Page 49 of To Bleed a Crystal Bloom
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The sun dropped a while ago, leaving the forest cast in a darkness that seems heavier than usual. The only reprieve is the crackling fire throwing off a deluge of heat and smoke.
I reach forward and spin the stick, letting the flames lick at the boar from a different angle, making the skin bubble and boil, hissing in protest as juices dribble onto blazing logs and red-hot stones.
It was a well-fed beast, and it’s letting off the strong, heavenly musk of roasted game. A scent that makes my mouth water as I watch the fat drip, and drip, and drip ...
The breeze picks up, feeding the smell into the lungs of the forest while I rotate the boar to the rhythm of my slow, churning thoughts.
Perhaps because of the late hour and my body’s internal clock surging with anticipation, but I think of those lilac eyes glaring at me with unguarded rancor ...
I hate you.
Oh, precious. You don’t even know the meaning of the word.
Better her hate than those heated looks she’s been blindsiding me with recently.
Another turn of the bubbling, spitting, sacrificial animal.
The boar was foraging for truffles in a glen—at least until I put my blade through its heart—and truffle is a strong flavor; one which has infused the meat, adding a botanical depth to its roasting smell.
It’s staring through wide eyes as it spins its circles, tusks still jutting from a wide-open mouth. It squealed at me as it died, and I can see the echo of that sound on its half-charred face.
In hindsight, lobbing the head off might have been prudent.
I grab a pointy stick and give the pig a prod, freeing a squirt of fragrant juice the exact color of the liquid Orlaith offers me in her goblet every night.
I sigh, shoving the thought aside.
Fucking hate that color.
The krah stop squawking, the songs of the forest coming to a silent crescendo, and I twist the boar again, hearing a twig snap from just outside the tree line.
There’s some sniffing and an almost inaudible growl.
The hairs on my arms and legs lift, a violence threatening to arc up inside me.
Another twist of the meat, the thick branch groaning under the weight. Another mouth-watering drip splashes onto the blazing wood.
Another snap of a twig.
It goes against my nature to keep my back to a threat, especially one with such a potent musk. But I weather the pull of my instincts, waiting ...
Listening.
I sense a presence step into the clearing behind me. Can scent his desire toslay.I move off the log, kneel, and rip a chunk of meat free, layers of it shredding apart as ripe juice dribbles down my fingers.
The air shifts.
I snatch the pommel, whip my sword off the ground, and whirl on the Vruk galloping forward in long, powerful strides. In the same motion, I slash through the animal’s exposed chest and throat, spilling him before he even has a chance to roar or push talons from those huge, feline paws.
Leaping sideways, I watch him continue to amble forward, drop to his haunches, and collide with the spit.
Sparks and coals and rocks scatter.
He lets out a gurgling lament, then tips, and the ground absorbs his hefty weight with a shuddering protest.
He jerks once, then stills, black blood pumping from the gaping wound, muddying his thick, winter pelt and buttering the entire boar with oily muck.
