Serpentine Desires

The prey

Was I dead?

I think I was dead.

There were clouds in my head—thick, suffocating. My body didn't feel like mine. I couldn't tell if it was moving or floating, heavy or light. The world around me was strange, distant, like I was caught between two realms.

Snow.

I remembered snow. Biting winds, the cruel embrace of frost gnawing at my skin. I'd been running. From what? From who? Him. Maybe me.

But now... warmth.

Why did I feel warm when I should've been frozen solid? Why did my veins hum like molten fire coursed through them?

My eyes fluttered open, but the world remained blurry, soft edges and muted colours blending into one. Something heavy pinned me down. Not crushing, but holding me—an unfamiliar weight on my limbs. I blinked, my lashes brushing against skin that felt raw, and finally, shapes started to form.

Blankets. Thick, suffocating blankets.

And hands.

Warm, calloused hands sliding up my thighs, pressing into my skin like they belonged there. Strong, possessive hands that didn't tremble the way I did. My breath hitched, and for a moment, my fever-addled mind whispered nonsense.

More.

The warmth was addictive, and even in my delirium, I found myself leaning into it. Every touch sparked a flicker of life in my frozen body. Who was it?

"Ptichka," a deep voice murmured, rough and low like the growl of a storm.

Ptichka. I knew that voice.

Judas.

The realization should've been a slap, but it wasn't. Instead, it felt like velvet—soft, wrong, and far too tempting.

I managed a hoarse whisper, my throat a desert. "Why... warm? Why... here?"

His lips were close. Brushing against my ear as he muttered, caressing my senses and making them his solely for this world belonged to him along with mine. Tainted words teased my ears. "Then where? You'd rather die buried in snow than be with me? I won't let my possession die that easily."

Possession. His favourite word. I should've been furious, but my mind was slow and hazy, and his voice was like a lullaby wrapped in razor wire.

"You're... warm," I mumbled, shivering despite the heat consuming me. Moving closer to him, breathing him, drinking him and drowning in him.

"Yes, baby," he whispered keeping his tone bordering on possessiveness. "Unlike you, I'm not a reckless little fool who thinks she can outlast a Russian storm." His hand cupped my cheek, fingers brushing the damp hair away. "What the hell were you thinking?"

I didn't have an answer. Maybe I wasn't thinking at all. Maybe that was the point.

His hand trailed down, grazing the curve of my waist, his thumb dragging a line that left a fire in its wake. I whimpered, half in protest, half in surrender. He was touching me everywhere but between my legs. And I knew it was bad, but I couldn't process anything. I needed his warmth. I didn't want to stay in that snow. It was so cold.

"Cold," I murmured moving closer to him and feeling him stiffen before he snuggled me to his broad chest.

"You're cold because you're stubborn," My nightmare groaned as his voice hardened and but his hands softened. One slipped beneath the blankets, cupping my hip, his palm branding me with its heat. "And you're warm now because I'm here. You owe me for that, Ptichka."