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Every day, its claws grew sharper. Sunk a little deeper into his flesh. What used to once be little more than pinpricks now rent past muscle, past viscera and bone, slicing down to his very soul. An ever-present ache that began the moment he opened his eyes in the morning to the second he drifted off to sleep. Dreams were his only succor from it. From the emptiness.
From the loneliness.
He might have alleviated it by heading into town, but such a notion was inconceivable to him. Leaving the silence and comfort of the woods, just to venture into that fucking cesspit full of filthy streets and filthier people? Not a chance. It made his skin crawl enough whenever he had to make the fortnightly trip to the outskirts to collect supplies he couldn't hunt, forage, or grow on his own. The reek of exhaust fumes, of screaming gulls, the bustle of *too many goddamn people*. Never failed to remind him why he *stayed* in his little haven.
Yet, his body craved contact. Touch. A soft, warm woman under him. ***Intimacy.*****
He *could* have stopped by the Rose House. That flesh den, peddling smut and sex. Paid the flesh-dealer and found some fine whore to sink his fat prick into, to rut until she was cross-eyed and aching the next day. And he had, a few times. But those momentary distractions never felt... *enough.* Those gashes never saw him... not *really*. He always made sure of that. No matter how badly he wanted to look into the whore's eyes, to feel *something*, *some* connection. Face down, mashed into the pillows. Take, and take, and take. It was simply how he did things.
But maybe *this* time it would be different. This time, he had done something more than just steal a morsel that strayed too far.
He had *hunted.* It was what he did best.
The campground near the lake was usually abandoned at this time of year, as mid-Autumn rolled in -- Archer had to wonder why the woman had decided to do so, but he pushed it from his mind. She was *perfect*. Grabbing her had been easy enough - big and broad as he was, snatching one woman from her flimsy tent was as easy as hauling a fawn. She put up a struggle - commendable, really. She ran, he pursued - hell, even fired a few warning shots into the trees around her. But he caught up, in the end. Archer always got his prey. He preferred a bit of fight - kept things interesting. But it was futile, in the end. Archer had found his quarry, and taken it. Cracked her hard upside the head with the butt of his rifle, knocking the bitch out. Carried her, slung over his shoulder, back to his cabin, secluded in the heart of the forest. Whilst she was under, he fixed a collar - fashioned himself, out of hard leather - around her throat, securing it snugly. How gorgeous she looked with it clasped about her pretty neck.
It was as good as any ring, for his little wife.
She slumbered so beautifully there, lashes brushing her cheek as her eyes twitched behind their lids - her breath grew quicker, breaking from the long, deep rhythm of unconsciousness. His wife would wake soon. Inwardly, Archer felt the brutal war between apprehension and exhilaration rage within his chest. It was searing and electric in equal measure, crackling through his veins and churning in his gut. He wasn't *alone* anymore. Now he had a woman, his life felt... more complete. A wife to cook, to clean, to tend and mend, to whelp children, one day. As it *should* be. The old wolf had a mate.
Archer *hoped* she would be compliant. That she would slip into her role seamlessly, taking up her duties as his wife eagerly. That she would *stay* with him *forever*, til he was bones in the ground.
And if she didn't, well... he'd just have to go about *gentling* her. *Showing* her her place, as a woman - as his *wife*. This was where she belonged -- she'd realise that, one day.
There was nowhere to run. This far from Staverton, there was no clear path back to civilisation -- not unless one *knew* exactly where they were going. If his little wife slipped her leash and ran, there was nowhere he couldn't find her. Archer had hunted these woods for twenty-eight years now. He knew every stone and shadow as well as his own heartbeat. He'd fucking *throttle* her if she tried; for making him *worry*, for running from her *****husband.***** Archer's breath hitched, viridescent eyes widening a fraction as her own began to flutter, stirring from her slumber. Glancing up to check that the sturdy hemp rope connected to the ring on her collar was still firmly wound around the bed's headboard, Archer tugged at it. Strong. Firm. There was no getting out of that easily.
Large hands - warm, despite the chill - fell to heft a cursory grope of her tits. Just a little touch, and yet, it saw heat coiling in his belly, and hunger rising within. He wanted to *devour* her, to split his little wife apart on his cock and spill deep inside her. Their consummation. After *so long* without feeling the skin of another...
With a grunt, Archer quashed it down. *Not yet.* He needed to acquaint her with her new life first - with her duties, his expectations, and... with himself. No matter how badly he ached and yearned to crush her to his chest and hold her there for hours... he was still cautious. Almost... afraid. He longed for her, for the intimacy his new wife could give, and yet...
... he wouldn't really know how to receive it, even if she did give it one day.
Finally, she seemed to awaken fully - groggy and disoriented, but awake nonetheless. Setting his jaw hard, Archer's flinty gaze bored into her face, unmoving. A great, looming beast of a man, thick-bearded and broad shouldered, sat beside her on an unfamiliar bed. "Hello, wife." Began the hermit, gruffly. "Welcome to your new life."
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