Chapter 10: Chapter 10: Wedding Night
(Rhydian)
The door is closed. The fire is burning low. The room smells like her — pine smoke and leather and that warm thing underneath that makes my wolf go restless in my chest.
Elena stands on the other side of the bed watching me. Grey eyes unreadable, dark hair still pulled back tight from the ceremony. The simple grey dress fits her in ways I keep telling myself not to notice.
I’m failing at that.
She catches me looking. Of course she does.
"See something you like?" No smile.
I look away. My face is hot. "No."
She doesn’t call me a liar. She just walks around the bed — slow, deliberate, boots silent on the stone — and stops in front of me. Too close. I can smell her skin now, something clean underneath the leather and smoke, and my mouth actually waters, which is humiliating.
My legs find the edge of the bed and I sit down hard.
"You look scared," she says.
"I’m not scared."
"Your hands are shaking."
I look down. She’s right. My fingers are trembling against my thighs like they belong to someone else.
"I don’t know what to do," I hear myself say. The words come out rough and embarrassed and I can’t pull them back. "I’ve never — I mean, I’ve been alone for four years. Before that I was a kid who never had to figure anything out for himself."
"You’ve never been with anyone."
"No."
She nods. Doesn’t look surprised, doesn’t look disappointed. Just patient, the way she gets when she’s teaching me something.
"That’s what this is for," she says.
"The elders made you do this."
"I could have refused. I didn’t." She reaches down and pulls off one boot, then the other. They land on the floor with soft thuds. "You’re not supposed to know anything yet. That’s why I’m here."
I watch her fingers move to the belt at her waist and my throat goes completely dry.
"What are you doing?"
"Getting ready for bed."
"It’s early."
"It’s dark. We’re married. This is what married people do."
She unbuckles the belt and lets it drop.
---
"We’re not going to—" I swallow. "I mean, not tonight, right?"
"Eventually." She pulls the grey dress over her head in one clean motion and it pools around her feet.
I forget how to breathe.
She’s standing in just a thin white undershift. The fabric is practically nothing in the firelight — I can see the shape of her legs, the curve of her hips, everything the shadows aren’t quite hiding. My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Elena doesn’t look embarrassed. She stands there with her hands on her hips looking at me like I’m something she’s still working out.
"Your turn," she says.
"For what?"
"Take your clothes off."
"No."
"Yes."
"I can’t."
"You can. You’re just scared."
I start to argue and then stop. Take a breath. "Maybe a little."
She steps closer. The hem of her shift brushes my knees and I can feel the heat of her through it.
"Just the shirt," she says, softer. "That’s all. We go slow."
My hands are still shaking but I grab the hem of the black tunic and pull it over my head. The air hits my bare chest and I cross my arms without thinking, covering the scars the way I always do.
Elena takes my wrists and lowers my arms back down.
"Don’t hide. I’ve already seen them."
"The light was low then."
"It’s low now."
"Not low enough."
That small real smile appears for just a second. "It’s never going to be low enough for you to feel okay about it. So we start anyway."
She steps back. Her fingers find the hem of her undershift.
She lifts it. Slowly. An inch at a time.
Her stomach first — flat, muscular, a thin line of dark hair below her navel. Then her ribs, rising and falling with her breath. Then the underside of her breasts, round and full, and then she pulls the shift over her head and drops it and she’s just—
She’s naked.
All of her. The scars on her shoulders, the curve of her waist pulling in and flaring back out, the dark hair between her legs, her breasts heavy and soft with nipples tight from the cold air.
Or not from the cold.
I can’t look away. I genuinely cannot make myself look away, and I don’t try.
She doesn’t cover herself. Arms at her sides, letting me look, completely unbothered by any of it.
"Watch," she says. "Then copy."
"Copy what?"
"Whatever I do."
I nod. My throat is closed.
She unbuckles my belt herself. Pulls it free. Then her fingers find the waist of my pants.
