In the shadowed cave, where firelight danced on jagged walls, Kael’s eyes burned for Mira. She was all sinew and secrets, her deerskin wrap clinging to hips that swayed like river reeds. The clan huddled near the flames, gnawing boar bones, but Kael’s hunger was for her alone. Her laugh, sharp as flint, sparked something primal in his chest.
Mira knelt, tending the fire, her dark hair falling like a pelt. She caught his stare, her lips curling, bold and knowing. “Kael, fetch wood,” she teased, voice low, a challenge. He grunted, his blood roaring, and stomped into the dusk, axe in hand. The forest was alive with hoots and rustles, but all he saw was Mira—her fingers smudged with ash, her throat bared as she laughed.
Back in the cave, he dropped the wood, his breath heavy. The clan slept, their snores a dull drone. Mira lingered by the fire, her eyes glinting like a wolf’s. “Clumsy hunter,” she whispered, stepping close, her scent—earth and smoke—dizzying. Kael’s hands twitched, aching to trace her curves, but the elder’s rules bound them: unpaired mates were forbidden until the solstice.
She brushed past, her arm grazing his, and Kael stifled a growl. He imagined pinning her against the cave wall, the fire painting their shadows as one. A twig snapped—old Tor stirring—and Kael froze, lust a boulder in his gut. Mira smirked, tossing a stick into the flames, the crackle mocking his restraint.
As she slipped to her furs, Kael gripped his axe, carving a jagged line in the dirt. Solstice was moons away. He’d hunt, he’d wait, but Mira’s fire would consume him long before the sun turned.