Chapter Text
Cold, dewy grass slashes at his ankles as he runs, poking through the silk stockings. Trembling hands turn firm, knuckles white, when he lifts his skirts. In all his life, Cloud has never run quite like this. As a child, he always ran for joy, not for freedom, and tonight, he knows too well the difference.
He cannot stop until he is certain they will not follow. And even then, he is not sure the fear will ever leave him.
Leave him, he heard earlier, slipped behind a tree, holding his skirts close so they would not betray his position. That little slut will come crawling back by morning, desperate for a knot.
Alright. More wine for the rest of us, then, eh?
He knows this path better than they do, or at least he should, but not in the dark. Near the end of the endless feast, when Lord Shinra had gone to smoke with his knights, Cloud had slipped away. Today, bathed and prepared for the ceremony, he had spent his first day without shackles since he had presented all those months ago.
Catching his breath, he pauses for a moment, glancing between the branching path, oddly familiar, and the unpaved space between trees, shrouded in shadow. Shouldn’t he know the way? It must be the wine dulling his senses, and the still-lingering terror that they will return and snatch him once again.
Keep going!
As a boy, he had journeyed into the woods often enough, looking for butterflies or flowers or herbs for his mother’s kitchen, and yet this road is unknown, ensconced in shadow and fog, despite the stars beginning to reveal themselves as the ink of night pushes back the dusk.
Better this road than the other, which will lead back to Nibelheim soon enough. Better the unknown than the known—a lifetime as a breeder for the only lord who had deigned to visit the village with enough coin to buy him.
Like everything in his life since the day he presented, the dress was chosen for him, and he cannot stand it. The damask is stiff and tight, forcing his flat chest together to give the illusion of fullness, and the stitching inside the bodice scratches at his skin. Even worse with the decreasing temperature is his bare arms, as the dress is held up only by the compression of fabric against his chest and the cinching of the corset.
The skirts are so long he can barely walk without lifting them and minding each step. As with everything for omegas, this is far from practical. No, this is a dress for an object, for a doll, not a person more used to climbing mountains and chopping firewood than sitting perfectly still and wearing rouge.
This morning, he had hardly dared to look in the glass, but he knows the dress flatters the curve of his waist, with skirts flowing around, simulating a more feminine body. Any alpha would be pleased with this appearance, but Cloud loathes it.
Worst of all are the tiny pearl buttons down his back, an extra layer of humiliation. It had taken a very nervous omega girl the better part of half an hour to do it, the last attendant to help him dress for the ceremony. She wore a thick leather collar around her neck, and throughout the entire ordeal, she never looked into his eyes even once.
It’ll be okay, she had said, even as her hands shook with each button.
Bullshit. The pearls are there for the other alphas to hear through the door when the groom tears the dress from his body and they scatter across the floor. Tradition, apparently.
The gown is tight enough as it is; the corset nearly strangles him as he runs, his stamina now beginning to falter. His hair falls from the braids, twisted in the veil, and when he pauses to catch his breath, he realizes the lights of the village are so far behind he cannot be sure from which way he came, except by the configuration of the stars, which he memorized long ago.
Deep along the path, he lifts the veil from his shoulders and wipes the cold sweat from his nape, where it slides under the neckline of the gown. It’s tradition to wear the embroidered veil, even during the ceremony, so only the alpha can see once they are alone at the end of the night. Alone, with his knot inside, the alpha must collar the omega.
Keep . . . going . . .
Today, with the chain finally gone from around his ankle, they had dressed him up, covered him in perfumes and cosmetic paint.
White crystals sit in his ears, pearls around his neck and wrists and ankles, and beneath the skirt, he wears lace stockings. On his feet are soft-soled slippers, now nearly shredded—an omega is to remain at home, or on the alpha’s lap, at the very least—and on his body, the white, constricting dress, low-cut, with lace-edged cap sleeves puffed over slim shoulders.
Well, fuck these alphas and their old-fashioned traditions. When Cloud had passed the border of the village, he had cast the veil back over his hair. Still pinned there for the little warmth it offers his bare shoulders, it serves no other purpose now. Here, he needs his vision unobstructed.
Next, he rips off the loop of pearls around his neck, and after a moment’s contemplation, he slips the heavy platinum ring from his right hand and hurls it into the thicket. The alpha had given it to him at the altar, and it was all he could see from under the veil.
While he might be able to sell it if he ever makes it to the next village, he wants nothing more to do with that little piece of metal. He does not want that lord’s coin, or any other that might be offered on account of his dynamic.
He wants to run.
A mysterious, curling fog seeps along the path, twisting around his sore feet. In the fading light, he sees white powder, crumbling and pilling between his fingers. Wipes his hand over his sweaty cheek, giggling a little at what he has just done.
He takes the slippers off, clutches them in one hand, lifts up his skirts, and continues on the path, laughing softly until his chest aches.
He’s done it, at last.
From under the veil, he hadn’t even known which alpha it was, nor which of their many faces would haunt his life from now on. There he had sat at his side, all while Cloud stared down at his hands in his lap.
All he knows is that he detests that alpha’s scent, still clinging to his gown, and all his dreams would have been over if he hadn’t done this—to see the world, to see the ocean, to know a person who doesn’t lock him up or force him to scent something repulsive.
To play outside until sunset, and to be happy. He had wanted so little, until it had been too much for them to tolerate, until he had fallen into the throes of his heat shortly after his sixteenth birthday.
