's large hand had made contact with her shoulder, a bar of soap—or perhaps something akin to it—held firmly in his grip. The sensation of his touch felt foreign, and yet she willed herself to remain still, her face a mask of calm while her heart screamed silently for the deities to make this stop.

Theron began lathering her shoulders, his movements methodical. His hands surprisingly gentle, moved along her back, spreading the soapy substance across her skin. Each stroke sent chills through her—not from the touch itself but from the sheer intimacy of the act. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could vanish into the steam-filled air around them.

The scent of the soap was faintly floral, mingling with the warmth of the water. Theron worked in silence, gliding his hands down her arms and over her back. Elara's breaths were shallow, her mind occupied with one thought: Please let this end.

When he finished applying the soap, he reached for a vessel—a rounded bronze jug with intricate engravings, likely used for pouring water. He dipped it into the pool, filling it with the warm, flower-infused water, and gently poured it over her. The hot liquid cascaded down her body, rinsing away the soap. Elara shivered involuntarily, the heat of the water contrasting with the cold grip of unease in her chest.

Her eyes remained closed as she shifted uncomfortably. The sensation of the water gliding over her skin was both soothing and suffocating. She felt clean, yet somehow tainted. When Theron's hand approached her hair, his fingers lightly brushing her scalp, she instinctively pulled away, stepping back to put distance between them.

Theron's face shifted subtly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression. "Why would you prefer I not touch your hair, wife?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of something—perhaps curiosity, perhaps hurt.

Elara studied his face, searching his eyes for emotions she couldn't find. She was unsure if she wanted to see sadness or anger, but neither was present. Yet his voice betrayed a faint hint of hurt, and it made her stomach churn.

"I would prefer to wash my hair myself, Your Majesty," she said, her voice steady though her heart raced.

"But—" Theron began, only to cut himself off as he reconsidered his words. After a pause, he asked softly, "Have you always washed it for me ?" Elara asked.

The question caught Theron off guard, and her heart tightened at his tone. For a moment, they both fell into a silence that felt heavier than the water around them.

"No -" they both said at the same time, their voices overlapping. The shared word hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. Theron's gaze locked onto hers, and she could feel the weight of his thoughts pressing down on her. Finally, she spoke again, breaking the tension. "If so," she began hesitantly, "I can give you permission to continue, but…" She faltered for a moment, her words catching in her throat.

"But what?" Theron prompted, his tone steady but probing.

"I feel dearly uncomfortable with your hand running through my scalp," she finished, her voice soft but firm.

Theron seemed to absorb her response, his eyes narrowing slightly, though not in anger—rather, in contemplation. "And you don't feel uncomfortable with my hands running through your body?" he asked, his voice low and weighted, like a predator savoring its prey.

Elara hesitated, her lips parting slightly as her mind raced for an answer that wouldn't provoke him. "Not entirely," she finally said, the words teetering between defiance and compliance.

Theron tilted his head, studying her closely. "Are you sure?" he asked, stepping closer. The heat of his body seemed to radiate through the steam, suffocating her as he closed the space between them. "Because I would like to let my hands roam further throughout your body, wife. It has been such a long time since I've been intimate with you, and my body craves you."

His fingertips brushed lightly over the space between her breasts, his touch featherlight, yet it burned against her skin. He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear as his voice dropped into a whisper, "And I do know your body craves release too ."

Elara's breathing hitched, her chest rising and falling as her mind rebelled against the betrayal of her body. She wanted to push him away, to scream at him, but her limbs felt frozen, her heart pounding like a drum in her ears.

"All the tension…" Theron's fingers trailed lower, ghosting over her bellybutton, the sensation leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His other hand brushed against her hair, the light touch almost tender, yet his eyes betrayed a darker intent. His fingers itched to grip her hair, to pull her head back and force her submission. "All the distance between us…"

His hand continued its descent, now grazing the apex of her thighs. Elara's breath hitched again, her body reacting involuntarily despite her mind screaming in protest. She hated the way her pulse quickened, the way her legs threatened to tremble under his gaze.

"And all the fights we've been through…" His voice was a murmur now, thick with desire, as his finger slipped past her folds, pressing into her most intimate place. A startled moan escaped her lips, her head tilting back slightly as her body betrayed her once again.

"We need to rebond, wife," Theron growled, his lips descending onto the curve of her neck. He bit down lightly, then sucked and nibbled, ensuring the mark would remain—a brand of his claim. His fingers worked her mercilessly, driving in and out of her as her moans grew louder, echoing through the steamy chamber.

Elara was lost in a haze of conflicting emotions, her body arching into his touch even as her mind screamed at her to resist. She felt herself being laid down on the cool floor, her head tilting back as she stared up at the high ceiling. The heat of Theron's mouth replaced his fingers, and she gasped as his tongue delved into her core, teasing and tasting her like she was his final meal.

"Ah… ah…" The soft, breathless moans escaped her lips, her hands scrambling for purchase as the tension in her belly coiled tighter and tighter. She hated herself for the way her body responded, for the way her legs trembled as his tongue worked her. Her hands reached out, desperate for an anchor, and found his.

"Theron…" she breathed his name for the first time, her voice breaking with the weight of her building release.

He paused for a moment, lifting his gaze to meet hers—and that was when she froze.

Her heart stopped.

It wasn't Theron.