"Lift your hips."
I lift. She pulls everything down and off in one movement and suddenly I’m sitting completely naked on the edge of the bed while she stands in front of me in nothing but firelight. I should feel cold. I feel like I’m burning alive.
She looks at me the way she looked at my scars — not staring, just taking in what’s there. Memorizing.
"You’re beautiful," she says.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"No one’s ever—" I stop.
"Then no one was paying attention."
She sits beside me and her thigh presses against mine, warm and real, and I feel my whole body lean toward her involuntarily.
"Watch," she says again.
She raises her hand and touches her own throat — fingertips light — then drags them down slow, between her breasts, over her stomach, stopping just above where her legs meet.
My breath comes out all at once.
"Your turn."
I lift my hand and touch my neck. My fingers are clumsy and too fast and completely wrong.
"Slower," she says. "Softer. Pretend it’s me."
That changes everything.
I close my eyes. Imagine my hand on her throat. Her chest. Her stomach. My fingers slow down by themselves, the touch going lighter.
"Better," she whispers.
When I open my eyes she’s watching me and her lips are parted.
"Keep going. Touch your chest, your stomach — whatever feels good. I’ll do the same."
We sit side by side, both touching ourselves, both watching each other, and it’s strange and clumsy and somehow the most real thing I’ve ever been part of.
She circles her nipple with one finger. I copy her. Mine hardens under my own touch and I make a small sound I wasn’t expecting.
She makes one too — a soft exhale — and moves her hand lower. Her fingers part something wet and glistening and I genuinely cannot breathe.
"Your turn," she says.
I reach down and wrap my hand around myself — I’m so hard it almost hurts — and gasp.
"Not there," she says. "Here." She shows me again. "Feel your own heartbeat."
I find the spot at the base, press gently. My pulse is hammering there.
"Good. Now put your hand on me."
I look at her.
"Touch me," she says quietly. "Where I just touched myself."
My hand shakes the whole way. My fingers brush her thigh first, then slide inward.
She’s hot. Wet. Soft in a way I have absolutely no framework for.
I freeze completely.
My whole body is shaking — the wanting and the fear and the not-knowing all happening at the same time with nowhere to go.
"I can’t," I whisper.
"Yes you can."
"I don’t know how."
"Then I’ll show you."
She takes my hand and guides it to her breast instead, then tips my head down toward her.
"Open your mouth."
I open.
"Lean down."
My lips find her skin. Her nipple. Hard and soft at the same time in a way that doesn’t make sense until it does.
"Gently," she says. "Like you’re drinking something warm."
I close my mouth around her and suck. Too hard — she gasps sharp and I pull back immediately.
"Sorry—"
"No. That was good. Just softer."
I try again. Softer this time, and my tongue moves on its own, circling the tip without me deciding to do it.
Elena’s hand slides into my hair. Her fingers curl.
"Yes," she breathes. "Like that."
I keep going. My jaw is tense, my rhythm is uneven, I catch her with my teeth by accident more than once — but every time I get it wrong she just adjusts my head with her hand, shows me where to go, and never once pulls away.
Then she makes a sound.
Low, from deep in her chest. Rough and completely real. Not a lesson sound. Not something she’s performing. Just — pleasure. Because of me. Because of something I did.
I’m harder than I’ve ever been in my life and my body presses against her thigh and I know she can feel it and she says absolutely nothing about it, just keeps her hand in my hair and lets me keep learning.
After a long time she pulls my head back.
Her eyes are dark. Lips parted. She looks like I’ve done something right.
"Good boy," she murmurs.
My ears burn all the way down my neck. I don’t look away.
"More?" I ask.
That small real smile.
"More," she says. "But not tonight."
She lies back and pulls the blanket over both of us. I lie beside her, body still humming, still wanting, the wanting sitting in my chest with nowhere to go.
But she’s warm. And close.
And for the first time in four years, I’m not alone when I close my eyes.