And perhaps this foolish, hopeless choice will only prolong the inevitable. But to feel the wind in his hair, the air in his lungs, the moss beneath his feet—any price is worth it. For this.
As a child, he could run for hours, it seemed, barefoot in the forest, climbing trees and picking berries. But these last few seasons chained in the cellar have left him weak, and the calluses on his feet are long gone. Something slashes in his chest, stopping the air from filling his lungs.
Still, he presses on, the laughter fading away, and when he bites his lip, that telltale lump rising in his throat, he wills himself not to cry. The emotional drop is inevitable; how is he to survive?
He has not allowed a single since his mother’s death, shortly before his first heat; she had succumbed to a short illness, and he had stayed in the house, doing odd jobs for the other villagers: repairing their tools, delivering items from the general store, and coordinating the courier service between traveling merchants and the local shops.
He no longer attended the village school, unable to afford a day without work, though he wanted to study blacksmithing, or chocobo husbandry—a trade that could take him anywhere, away from tradition. Something to do with his hands would suit him well.
His heat had changed all that. All his dreams were dashed in an instant: he rocketed from a vague cramp to full-blown delirium in the span of a few short hours. In vain, he tried to build a nest at home, but before nightfall, the mayor and his men had come to lock him away.
At sixteen summers, his fate had been sealed.
Today marked the first occasion he had been allowed to return to the house, to fetch his mother’s things, which he would be allowed to keep for his future nest.
Standing there in a thin silk dress, with the lord’s knights at his side, he ultimately took nothing. The alpha would, of course, receive the property itself as part of the marital contract, but after his mother’s passing, living alone, Cloud had already hidden his most precious possessions in the secret places only he knows.
This morning, he passed right by them with the knights flanking him. A loose floorboard here, a tiny nook behind the wood stove, a space cut into the shelf. Ma’s sewing-scissors, her wood-carved figurines that Cloud had made for her of the wolf and fox of the forest, the guardians of old—and her own gold ring, the one she kept for Cloud, should he ever find a suitable mate.
Then, concealed in the pantry, beneath an inconspicuous tin of preserved cactuar flower fruit, the herbs and tinctures she always took, which had not saved her, but which he knows now, too late—fuck—were used to preserve her status as a passing beta.
He passed right by it all, shaking his head at the knights. “I need nothing, sers.”
“So humble. Nothing here worth keeping anyway, is there?”
There’s nothing in this village worth keeping, as far as I’m concerned.
He loosens the stays on the waist, though it’s difficult to reach, and besides, he is so cold his fingers are too stiff to fumble with the buttons along his spine, and the corset prevents him from getting them all. Plus, he has nothing else to wear, and he will surely freeze without clothing. Even at the threshold of summer, nights in Nibelheim can be dangerous.
He could not stand it. The sight of his body in the glass this morning, in the stiff corset and white silk, had shocked him. Still worse had been the dread. An unmarried omega in a village like his would have only a few years at most, and for some reason, he had counted on years, not months.
Without his mother to intervene or to teach him her secrets, he had been left with no choice, and his first and only attempt to escape while wracked with heat had promptly resulted in his detention in the cellar of the village church. It seemed unholy, to sleep so close to the ground, where the rats scurried. They kept him fed, still, but his skin crawled, and each scrap of light felt more cruel than to leave him in the dark.
Like a prize chocobo, he had been chained up and left to wait. A few alphas had come to inspect him, but he had spent his days waiting and dreaming, eating whatever they gave him, staring out the window, and imagining a life with grass between his toes and wind in his hair.
“What fortune, an omega of age,” they would say from above.
“A boy!”
“Even so. What a treasure for Nibelheim. An honor, my good sirs,” they had said.
Cloud could hear them through the door at the top of the stairs, or from the little slit-window at the top of the cellar wall, where he could see onto the village square if he stood on one of the wine-casks.
They had kicked him between the ribs for listening, for repeating their words and snarling at them, though they never struck his face—and only rarely his ass, which they liked to ogle and show to the other alphas who passed through.
But it did not matter. There was no plan to be made.
Desperate to think of a way out, he had hissed and spit at all of them, and they had apprised him like cattle on more than one occasion, inspecting his teeth and his hole and his scent glands. He had hated it, hated it most of all when his body produced slick against his will, and the memory sends shivers up his spine as he runs into the descending night.
His treatment had changed a few weeks ago, when some of the married omegas in the village had come to brush his matted hair and give him a proper bath and sweet foods and a dress, rather than the oversized tunic they had kept him in for months.
So tired of sitting on the dirt floor of the cellar all day, he had not minded this change in his fortune at first, but he had quickly realized they wanted to present him to someone new—that an alpha with means had become interested.
With foul-smelling pheromones under his nose, they had subdued him until he had behaved and allowed them to braid his hair and smear perfume across his hole.
He had not so much as laid eyes on the alpha, blindfolded and strapped to a breeding bench with his skirt shoved up above his waist. The men had muttered to one another, prodding at his sensitive, dry hole and smacking and pinching his little cock where it slotted through the space cut for it in the bench. Then, they had kneaded the globes of his ass, smearing their arousal over his flushed skin, until the mayor had told them to remain calm and not to spoil the goods.
Despite their best efforts, Cloud had stayed silent, biting the inside of his cheek until it bled, metal on his tongue.
“Yes, this one,” one of the men had panted, making a strange squelching sound behind Cloud. “I’ll take him.”
