Jorka carried her with effortless strength, cradling her bloodied form against his chest as he moved deeper into the shadowed foothills. The woman—whose name she had not yet given—hung limp in his arms, her breathing shallow but steady after the blue-black power had closed the worst of her wounds. Her head rested against his shoulder, dark hair spilling like ink across his scarred hide. The scent of her—blood, wild herbs, and something warmer, unmistakably feminine—flooded his senses after eighteen years of pine, smoke, and sweat. It was intoxicating. Dangerous.
He knew better than to take her straight to the clan.
Instead, he veered north, toward a hidden cave he had discovered years ago during a solitary hunt—a narrow fissure in the granite face of Blackfang Ridge, concealed behind a curtain of hanging vines and guarded by a natural overhang. The entrance was low; he ducked inside, careful not to jar her.
The cave was dry and spacious once past the mouth, the floor covered in fine sand washed in by ancient floods. A natural chimney high above let smoke escape. Jorka laid her gently on a bed of moss he gathered quickly, spreading his own cloak beneath her for cushioning. A small spring trickled from a crack in the back wall—clean, cold water. Perfect.
He worked methodically.
Eighteen years in the forest had taught him more than violence. He knew which plants healed and which killed. He stepped outside only long enough to harvest what he needed: broad silverwort leaves for staunching and drawing out infection, crushed moonbark paste for numbing pain and speeding closure, the sticky sap of bloodroot vine to bind torn flesh, and a handful of bitterheart berries to brew into a strengthening tea once she woke.
Back inside, he built a small, smokeless fire in the center pit using dry tinder and flint. The flames were low, controlled. He stripped away the ruined sections of her clothing with careful knife-work—only enough to expose the wounds—then cleaned them with spring water. She stirred once, moaning softly, but did not wake. He applied the silverwort poultice first, pressing the cool leaves against the long gash across her ribs, then sealed it with bloodroot sap that hardened into a flexible bandage. The thigh wound was deeper; he packed it with moonbark paste, wrapped it tightly, and tied it with strips torn from his own spare hide.
When the worst was done, he brewed the bitterheart tea over the fire, letting it steep until the liquid turned deep crimson. He lifted her head gently, coaxing small sips between her parted lips. She swallowed reflexively. Satisfied, he settled back against the cave wall, arms crossed, watching the firelight play across her features.
She slept for more than a day—through the afternoon, the night, and into the next evening. Jorka never left her side. He fed the fire, changed the poultices when they dried, wiped sweat from her brow with a damp cloth, listened to her breathing steady and deepen as the fever broke. Patient. Still. Like a wolf guarding its mate.
One evening, as the sky outside bled violet and the first stars pricked through the chimney hole, she woke.
Her eyes fluttered open—storm-gray, sharp now, no longer clouded by pain. She blinked at the low ceiling, then at the fire, then at the man sitting cross-legged beside it, sharpening his recovered knife on a whetstone with slow, rhythmic strokes.
She pushed herself up on one elbow. The movement pulled at her ribs; she winced but did not complain.
"You," she said softly. Her voice was stronger, richer, carrying the low timbre he had heard in her scream.
Jorka glanced up. The firelight carved shadows across his face, making the faint blue-black veins beneath his skin shimmer for an instant.
"You're awake," he said simply.
She studied him for a long moment—his broad shoulders, the fresh scars already fading to silver, the quiet intensity in his dark eyes.
"You saved me," she said. "Carried me here. Tended me."
He shrugged, returning to his whetstone. "Wasn't going to leave you for the crows."
She sat up fully now, wincing again but managing. The poultices held; she tested her range of motion with careful movements. "I owe you my life."
Jorka set the knife aside. "You owe nothing."
A small smile touched her lips—tired, but genuine. "Most men would demand something."
He met her gaze steadily. "I'm not most men."
She tilted her head. "Who are you, then?"
He considered lying. Then decided against it. "Just some tribal kid from the forest clans. Name's Jorka."
She laughed softly—low, knowing.
"A tribal kid who moves faster than wind, crushes raiders like dry twigs, and heals with a touch? I don't believe you. But I won't press. Not yet."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire.
She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them despite the pull on her wounds. "What do you want in return for saving me?" she asked quietly. "Name it. If it's within my power, it's yours."
Jorka looked at her—really looked. At the curve of her throat, the swell of her breasts beneath the torn hides, the strong lines of her thighs, the way firelight gilded her skin. Eighteen years of denial roared awake in his blood. The blue-black power thrummed in agreement, eager, hungry.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
"Are you willing to give me anything?" he asked.
She held his gaze without flinching. After a long beat, she nodded once. "Anything."
Jorka exhaled slowly.
"I want to fuck you," he said plainly.
