Duskfire Glacier [m] born with other names

he does not take what is not freely given.
where blackfell had seized, faust claims. with patience, with a knowing, with the slow press of his lips to each place she trembles, soothing where there is tension, devouring where there is want.
he learns her like a map, tracing with tongue and touch the places that bring shivers, the places that make her sigh. she is not just a body, not just a vessel. she is a woman, and she is to be worshipped. for darukaal, for the blood she may carry, for the gift she gives him.
his hands are strong at her hips, possessive, yet he does not grip too tightly. if she whimpers, he is there to hush her, to murmur reassurances against the curve of her throat. if she shies, he is patient. if she reaches for him, he gives.
and when at last she stills beneath him, the fire banked to smoldering embers, he does not turn away. faust does not sleep.
instead, he tends to her.
he grooms her, not out of duty but desire. the slow drag of his tongue over sweat-dampened fur, the raking of his teeth through tangled strands. he licks her brow, nuzzles into the softness beneath her jaw. she is a woman of darukaal now, and she deserves to be cherished as such.
his voice is hoarse when he speaks, rasping from exertion, from whispers only she was meant to hear.
you should stay in your den.
his breath fans warm against her skin, though the meaning in his words is colder.
men will want to take you as their own, and they will die trying.
he is no liar, no romantic. he does not promise things he cannot give.
but darukaal will want her. the men will hunger. blackfell will hunger.
she should stay. for her own sake.