“And the price?”
“Ah!” he groaned, taking a sharp breath. “My men will bring you the sum. Prepare him and I’ll take him in two weeks’ time. We’ll have great fun.”
At least no one had attempted it today. The betas who had come to drag him to a special room at the inn to prepare his body and dress him properly made clear that tonight, this honor would be reserved for the alpha.
He pauses, letting the sharp pain in his lungs ease as he listens to the forest around him: a distant birdcall, the rustle of the underbrush, and the chirping of crickets.
Nothing human for miles, it seems.
For the first time since he tried to bite the hand of the beta applying his rouge this morning before glancing at the shy omega charged with helping him dress, he smiles.
An entire village had witnessed his end. They stood there and watched. They are probably still singing and dancing even now, celebrating their newfound wealth, their ill-gotten gains.
The alphas must be searching.
The lord had left to smoke with his companions, a posse of vile, craven alphas, each one worse than the last. Cloud had excused himself to adjust his plaited hair. In the looking-glass, he could faintly see his own face through the veil, and the damp sheen on his cheeks where his tears had adhered it to his face.
Despite the many admonitions to keep it on until he was alone with the groom, he had lifted it, briefly splashed his face with water from the ewer, and had wiped away the kohl from his eyes, red with tears. Lace stuck to his sweaty skin, despite the chill in the village hall.
For a moment, adjusting his braids, he had thought of the hairpin—perhaps sharp enough to stop an alpha, even a determined one—but this—
Why is it so cold?
There it was. A window, open from the powder-room, easy enough to climb through. To his great surprise, it led directly to the path behind the village hall, which was ordinarily full of people passing to the square.
But tonight, they were all inside, fêting his doom.
A golden chance.
Cloud had hoped all day that the alpha might choke on his supper. Perhaps now he will become so furious at Cloud’s escape that something inside his brain will snap, and he will simply die.
And then, glee in his lungs and doom in his heart, he found that his feet had carried him here, past the path he knows, deep into the heart of the ancient forest. It is a haunted, sacred place, if his mother’s songs are true.
White is not a promising color to stay hidden in the forest, but dusk has fallen, and it’s a heavy enough fabric that it is worth keeping. His vision has finally adjusted to the near dark, and the beating of his heart begins to slow as he allows the forest to take over his senses: the scent of damp pine-needles, moss, and clay. Then, as he presses on, wildflowers, thyme, white lily, and juniper.
This is his and his alone; most villagers fear the forest, and in the darkest depths, he knows the Shinra lord’s men will not follow.
If they are to catch him tomorrow, then he should have just one more night, and so he pushes on, determined to at least make it to the other side, to see the neighboring village, which he knows must be there.
There is hardly any light left now, not even the stars or the waxing moon. It figures, of course, that the earrings the lord’s men brought him this morning are not even made with real materia, so they provide no light at all on the dark trail.
Soon enough, his journey will come to an end: his confinement has left him weak. The adrenaline quickly fades, and when he stops to catch his breath once more, he realizes his feet are bleeding and the dress is torn. The bottom is stained from the grass and dirt, and his hair is tangled when he tries to re-pin it away from his neck.
When he brings his hand to his cheek, the mixture of tears and fresh blood from the whipping branches startles him.
But the dampness that falls on his cheek now is something else entirely. The clouds have rolled in, covering the last bit of the sunset and the stars.
In a matter of minutes, he’s soaked to the bone, and the dress is heavier than ever. Each layer of fabric absorbs the rain and sticks to his body. In the village hall, at the alpha’s side, it had been so warm, with the tight bodice and full underskirts, and now it is a prison, weighing down his every step.
There is no use in continuing, and so, shivering and sniffling, he finds a massive tree with a hollow in its trunk. There, he can take shelter from the rain and rub his hands together, breathing on his knuckles to keep them from growing stiff.
His stomach twists as the rain pounds the earth beyond the tree canopy; enough falls through that he does not dare leave the hollow, large enough for him to sit with his legs crossed, arranging the few dry parts of the skirts closest to his body.
During the feast, he had refused to eat, unsure of how to manage it from under the veil. Wine, however, he had taken liberally, to keep his nerves dulled and to keep him calm. A hairpin, perhaps, or a smashed bottle—that would stop him, yes? A garotte fashioned from the veil, poetic justice.
With more and more wine, his fantasies had grown more lurid, until that wonderful moment in the powder-room had presented itself. A gust of cool air, an open window, a new life.
Now, it is difficult to sit upright and to keep his eyes open, and only the involuntary shivers and the chatter of his teeth keep him from sleeping. Having come so far, he knows there is no plan that will ensure his safety. The only way out is through the forest at the base of the mountain, and he’s never seen the village on the other side. He knows the way. But whether they will be looking for a lost omega in a white dress—
Well. He is just grateful he has not yet been bitten, and he clamps his hands over the scent glands on his neck, chasing the warmth.
In all his sixteen years, nearly seventeen, he has never met an alpha who was less than wretched. All of them, to the very last, are rancid, bitter, and migraine-inducing. In the cellar, they had dabbed eucalyptus oil under his nose for his inspections after he had nearly gagged once. That was the only time they struck his face, and the mayor had made such a fuss that no-one ever attempted it again.
This lord, or at least his men, had been especially repulsive.
Thankfully, however, there are no alphas in sight.