Her eyes widened. Then she laughed—genuine, surprised, almost delighted. The sound echoed softly off the cave walls.
"You're direct," she said when the laughter faded.
He didn't smile. "I've lived my whole life without the scent of a woman. Without touch. Without anything soft. No mother after infancy. No sisters. No lovers. The clans keep us separate—men in the forest, women in the valleys. Once every twelve years, they let us breed, then take the daughters away. I've never even seen a woman up close until today. When I was twelve, I missed my chance to see them as I was injured at them and didn't go with my father. Never smelled one, never felt skin that wasn't calloused and scarred like mine."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"I killed for you without thinking. Healed you without asking. Carried you here. Watched over you while you slept. I don't want land, or weapons, or honor. I want to know what it feels like. To be inside a woman. To feel her move under me. To hear her breath catch because of me. Just once. That's what I want."
She stared at him in disbelief.
"You're serious," she murmured.
"Deadly."
Mara's eyes widened at Jorka's words, her storm-gray gaze flashing with a mix of shock and revulsion. She pulled back slightly, her hand dropping from his jaw as if burned. The firelight danced across her face, highlighting the furrow in her brow, the slight curl of her lip in disgust.
"Fuck me?" she echoed, her voice laced with disdain.
"You speak like a beast in rut. After all this—saving my life, tending my wounds—you reduce it to that? A crude demand for my body?"
Jorka didn't flinch. He held her stare, his expression unchanging, the blue-black power humming faintly in his veins like a distant storm. He had waited eighteen years; a moment's rejection wouldn't break him. "I told you what I want," he said quietly. "No lies. No games."
She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her again, though this one was sharper, edged with offense. "You're no better than the raiders. They take by force; you ask, but it's the same hunger in your eyes." She shifted away from him, wincing as the movement tugged at her healing ribs, drawing her knees tighter to her chest. The cave felt smaller suddenly, the air thicker with tension. For a long moment, she stared into the flames, her breathing steadying, composing herself like a warrior before battle. Her fingers traced the edge of the poultice on her thigh, a reminder of his care, his patience.
Finally, she exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing. When she looked back at him, the disgust had softened—not gone entirely, but tempered by something else: gratitude, perhaps, or the weight of her own code.
"You saved me," she said, her voice low and measured.
"From death, from worse. I owe you everything. And in the enclave, we honor our debts."
She paused, searching his face.
"If this is truly what you desire... then yes. You can have me. But only once. After, we part ways—no claims, no lingering. Understand?"
Jorka nodded once, slowly. "Once is enough."
She looked into the fire for a long time. The flames reflected in her eyes like twin stars.
"I'm called Mara," she said at last.
"And I've borne children, fought raiders, led hunts in the enclave. I know what men want. But I've never met one who asked so plainly… or waited so patiently."
She shifted, wincing slightly as she moved closer to him. The scent of her—clean now, beneath the faint trace of herbs—filled the space between them.
The cave fire crackled.
Outside, the forest waited.
Inside, eighteen years of curse began to unravel.
He moved then, deliberate and unhurried, closing the space between them. The fire crackled softly, casting warm shadows that played across their forms. Mara didn't pull away this time; instead, she unfolded her legs, allowing him to kneel before her. His hands—rough from years of forest toil, yet gentle now—reached for the edges of her torn hides. He peeled them away carefully, exposing the smooth, olive-toned skin beneath, marred only by the faint pink lines of her healing wounds. She shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his gaze as he took her in—her full breasts, the curve of her hips, the dark curls at the apex of her thighs.
"You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a tremor through her. It wasn't flattery; it was truth, raw and unfiltered after a lifetime of deprivation.
Mara's breath hitched.
"Be gentle," she whispered. "I'm still sore."
He nodded, leaning in to brush his lips against hers—tentative at first, a soft press that deepened as she responded. Her mouth was warm, tasting of the bitterheart tea and something sweeter, uniquely her. Jorka's hands slid up her arms, fingers tracing the contours of her muscles, the scars from old hunts. She tensed briefly, then melted into the kiss, her own hands finding his shoulders, gripping the hard planes of muscle there.
He guided her back onto the moss bed, his body hovering over hers without crushing. One hand cupped her cheek, thumb stroking her jawline as he kissed her neck—slow, open-mouthed presses that drew a soft sigh from her lips. "Tell me if it hurts," he said against her skin.
"It doesn't," she breathed, though her voice carried a hint of uncertainty. But as his lips trailed lower, to the swell of her breast, she arched slightly, a quiet gasp escaping.
Jorka took his time. Tenderness was new to him—his life had been hard edges, quick kills—but the blue-black power within guided him somehow, amplifying his senses, making every touch electric. He circled her nipple with his tongue, teasing it to a hardened peak before sucking gently. Mara moaned softly at first, the sound barely audible over the fire, but it grew as he lavished attention on the other breast, his hand kneading the soft flesh while his mouth worked. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body responding despite her initial disgust.
