His Lycan Princess | 18+

Kiss or Kill

“You… you… really… shouldn’t,” I stuttered. I placed my hand on his shoulders and tried to push him away, but soon came to realize that I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move him. He was so, so much bigger than I was, so much taller, heavier, steadier that touching him alone made me feel like I had picked up a fight with something as unwavering and immovable as a mountain. I stood no chance. My hands slid down to the hard expanse of his chest, all warm skin and taut muscles, and they remained there in a desperate attempt to maintain the last few inches separating our upper bodies. “You should not.”

He just stood there quietly, looming over me, looking all threatening and alluring all at the same time. I couldn’t predict his next move, the outcome of all this, the consequences. Just when I thought suspense was going to kill me, he relented, saying: “Fine. Next question: have you ever touched yourself?”

“W-what?” My face was burning and I didn’t have to look into a mirror to tell that I had turned red. I looked away trying to hide my face in the shadows but he placed his hand under my chin and lifted my head up, forcing me to look at him and only him. He let out that taunting laugh of his, and sought my answer again. “Have you ever touched yourself down there, Celine?”

I pushed him away a little harder this time, but he halted my struggle and drew me in closer. Our proximity was electrifying, overwhelming. We were breathing the same air. “I have not,” in a small, fragile voice that was barely audible.

It was his time to look bemused. “Are you lying to me again, Celine?”

I shook my head. There was no lie this time. I was born and raised in Slevoria, a little village in the middle of nowhere. Around all that existed was the mist and the dark woods. Inside, a little community consisted solely of women. With the absence of men, of protectors and love interests, the Slevorians had devoted their existence to God, living in sanctuaries, chapels, abbeys. All we ever knew was praying, doing good, abstaining from any sinful act and hoping this would be enough to keep us away from the wolves and the other monsters. “It’s the truth.”

His mouth fell half open in surprise. He looked down to where his c**k was grazing the little wet slit between my legs and he moved his hand down, down, down there until his finger found my c**t. This tiny piece of me was like a little knot of pressure that had formed between my legs, all nerves and sensitivity and yearning. He dragged his middle finger over my c**t, and made little circles around and around it, fondling, feeling it.

“You’ve never done this?” he whispered. His low voice, his breath against my skin, made the hair on my neck stand on end. My skin yielded to his hand and my mind delved into fantasies. All I wanted was for him to keep touching me and–

This time I couldn’t stop but moan. “Ooh, Bane!”

His carnal touch sent an amazing tingling and pulsating sensation that ran through every nerve and vein in my body, making me quake and heat up, and my heart stuttered. I didn’t choose to be in this house, to be a sacrificial lamb, but that didn’t stop my body from shaking with need.

I had spent all my life being a good girl, praying, behaving, and obeying, and I had been told that touching oneself was a sinful and shameful act. But I was beginning to question the high abbess, her nuns and all her lectures. If it was a filthy thing only the wicked did, then why did it feel so good? Why did his touch make me feel closer to heaven than I had ever been?

It made no sense.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Then again, the abbess used to say that the Devil was very much real, and he wasn’t a little red guy with weird horns and a tail. No. The Devil could be beautiful, because he was a fallen angel and, at one point in time, he even existed as God’s favorite. Satan wouldn’t come for me dressed in a red cape and a pitchfork. The abbess had warned me, she had warned all of us that he’d come disguised as all we ever wanted.

And Bane Vilskansser?

Well, he definitely fitted the part.

“So, you’ve never been with a man,” he said again. This was more of a statement and less of a question, as he was speaking of things he already knew. I wondered if he had guessed it before I told him. Had I made it that obvious or was it clear enough due to my crimson cloak and my white gown, the traditional virgin attire he had met me in in the forest?

“No.”

He raised a dark brown. “Women?”

I shook my head quickly. “No, no.”

“Hmm,” he said with thoughtful consideration, tilting his head slightly to one side as if contemplating it. “I am your first then.” I bristled at his arrogance but there wasn’t much I could do. I wasn’t comfortable with how confidently he stated it, as if it was an undeniable fact that he'd f**k me. Like he had some unspoken right over me, like I had no say in the matter.

“But I won’t be your first,” I said, somewhat matter-of-factly, somewhat accusingly. “In fact, you’ve been with many more. Five?” I guessed. He took his goblet from the table next to me and drank in affirmation.

“Six?” I guessed again.

He drank again.

“Seven?” I gasped, bewildered.

He just kept on drinking, and while he did so, something happened.

Something I had been waiting for, hoping and praying for.

The death berry poison kicked in.

I looked at Bane, his head was tilted backward, and he gulped down the wine in large, eager swallows. With each deep draught, the veins in his neck surged, rising like swollen ropes on a sailboat, pulsating visibly beneath the skin. When he was done, he set the emptied goblet down, and his gaze met mine.

“What’s the matter, love?” he asked. “Jealous, are we?”

“What’s the matter, love?” he asked, menacingly. “Jealous, are we?”

“Not in a lifetime.”

He might have meant it teasingly, but something in his expression was off. His eyes became cloudy and unfocused, transforming his countenance into something eerie and unsettling. The haze that clouded his gaze reflected a profound disturbance, as if the poison had swiftly cast a chilling shadow over his features. He looked… dangerous. More than his usual, like something lethal inside him had taken over the control of his mind. His fangs were on full display. The little glimpse of control from earlier, of regret, of self-restraint were nowhere in evidence. He looked like he was about to attack, to kiss me or kill me. To do something catastrophic.

All I could think of was: s**t, what have I done? What have I turned him into?