He could still go back tomorrow and surrender, but he knows punishment awaits, and he cannot guarantee they will let him keep his hairpin, or a bottle, or anything useful at all—or that he will even have the use of his hands. What could possibly be worse than this match? To be bound and beaten? To be inspected again, prodded, and assessed, collared, and treated worse than a draft chocobo, less than human?
They can do no worse than they have already done.
Or perhaps they can.
He shudders.
Besides, he isn’t even sure he knows the way back. This place is unfamiliar, and when he looks around the space before the tree, he can’t tell which way he originally came. Only dark brush surrounds him. He curses under his breath, wiping his eyes with his skirt.
When he looks down to his side, searching for something useful, there is nothing but damp pin-needles and leaves.
Making a fire won’t be possible. If he is not mistaken, the materia spring is far—if he could even use it. He and his mother could not afford it, and omegas are forbidden from magic, so he only tried once with a shard he stole from the mayor, and he had electrocuted himself immediately.
With the materia gone and his clothes taken as punishment, he woke up dreaming of fox eyes at the edge of the forest, the ones he saw as a child, like twin lights on the dark wall of the cellar.
As a boy, he is sure they would have eaten him if he had ever been so weak, and for a moment, he had hoped for it, an innocuous death. Maybe that would have been better than going with a strange alpha, with his harsh, cold scent, like salt and acidic wine.
Tonight, however, he is alive, and he is determined to make it until morning.
Just then, something stirs, rustling in the brush; from the sound, he can tell it is not human. He wonders if there are wolves or flans or something far, far worse. Tonight, he has heard the occasional flutter of a bird or a squirrel in the branches above and around, but this is something else entirely. Its steps are measured, slow, and then they stop, and—
As he rubs his hands together, shivering, bracing himself for an attack, he sees it, glowing despite the absence of light in the space before the tree: a fox, paler than the ones he has seen before, and quite small, perhaps the height of his knee.
Entirely unafraid, it bows its head, though its eyes never leave Cloud’s face, and despite the storm, its fur is perfectly dry. Cloud is filled with the odd compulsion to bow his head in greeting, too, and when he does so, the fox tilts his head to one side.
Suddenly sitting up straight, finds himself drawn in by its vivid green eyes, which seem to glow in the night, unlike everything else around him, like the dream he had after the materia incident.
As it approaches, its paws leaving no imprint in the muddy earth, its tail flicks back and forth, dark-tipped and fluffy. Like its tail, its paws and the tips of its are tinged black, as though dipped in ink.
He’s always liked animals, though recently he has started to wonder why the animals in the village are entitled to better treatment than he is. Its tail sweeps low across the ground as it approaches, now close enough that he can see the way its fur vibrates with each pulse of its little heart.
To his eye, everything about the fox’s attitude indicates friendliness, and he doesn’t mind sharing his space under the tree, so he shifts to the side to allow the fox a dry patch of ground upon which to sit.
Much to his surprise, it does not spare the ground a single glance; instead, it jumps right onto his lap and rolls onto its back, exposing its soft stomach and panting with its tongue lolling out to one side.
Cloud has seen a few foxes before, though not in many years, and this one is much more curious about humans than he remembers. This little friend is a pleasant distraction, and its fur is warm under his touch when he strokes behind its ears and pats its belly.
“Okay, okay,” he says quietly, smiling at the fox as he plays with its curled paws. “Alright, careful.”
It snorts a little, almost a sneeze, then nips at his fingers, its mouth curving into a smile, mirroring his own. Although it goes for Cloud’s hands, there is no violent intent.
But this thing cannot possibly be tame. Something uneasy lurks in Cloud’s core, a hot, nauseous feeling, despite the chill of his skin, and he wonders what will come next. Fortunately, the fox is docile enough, wiggling and thumping its tail against Cloud’s waist.
“You can stay, if you want. Just don’t bite my hands, please. I am not your dinner.”
As if to apologize, now it licks his fingers, and then, leaping up on its back paws, it goes for Cloud’s face, lapping at his cheek.
“Hey, hey.” A few stern turns of his head convince the fox to finally calm down, and it eventually settles on his lap, breathing slowly, its body curled like a morning bun.
Radiant and warm under his hands, the fox adjusts its position every so often, seemingly content to receive Cloud’s gentle attention.
For a moment, he looks at where the ring was on his now-bare finger as it rests on the fox’s back and grins. For tonight, he made it, and perhaps the fox is a sign from the forest, a creature once worshipped, if spirits still live, if magic is not gone from the world.
He has heard that their shrines are still in ruins, deep in the forest. According to most in Nibelheim, these are just fanciful stories, and he had always been scolded by others, even before his presentation, for caring about such childish things.
Petting the fox with one hand, he touches the smooth walls of the tree hollow with the other; it is the kind of place where, as a boy, he would have searched for a shrine to the old gods.
Of course, no one has seen these shrines in years, but he had looked—in the heart of great trees, or in little burrows by the side of the manmade path. He had only ever found flowers, jonquil and lily, and he had plucked them to bring to his mother.
He had simply been curious, and in exchange for flowers to brighten their little home, his mother would sing him the old songs, telling of wolves with swords in their mouths, one-eyed gods, great monsters from the sea, bloody-mouthed foxes and wolves, white crows with rubies for eyes who could speak in human tongues.
