I have loved so hard

that it broke my heart—

Silence settled after his words— it cloaked the beast and the beauty in stillness for a few, long moments; heat seeping from his hot hide into her blushed skin, her lack of rage submerging his chaotic thoughts. Until—

Until her rose lips parted and hell spilled from the mouth of the dove.

“It is not uncommon for those born into the life of a whore to speak the language of our more frequent customers.” Never had he expected such an answer to his question; he supposed that something must have happened to elicit such destructive fury in the woman. But this? His silence held, even as the mass of muscles beneath his hide corded and rippled, growing taut with each cathartic word. Ears twitched backwards with her breathy laugh— there was a cruelty beneath that moving air, in how empty it could be.

The Elephant had heard whispers of Uumalah and the pleasure that could be found there. He had no interest in it, but he knew many of the Council did. They coveted the Korofi’s relationship with the oasis city in the desert beyond the plateaus. Some of the Makutano had wanted to be the ones ‘frequenting’ those pleasure houses.

He watched her closely now, softness fleeing the cobalt gaze that studied her downcast stare. A pupil-less stare that had been bold and defiant, until now. He felt her pale sides heave against his slabbed ribs, the signs of struggling with memories. He saw the delicate muscle of her jaw stand out as she clenched her teeth— teeth that parted to spill the auction of her virginity. His expression hardened, lips pursing as his silence still held. He did not dare interrupt her— it would be an insult to the trust she was placing in him.


 “Father had come to my chambers—”

—that was, his silence held this. A deep, enraged, guttural grunt ripped from his throat, reverberating in his barrel against her side. Teeth creaked as he gritted them, neck twitching as a familiar heat arose in his chest and a trumpet to echo in the back of his skull. For a father to defile a daughter— for the one who was meant to protect the fruit of his lions; be it in his own perverted way of controlling who mounted her with money (for that was the only twisted logic that the Elephant King could reason and grapple within his own morals)… But to stir his own lions and move to shove himself inside her? Inside his daughter?

Anger (not pity, for this woman did not need pity; nor did she need more anger, so overflowing was she with it; but, still, his anger came) heated his eyes as she finally looked at him. Though, the raging inferno within him quieted to simmering coals beneath the agonized stare and desperate whisper. His stare gentled as she whispered, jaw unclenching as her eyes slid closed.

“Apologies mean nothing to you now, Orithia. And you are a woman who does not need commendations for surviving that. But know that I am sorry you ever had to endure such things. A father should protect, not…” his quiet rumble trailed off has he realized his own shadows were beginning to blend into hers. So he did not speak of fathers (or failed ones). Instead, he continued about her, “You are no waridi jangwa. You are a njiwapavu*, and I am proud to know you, and to have fought you.” And, almost possessively, his great mass absorbed her weight as she leaned against him. His muzzle stretched out, protectively, to touch the juncture of her jaw and neck— a breath in time where a man’s advances on the woman were not intended to be sexual.


waridi jangwa = desert rose (or rose of the desert)
njiwapavu= valiant/fearless dove