He moved lower still, kisses trailing down her stomach, careful to avoid the healing gash on her ribs. His hands parted her thighs gently, exposing her to the cool cave air. She was wet already—arousal mingling with the remnants of her wounds' salve—and the sight made his cock throb painfully against his hides. But he restrained himself, leaning in to taste her.
Mara's eyes flew open. "What are you—oh..."
His tongue flicked out, tracing her folds with deliberate slowness. She tasted of salt and musk, a flavor that ignited every starved nerve in him. He lapped at her clit, circling it with soft pressure, then delving deeper, exploring her entrance. Her moans grew louder, echoing off the cave walls—first breathy whimpers, then fuller, throaty cries as he found her rhythm. "Gods... Jorka..." she gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily against his mouth.
He hummed in response, the vibration sending jolts through her. One hand held her thigh steady, thumb stroking the sensitive inner skin, while the other slipped a finger inside her—slow, testing. She was tight, warm, clenching around him as he curled it upward, seeking that spot that made her arch. When he found it, her moans escalated, sharp and unrestrained. "Yes... there... louder now, filling the cave with her pleasure.
Jorka added a second finger, pumping gently while his tongue worked her clit in tandem. Mara's body trembled, her breath coming in ragged pants.
"I... I didn't expect... oh, fuck..."
The word slipped from her lips, raw and surprised, as waves built inside her. He didn't rush; he savored, drawing out her responses until she shattered—her orgasm crashing over her with a loud, keening moan that reverberated through the stone. Her walls pulsed around his fingers, juices coating his chin as she rode the peak, her hands fisting in the moss.
He pulled back only when her tremors subsided, kissing her inner thigh softly. His own arousal strained, hard and insistent, but he waited, watching her face flush with afterglow.
Mara looked down at him, eyes hazy with pleasure.
"That was... more than I thought."
"I'm not done," he said, voice husky.
He shed his hides quickly, revealing his toned, scarred body—muscles honed by endless hunts, his cock thick and veined, standing proud. Mara's gaze lingered, a flicker of appreciation cutting through any lingering disgust.
She reached for him, pulling him down.
He settled between her legs, the head of his dick nudging her entrance.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, wrapping her legs around his waist.
"Yes!!"
Jorka pushed in slowly—inch by inch, tender despite the fire in his blood. She was slick from her release, easing the way, but he paused at her gasp, letting her adjust. "Breathe," he murmured, kissing her forehead.
She did, her nails digging into his back as he filled her fully. The sensation was overwhelming for him—tight heat enveloping him after a lifetime of nothing. He groaned low in his throat, holding still until she nodded again.
Then he moved.
Slow thrusts at first, rolling his hips in a gentle rhythm that drew soft moans from her lips. He braced on his elbows, their faces close, breaths mingling. Each slide in and out built friction, her walls fluttering around him. "You feel... incredible," he whispered, nipping at her earlobe.
Mara's moans grew—starting as quiet hums, building to fuller cries as he angled deeper, hitting that sweet spot inside her.
"Harder... just a little," she urged, her initial reluctance forgotten in the haze of pleasure.
He obliged, increasing his pace but keeping it tender—no brutal pounding, just deep, measured strokes that made her body rock with each one. His hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit again, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. Her moans loudened, echoing louder and louder— "Ah... Jorka... yes..." —filling the cave like a symphony.
Sweat slicked their skin, the fire's warmth adding to the heat between them. Jorka kissed her deeply, tongues tangling as he drove into her, her breasts pressing against his chest. She clenched around him, pulling him deeper, her legs tightening. "I'm... close again," she panted, moans turning to cries.
He felt his own release building—a coiling pressure in his groin—but he held back, focusing on her. Faster now, but still tender, his free hand cupping her breast, pinching her nipple gently. Mara's back arched, her moans peaking in volume—loud, unrestrained shouts of pleasure that might carry into the night outside. "Oh gods... don't stop... louder, her voice breaking as she came undone.
Her orgasm gripped him like a vice, pulsing waves that milked his cock. Jorka followed moments later, thrusting deep one last time with a guttural groan, spilling inside her in hot spurts. Pleasure exploded through him—intense, shattering after so long denied.
They collapsed together, breaths ragged, bodies entwined. He rolled to his side, pulling her against him, careful of her wounds.
For a long while, silence—save for the fire's pop.
"Once," she whispered finally, though her hand traced lazy patterns on his chest.
Jorka smiled faintly. "Once."
But in the quiet, he wondered if the curse had truly broken—or if this was just the beginning.