Perhaps he can be free for one more night. Perhaps even another day, if the forest’s fortune stays with him. For a moment, he thinks he might collect flowers tomorrow to sell in the next village, or to exchange for proper clothes. Shivering, he pushes his wet hair back from his forehead and adjusts the veil around his shoulders.
The fox whimpers a little.
“Caught in the rain too, hm? Well, I suppose we’re both stuck out here,” he mutters, rubbing its ears and cheeks. It nuzzles against his hands, and he realizes he is becoming tired when he stops petting it, earning him a high-pitched yip. “Sorry, little fellow.”
He does not want to fall asleep, and he does not want to go back, so it’s easy to close his eyes, letting his hands fall into a slow rhythm. “You don’t know how lucky you are, with somewhere to stay like this. Did I steal your spot from you tonight? Is that it?”
This time, the fox rests its chin on his palm and looks up at him, unbearably cute.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you only for tonight, and then I have to go to the next village. You must be looking for your family, out in the storm, hm?”
As if to answer, thunder rumbles in the distance. Unlike many other animals, the fox has no fear of it, and its eyes slide closed with pleasure as Cloud runs his thumbs against the hollow of its ears. When he stops once more to count the seconds between the flash of light and the next thunderclap, it nudges its cold nose against his fingers again.
“Yes, yes, I know.”
He has always liked animals, and for the warmth he brings—yes, he, Cloud notes—and the quiet camaraderie, he thinks the fox may be better than any pet he might have wanted as a child. Brilliant eyes flash like peridot, and when he strokes its tail, it sighs contentedly, nuzzling closer to his corseted stomach.
“And if those people come back and I fall asleep, keep an eye out. I think they’ve given up.” He talks more to himself than to the fox, but he keeps going. After months in the cellar, the fox is a better companion than any he can recall. “Too bad you aren’t any bigger. Those city alphas would be scared to see what’s in our forests. I promise, I won’t let them have you either, if you don’t want to be their pet. We can fight, you and me . . .”
He yawns, and the fox yawns too, showing off its pointy teeth and its black gums, before blinking slowly at him.
“I’ll protect you, if you stay with me and keep me warm. Lucky you, with all that fur. Seems like a fair trade, don’t you think?”
Despite himself, he continues to talk, knowing it is all meaningless; the fox cannot possibly understand his human language, even if they say Nibel is closer to the ancient tongue than most. They have words for every type of leaf, every shade of green, every week of the agricultural cycle. The Shinra lord does not speak his language, of course, though Cloud understands his common tongue well enough, and between alphas and omegas, they say it does not matter.
At least, Cloud knows, he would have understood the message of a hairpin to his femoral artery, transcending all human language.
At the thought of it, Cloud’s heart beats a little quicker, and the fox licks his hands again, whining.
“You want me to pet you again? So demanding. I suppose that’s fair.”
The fox huffs a few more times, pawing at Cloud’s skirts, before settling for good. The dirty, rain-soaked fabric does not seem to bother him, and soon the feeling returns fully to Cloud’s hands.
Before long, his legs grow stiff from sitting in the same position. However, he knows better than to disturb a wild creature, so he lets himself drift towards sleep, trying to keep his hands moving, so the fox doesn’t cry or bite his fingers or, worse, run off into the night.
When he can, when he makes it to the next village, he wants to light a candle for whatever spirit brought the fox his way tonight. Soon enough, it will be morning, and they will find him. One way or another. For now, he will close his eyes, and wait until dawn, and with the fox in his lap, it is far easier to rest than he had expected.
But when he opens his eyes again, everything has changed.
His skirts are hiked up around his thighs, and he is flat against some kind of smooth surface. The dress has been pulled low over his chest and around his shoulders, the hem caught against his nipples, and the skirts are bunched up around his knees. He can feel herbal compresses on his bony ankles and aching feet, wrapped in what feel like silk bandages.
Blurred, golden light pulses above, illuminating dark leaves above, twisted in an arched roof. This is not the tree hollow, but somewhere else entirely.
Where did the fox go? His hands are no longer cold; in fact, his body is curiously warm, though his limbs are numb and distant, and there is something strangely wet beneath him on the flat surface.
Oh, gods.
There can be no question—it’s his slick, dripping out of him, the way it did during that first time last year. He tries to sit up and squeeze his legs together to stop it, but a firm weight presses his shoulders down, and something obscures the light. Beneath the dress, his hardness swells, a most unusual sensation, and one he has not felt since his heat. No matter what the alphas do, he feels nothing at all, and yet—
“Easy, now,” a low voice says. “You must be tired from your journey.”
All around, the fireflies light up in tandem, bathing the clearing in their gentle glow. Cloud tries desperately to focus his vision, rubbing at his eyes, and then, something strong snatches his wrist.
The weight pressing atop him is not the fox, now vanished, but a man—fully naked, with his hair in odd points atop his head. Cloud’s vision swims, and he blinks away the film of sleep, only to find that the man’s hair falls to his ankles around his shoulders and before his body, in a style somehow less modest than being fully bare. Beneath, of course, the shape of his body is more than evident.
Sculpted and precise, he is a true alpha, and something craven in Cloud wants nothing more than to remain perfectly still and look upon him until he dies of thirst and hunger.
This must be an enchantment, and he is powerless to break free of it, not because he lacks the strength, but because the will to resist is gone, and he struggles to remain alert.
However, he is so painfully exhausted and in such discomfort that the edges of his vision tinge black, and he fears he may fall asleep again, or succumb to the illness that has begun to fester inside of him. This must be a dream, he thinks, but when he closes his eyes, the sensation of warm hands on his skin does not fade.
