His Lycan Princess | 18+

Closer

I watched in breathless awe as the werewolf emerged from the shadows, his presence commanding the very essence of the forest. He glared at the troll and gave him a warning snarl. It almost came out like “mine,” but the sound was too raw, too primal and I wasn’t entirely sure that he had spoken. Were werewolves even capable of talking?

“Ah, the f*****g Lycans!” the troll spit out. He left me lying trembling on a bed of fallen leaves, and stood up, ready to fight the wolf who was circling us, looming, ready to strike. And he did. He attacked.

The clash between him and the troll was a spectacle to behold. The wolf did not hesitate, did not waiver. He lunged at the troll with a primal fury, a clash of titans that sent shockwaves through the forest. The earth quaked with their struggle, trees shuddering and leaves falling like a spectral rain. The battle raged, a symphony of snarls and roars that reverberated through the night.

In a moment of frenzied power, the wolf sank his gleaming fangs deep into the troll's shoulder, tearing into flesh and bone. A guttural, blood-curdling howl echoed through the forest as the troll recoiled in pain, his green skin matted with the dark essence of his opponent's attack.

The troll, driven to desperation, attempted to retaliate with a swift, brutal swipe of his clawed hand, but the werewolf deftly dodged it, his supernatural agility allowing him to evade the strike. The troll’s clawed attack struck a boulder with a thunderous impact, sending sparks of fiery energy into the night air.

In a surge of primal strength, the werewolf seized the troll's head, slamming it against a nearby tree with a bone-rattling force. The tree quivered as the troll’s snarls turned into pained growls. And then the growls stopped. The wolf seized the troll’s throat in his formidable jaws and, with otherworldly strength, pipped the dark-hearted creature’s head from his shoulders. I was speechless, immobilized. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath, the very trees disbelieving at the spectacle unfolding beneath their ancient branches.

As the dust settled and the echoes of battle faded, I suddenly became very, very aware of the gravity of my own situation. I was left alone, shaken and disheveled, the remnants of my torn clothing clinging to my battered form. Fear still gripped me and desperation clawed at my chest as the werewolf shifted his attention towards me. His presence was overwhelming, his aura one of primal authority. I reached for the dagger, my trembling fingers fumbling in the darkness, but the dagger wasn’t where I had left it. It wasn’t in my pocket! Instead, what I found was some broken seam and a gaping hole. Had the troll torn it when he stripped me bare? Where was it?

As I looked around, a strange red glimmer caught my eye. The silver dagger, my lifeline, had fallen amidst a jumble of rocks and stones, almost concealed by their hard embrace. A lone ray of the crimson moonlight kissed it with its red light, making it look like it had been covered in blood.

I wished it was.

I wished my blade was covered in Lycan blood. That way I wouldn’t have to keep stumbling to my feet, backtracking, trying to get away. It was, after all, pointless. I could never escape him; he was something inevitable.

With a slow and deliberate movement, the werewolf drew nearer, his eyes locked onto mine. In that agonizing moment, I understood why my mother had sought to keep me away from the woods, away from the life of a huntress. The werewolf was a living nightmare, a creature of such immense power and presence that it left me breathless and paralyzed with terror.

“Oh, God,” I mumbled through my clenched teeth. When had I started believing? Praying? “Oh, dear Lord, please, please–”

The werewolf’s proximity was suffocating, his aura foreboding. I stopped on my heel, as he approached.

Should I run for the dagger, risking everything?

Should I succumb to the overwhelming fear and resign myself to my fate?

What if I dropped to my knees and wept for a clean, quick death?

Would he show me any kind of mercy then?

He took one last step towards my direction and slowly leaned down until his face was at the same level as mine. I tensed up.

He was.

So.

Freaking.

Close.

His gaze stroke over me in a way I could almost feel, lingering on my lips, on my bloody neck, my middle chest that was exposed. My breasts nearly escaped the destroyed gown, it’s torn fabric barely hanging together from my shoulders, leaving a gap at the center of my torso. His gaze leered at the cut which descended down, down, down to my lower stomach and my womanhood. This private, sacred part at the top of my legs came alive with strange signals and an undeniable tingling sensation that sent an electric current through my entire body. It swept everything on its path, turning my insides into scorching lava, coursing, seething, dripping.

I was soaking wet!

I had heard fear could do this, it could cause arousal. It was a protective mechanism for the body of a woman when she was forced to open up to someone. Yet, I wasn’t completely sure it was my fear that did this.

Could it be something else?

Could I be attracted to… him?

Could I willingly let him possess me?

It was, after all, what I was here for, whether I had chosen this role or not. I had been sent into the forest as a sacrificial lamb and now I was here to please him, whoever he was.

My savior.

My calamity.

Who are you, I wondered, to be so powerful that the trolls pose no threat to you?

Who are you that you make me feel such incomprehensible, inexplicable feelings?

None had ever made me feel this way.

None.

I looked back at him, seeking answers.