The Grey Ones

THE VASAATH

There she was, her skin against his skin—her heart against his heart. The smell of her was invigorating, the taste of her, intoxicating—the feel of her, addictive.

Never before had mating been this passionate, this pleasurable. He had dreamt of it many times, and imagined it even more so, but none of it compared to the true feel of her. Nothing compared to the sensation she brought him, the satisfaction he had found.

As they lay there, entangled, he inspected her body to make sure he hadn’t hurt her. Her pale skin was reddened in places by his firm hands; in some places, her skin had been scraped by his claws. Other than that, she seemed unharmed. Her cheeks glowed with a healthy heat, and she had a faint smile upon her lips.

In his arms, her small frame felt even smaller. She was trembling, breathing heavily. He could feel her heartbeat—fast, but strong. Such a fragile little thing he thought she was, and how she had proved him wrong. She had been strong, resilient, and brave. He never thought an ohkas would be enough to satisfy him, but this girl was more than enough. She was extraordinary. He kissed her neck, and she hummed. He wished he could remain in this dream, just a little longer.

A sudden sting of guilt and horror hit him as he thought about the harsh judgment he would have to withstand from the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon. His seed was sacred, meant only for those chosen for him. If they ever learnt the truth, he would be shunned. He should have taken care. Physical pleasure was one thing—even though he should have sought it from a vas-maasa, or at least a maasa, the act in itself was natural, needed. For that, he would be forgiven. Reprimanded, but forgiven. But he should have taken care. Rather he spilt his seed than give it to this woman, this ohkas. Of course, it was not about his seed at all, but about tradition, and she was not the sort of pleasure the Vasaath should seek.

But those were the thoughts of the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon, not him. He regretted nothing. The girl that now lay in his arms, he had chosen for himself. It was one of the few selfish things he had ever done since becoming the Vasaath—no, since he was a child! He could barely remember the last time he had acted selfishly. He had given everything to the Kasenon. It was only fair he claimed something for himself—and now, he was forever ruined. He would never want anyone else.

He sought her lips and kissed her tenderly. She chuckled, turned to face him, and caressed his cheek.

He kissed her neck, her jaw, and hovered his lips over her ear as he whispered to her, “Ma enaan…”

She giggled. “What does that mean?”

He sighed, buried his face in the hollow of her neck, and said, “I’ll tell you someday.”

The girl huffed. “How generous of you.”

“Now, now,” he muttered and kissed her again. He then looked at her, inspected her face. Only a faint reminder of her own kind’s cruelty lingered on her cheek and he carefully caressed her small, pink scar, before he sighed and pulled her hair away from her face. “Is there anything you need, my lady?”

She smiled. “Well, now I’m hungry.”

“See, I told you,” he said. “You should have eaten.”

She huffed, pushed him away, and sat up. Her face grimaced violently, and she fell back onto the bedding with a groan.

He frowned. “You should rest for a while.”

The girl, however, burst out laughing.

“What’s so amusing?”

She tried to compose herself, complained about muscle ache and soreness, and then she said, “All my life, I’ve heard dreadful stories about your kind, and here I am, with a Grey One as my lover. How quaint!”

The Vasaath pulled her to him, underneath him. “Is that so?” He kissed her neck, tasted her skin, and said, “What stories have you heard?”

“Well, all children hear the story of how the yellow-eyed demons come at night and steal them from their beds and eat them for breakfast,” said the girl with a giggle. “I always hid under the covers when my mother said how they would pick their teeth with my bones.”

The Vasaath laughed. Indeed, he knew about the reputation his people had in these strange lands, but usually, the stories he was told were slightly altered. Surely, the ohkasenon telling them wouldn’t risk angering the Kas, and the Vasaath could respect such self-preservation.

“Are there any more stories?” he asked.

“There are hundreds of them,” she said. “It’s everything from how you curse humans and wear your enemies’ skulls on your belts, to—” She bit her lip, and her eyes hazed. “To how you steal women away to keep them in your beds.”

“Did I steal you away?” he teased against her lips, feeling his gusto return to him.

She bit her lip again and giggled, her cheeks flushed, and she urged for a kiss. He happily obliged.

He couldn’t keep his hands from her and his desires demanded more. He beckoned her, pleaded for permission, and she granted it to him with an earnest invitation.

He was eager, which was unlike him, but he would savour this moment all he could, knowing that their time together was limited. He would savour her body, claim it—if only for a moment—and let her know the depth of his desires, of his emotions.

He was impressed by how much strain her small frame could endure; he had never before been intimate with an ohkas, and he was apprehensive in the beginning. Kas were strong and durable, and humans were not. He worried he might hurt her, but she impressed him with her resilience. Nevertheless, he had to control himself and not get carried away—she was still human, petite in comparison, and spent. He found bliss, a heavenly moment when nothing mattered or existed except for himself and the divine young woman whom his soul had fused with, and who sheathed him most passionately as she received him.

She held him when he slumped down against her, with an affection he rarely had felt throughout his life. It was a strange sensation, but one that wasn’t unwelcomed. When he rolled to his back, he brought her with him, making her sprawl across his chest.

She laughed—they both did—and she said, “I think I need to rest for a fortnight.”

“Oh, you will be fine,” he said. “But will need that brew.”

She sighed and rested her head on his chest. “Yes. I’d forgotten about that.”

He sighed, as well, and drove his fingers through her dark locks. Yes, he would most certainly be shunned for such selfishness, but he didn’t mind. Right there, right then, he wanted to be gone with both the Vasmenaan and the Vasenon—they were old tyrants with hearts of stone, anyway.

The Vasaath had also been cold, but then he experienced true feelings, true passion. He was uncertain if anyone—even himself—could possibly understand the marvellous feat the girl in his arms had accomplished; in her very modest manner, she had warmed a heart as cold as the tundra. The awakening had been slow, but little by little, his heart had beat with more and more fervour each time she had looked at him, smiled at him, and touched him. Now, knowing that she had given him everything she could, his heart was bursting.

In a way, he was terrified—he had long thought that if he only could have her, bed her, this infatuation would be over, but now he felt more devoted to her than ever. Intimacy had always been a necessity, ease of mind and tension, but never more than that.

All his life, he had been taught not to confuse the needs of the heart with the needs of the flesh, and he still did not. No, it was very clear to him that those were very different needs, indeed. He had just never encountered a single individual that could satisfy them both, and neither of them had ever been this explicit. He wanted her—heart, soul, and body—now more than ever.