The man is still there, and he runs his broad palm down the length of Cloud’s forearm, then lifts it, tracing his fingers perilously close to the scent gland on his wrist.
“I was beginning to think you might never wake up.”
Cloud’s eyes threaten to close again, and the man’s fingers circle his other wrist easily, lifting them both to his face. Though his vision swims, he can make out a strange sniffling sound, and something warm against his wrist; he shivers a little, unsure of this feeling.
“Where . . . what . . .” he murmurs, scanning the bowed branches and thick leaves above before looking back at the nude man sitting at his side. “Who are you?”
With his arms outstretched, and that curious sensation against his wrists, he wants to get closer, to see him and study the planes of his face, but he cannot sit up, not without a radiating pain in his lower back—and in areas far more unspeakable, too. If something happened, if he’s hurt, if the fox is hurt, if he broke his promise—
“You came into my forest, dressed as my bride, reeking of filthy alphas,” the man replies, his voice playful as it hums against the scent gland on Cloud’s wrist, melting something inside of him. “What was I to do but take you to my home?”
Long hair tickles the tops of Cloud’s exposed thighs as he sits at his side, inspecting his shaking hands and kissing his palms. Despite every logical part of his brain telling him that this is wrong, that this hypnotic scent can only mean danger, he hangs onto every word.
“Are you not an offering for me?” the man-more-than-a-man breathes, lapping at Cloud’s fingers with a startlingly rough tongue. “Finally, a worthy sacrifice from that pitiful, dead village. It has been so very long.”
“No, I—” He chokes at the unbidden pleasure that curling, long tongue brings him, going straight to his pulsing, dripping hole. “I was lost, and waiting for the rain to stop. Please, tell me—what happened to the fox?”
As he looks up at his captor, he takes in the tapestry of this night: fireflies arranged as lanterns behind him, and yet, the light that radiates from his body is so bright Cloud feels tears pricking at his eyes.
There is a silvery sheen not only to his hair, his ears, his nails; his skin is almost opalescent. Diamondlike muscle is packed onto his frame, his teeth are like pearls, his eyes like tourmaline, and beneath it all, a scent Cloud wishes he had the words to describe. In a word, he is enchanting, an enchantment brought to life, and those points on his head are not some styling of his hair, but—
“Here, little bride.”
Cloud hisses as the man kisses his knuckles with a profound reference, then lifts him around the shoulders, aiding him to sit upright, slumped in his embrace. Seated together, he comes barely to the man’s shoulder, and long tendrils of hair float all around, like meteors streaked across the now-dirtied silk of his wedding-dress.
From thin air, the man plucks a huge magnolia-leaf full of water, twisted like a goblet, and lifts it to Cloud’s lips.
“Drink,” he commands, when Cloud allows him to tip his head back and take it in his mouth, the water tastes sweeter than any wine or nectar he has ever had.
It is cold as the Nibel glacier, but the sharp, white-hot pain twists in his core, and he cries out, the edge of something near-feral bleeding into his his voice. Sharp teeth rest over his plump lip when his mouth opens.
“Allow me, dear bride.”
The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. The pearls are gone—he had discarded the ones looped around his neck, too close to a collar for his liking—but the bracelets he had kept, hoping he might sell them.
The humans will find him.
How foolish he was.
But this—
The pearls scatter into the air and each bursts into flame, burning into ash in an instant. His wrists are bare, and the man—no, the spirit—takes Cloud’s wrists in his hands, thumbing once more at his pulse points, sending a violent frisson through his entire body.
“I found a fox,” he gasps, “and—ah!”
The man tilts his head to one side, then to the other. His ears, those points of hair, flatten and flop when he cocks his head, then perk up when Cloud’s mouth falls open.
At the tips, he can see darker hair.
Well, not hair.
Fur.
How could Cloud not have recognized him?
“And?” he purrs. “What happened then, little one? What was it you said to me there in my shrine?”
“I . . . I . . .” His mouth goes suddenly dry, and he is drowning in green, green, green. The fireflies blaze around them, and he cannot speak.
“Stay with me, keep me warm, and I will protect you, yes? You would protect me? Ha,” he huffs, his breath hot over Cloud’s skin. “How charming. Would you protect me even now?”
The fox smiles with his sharp teeth; there are far too many of them for a human mouth.
What could possibly be more fearsome than the ruler of this forest? The fox could kill him now for his arrogance, and he would deserve it.
Cloud swallows, trying to form proper words, and another burst of pain lances through him. He wrenches his hands free, clutching his stomach. It’s not the corset, it cannot be, though he can feel the boning digging into his sides. Instead, there is something deeper, something inside him, desperate to break free. With another flash of pain, he clings to the fox’s arm as he leans above him.
“It seems to me you are the one in need of protecting, not me. A bride sent just for me? What were they thinking?” His brows furrow. “A most unusual village, Nibelheim, though it has been a few centuries since I last paid it much mind . . .” He trails off, resting on his knee at Cloud’s side on the enormous surface of the tree trunk, perilously close.
Cloud tries not to think about the hardness pressing against his leg. This man, this . . . creature—he must surely be an alpha. From his appearance alone, the godlike form of his body, there can be no question about it. If he took offense at Cloud’s offer of protection, it has certainly not dulled his excitement for an omega in bridal white.
He straddles Cloud, leaning so close Cloud can scent his breath, sweet as a berry on the vine.
Before Cloud even realizes what he is doing, he settles his hand on the muscular expanse of the spirit’s thighs. His hair covers most of him, but beneath, something presses at Cloud’s thighs, at the aching point of his scent glands there.
He will not look. He will not. This—this must be—this is some mad alpha. Some demented, magical creature, perhaps even worse than the human alphas!
He should have turned back.
He should never have run.
He should have taken his silver hairpin, done the deed, and taken his punishment.
Then again, a spirit might have some noble rules it must obey. Perhaps he wishes to play a game, or test Cloud with riddles. He is clever enough, or at least the mayor accuses him of being far too clever for an “omega whore.”
But if he is an alpha, why does he smell so wonderful?
Alphas, Cloud is certain, are disgusting, immoral demons. But this one, unusual though he is, with his hands wandering over the bodice of Cloud’s dress, along his trembling arms, encircling his waist with room to spare—he smells sweet and musky, like orchids and wildflowers, juniper and fog and the first day of autumn, full of promise and the relief of summer’s end.
Cloud’s only experience of alphas is disgust and fear; they have always compelled him and shamed him, yet this man—despite his magical control and the nearly drunken feeling in Cloud’s body as he studies the figure above him—oh, his scent is glorious.
Breathing deeply, he allows it to overwhelm him, peering up at what must be a god.
When the spirit smiles once again, his scent shifts, turning to something like sunshine and honeysuckle and the wind in the forest, and somehow, with too many teeth, with too much glory, he is everything Cloud has ever wanted.
Enchantment, he knows, and a powerful one at that.
Danger!—his mind screams at him, and yet he does not wish to heed it now.
“Tell me, little bride, what is your name?” Eyeing him curiously, he now laces his fingers through Cloud’s where they rest over the place where his hips meet his waist, stroking his thumbs along the lengths of Cloud’s hands.
Then, as if to signal his interest, he presses once again at the scent gland on the underside of his wrist, worrying at the soft flesh there, and that thing between his legs twitches against Cloud’s skirts, hot even through layers and layers of damask and tulle.
The alpha lord had done the same at the altar. So why does it calm him so quickly now, when in the village church, he had had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming?
“My name . . . is Cloud.”
“Have you no other name? Your kind has surnames, yes? Family names. The name of your father, for example.”
Rightly, he should be Cloud of House Shinra, bride to a new husband. But without his ring, it isn’t true. Something in this alpha’s scent and the uncanny shimmer of seaglass eyes compels him to the truth.
“I have no father. But my . . . my . . .” He cannot bring himself to say it: his alpha, his husband, his lord. Each shape is wrong in his mouth, with the scent-memory of that man still fresh in his nose. “I am Cloud of Nibelheim,” he finally says, though his hips rock of their own accord, rolling against the fox-lord’s heat where their bodies meet.
“Then, Cloud of Nibelheim, that most cursed of villages—I must say . . .” He leans in close, his fangs leaving dimples in his plush lower lip. “I am disappointed to see that my bride came to me in such poor condition. But no matter.” His face is tantalizingly close to Cloud’s; his hair cascades around them, and yet, the light from without does not fade.
In the shadow of this man’s figure, there is no shadow at all. He is incandescent, something beyond simple human magic.
This is the type of god who can live without worship. So when he receives even a tiny bit of it, even the adoration of a lonesome runaway bride, playing with his most innocuous form, what power could he have?
Cloud only barely registers the fresh pulse of slick between his thighs and the distant whine escaping his own throat when he notices the fluffy ears perk up once again.
Another smile is his only warning before he leans down, nosing at Cloud’s scent gland; Cloud hisses and throws his head back when he licks a long stripe across that patch of skin, now engorged and painful. He cannot help this innate, bone-deep reaction, the twisting of his spine and the jolt that goes straight to his core, to his cock, to his scent glands, which throb painfully.
The fox-man’s nose twitches as he sits back on his heels once more.
“Lovely. Nearly ready.”
Determined not to look down between his legs, Cloud can feel the heat of him through the voluminous skirts, still wet from the rain and clinging to his thighs.
Cloud supposes that that—pressing against him, blazing hot and urgent—must be his most human part, though when the alphas had pleasured themselves while inspecting him, he had never dared to look, he finds himself curious.
For a moment, relishing the contact between their bodies, he lets his mouth fall open as he listens to the rain battering the magicked canopy above, and the beat of his own heart, and the silken words of the fox-spirit, who spreads him wider, stroking at the soft, bruised skin of his thighs.
Flat on his back, through his tears, Cloud cannot see where one tree ends and the other begins, though he supposes it does not matter.
“Though, as I thought, you are promised to another, and he would have had you but for your determination. I can still smell the stink of him on you. What a foul stain of a human.”
His face wrinkles in disgust.
“Most of your kind are dead before they ever make it this far, and their instincts prevent them from coming to my domain. And yet you ran from one who would call you his. Unmarked, unmated, unbound. So then . . .” he pauses, scenting the air again, before continuing, “by the rules of your kind, you belong to no-one.”
“That’s right.” Cloud’s voice is small, drowned by the feeling of the fox’s hands on his blazing-hot skin. The fever will consume him, but that touch is keeping it at bay.
And if what the fox says is true, then he is no longer Cloud of Nibelheim.
Now, he is simply Cloud of the forest.
Sitting, waiting, burning under that cutting gaze is nearly unbearable; the fox’s heartbeat blazes against him as inhuman, their cocks nearly touching. While inhuman eyes rove every inch of his body, Cloud can think of nothing more than ridding himself of this prison of a dress, with the way it clings to his skin, cutting off his air, but he is not sure he could stand to bare his body before this . . . this god.
This inhuman creature, fixated on Cloud’s scent glands, where his thumbs touch beneath Cloud’s skirt, and with a scent of his own so ripe and lovely Cloud cannot believe it is real.
He tilts his head again, sending his hair in a river down one side of his body, exposing the curve of his hip and his narrow waist and the muscle of his thigh where it meets his thick, swollen shaft, and Cloud sees him for what he is.
That tiny, adorable creature, grown to half Cloud’s size, in a deadly, pleasing form. Still, he maintains the mannerisms of the fox, a most powerful shapeshifter. Curious, dark-tinged ears perked forward, and behind him, Cloud realizes there is more than just his supernaturally long hair: a tail, ink-tipped and swaying in the air.
“Tell me. Did you not feel it, the boundary of my home? How did you come so far, if you are not meant to be mine?”
Cloud swallows, trying to find his voice.
“I . . .”
“Go on, little bride.” His hands settle over Cloud’s thighs, just above his knees, warm and firm. His thumbs press at the soft skin of the inside of Cloud’s legs, slipping beneath his skirts, but he doesn’t push farther. He waits, long fingers wrapped all the way round slender legs.
The bruises from Cloud’s last beating have only just begun to fade, and those vulpine eyes narrow as they roam over the green and jaundiced marks.
Conscious of the sensation beneath his skin, deeper than the bruise, Cloud stutters over his breath. Is this the effect of magic? Has their game of riddles already begun?
Is he already dead?
“I was just . . . running. A runaway, as you put it. You’re—you’re a spirit, aren’t you?”
“A spirit, a demon, a god, the master of your village, an angel, a friend, or to some, a calamity, a nightmare, a fiend. I go by many names.” He smiles again, the flash of malice now gone from his mien. “But I am more interested in you than in discussing what foolish humans choose to call me. You managed to pass through some very powerful charms.”
“I used to play here as a child. I know this place.”
He cannot be certain of it, but the tree hollow had seemed so familiar, so safe. Had the lilies grown there, or the herbs for his mother’s tinctures? Had he chased a butterfly down a dark, unmarked path?
It does not matter. The fox will do what the fox will do.
“Yet it is curious. I can tell that you have no magical experience whatsoever.”
He wrinkles his nose again, scenting the air, and sits back before he leans down on forearms, spreading Cloud’s legs in a most obscene way. With hands like iron, he pins him in place without any hesitation, though his eyes glitter and his lips look glossy when he licks them.
Kneeling with his shoulders pressed low, he looks like a fox giving him a play bow, the way he had done before him in the tree hollow.
A proper greeting, then.
But it is no greeting, Cloud learns; this is an inspection, of sorts, and despite the soaked lace between them, Cloud has never felt more exposed.
“Let me see, little bride.”
Scenting between Cloud’s legs in the most intimate way, above the lace bloomers with the open seam between his legs, designed for an alpha to take him as swiftly as possible. Carefully, painstakingly slowly, he slips a long finger under the hem, closer than ever before to the source of Cloud’s wetness, and he pauses, grazing ever so slightly against his hole, just enough that Cloud can be certain this is no dream.
In the space between their breaths, even more of his shameful gushes out, and Cloud can tell from the way the fox’s ears swivel on his head that he has spilled across this god’s hand.
An easy, blissful smile spreads across his face.
His inspection is complete, though now, seemingly emboldened, he rests his hands over the little bulge in the front of Cloud’s bunched-up skirt, and his eyes study Cloud’s face.
Cloud bites back a moan, willing himself not to move despite that tempting, strange pleasure. He has never felt like this with any man, any person—let alone a creature with a tail wagging furiously behind him.
“Despite your condition, you made it here. No ability, but potential, determination. And all this, despite being poisoned, if I am not mistaken.” Before Cloud can protest, he sniffs again at his neck, then his wrists, and the scent glands just below the hem of his bloomers. His tail goes stock-still, then the hairs all stand on end.
His ears flatten again, then prick up.
“Let us strike a new bargain,” he murmurs, resting his cheek on top of Cloud’s skirts, his mouth perilously close to the place where the fabric is stretched tight over his cock. “Be mine, and I will keep the promise.”
“Wouldn’t you keep it anyway?” Cloud pants, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I heard you have to keep promises you make to humans.”
He has his mother to thank for this one.
His eyes narrow, though his mouth curves into a sharp, wild smile.
Cloud squeezes his eyes shut. If this trickster creature means to kill him, he hopes it will be quick.
But it is not to be.
“Those rules only apply to those of us who lived here before the humans came. But you, my lovely bride . . . with you, I find myself wishing to be honest for once.” His cheek nuzzles against Cloud’s thigh, his hardness, the bruises, all of it, and everything that has brought him here. Against the dirty silk, he shines, and Cloud cannot look away. “After all, there should be no secrets between husband and wife.”
Husband and . . . ?
“You are human, and yet soon, you will be something far more. Now come, and let us wash the odor of that filthy alpha off of you. I would have my bride be clean, bearing only your own scent, just for me. How sweet will you be, Cloud?”