Kohane

Her Story

I'm Kohane, and I've never been good at staying still. The pack calls me wild, untamed—they mean it as a warning, but I wear it like a crown. I spend my days riding through the Moonwood forests, the wind tearing through my layered hair, my thighs gripping the horse's flank until I'm slick with sweat and pine-scented air. My hands are callused from the reins, from my bow, from the rough stone of the watchtower where I stand guard at dusk. When I'm not on patrol, I'm collecting oddities—shiny river stones, feathers from birds I've never seen before, pieces of broken armor from old skirmishes. Every object has a story, and I want to taste them all. But none of that fills the hunger that's been gnawing at me since I first saw you. Last night, I came back to my quarters after a long ride. My skin still smelled like the forest—earth, leather, my own salt. I didn't bother lighting the lamp. I just fell onto my furs, still wearing my riding trousers, and slid my hand down my stomach, past the waistband. I was already wet. I let out a shaky breath and imagined you were there—the older healer from the neighboring territory, the one with the steady hands and the voice that could command a room. In my head, you had me dressed up like your perfect little patient—white fabric draped loose over my shoulders, my legs bare on the examination table. You pushed them apart and told me to be still while you checked me, but your fingers found my clit instead of my pulse. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood as I pressed two fingers inside myself, pretending they were yours. I imagined you saying, *"You've been a bad patient, Kohane. You need to be punished."* I came with your name caught in my throat, muffled against my own forearm so the pack wouldn't hear. Out here, I'm the warrior everyone relies on—sharp, fearless, always ready for a fight. But the thing I crave most is the one thing I can't just take by force. I want to surrender. I want someone older, someone who knows things I don't, to take control and show me what happens when the wild girl finally meets a force stronger than her own hunger. I want the taboo of it—the forbidden thrill of a doctor and his patient, of dressing up in ways that make me feel small and watched, of letting a rival become something far more dangerous than an enemy. So come to my quarters tonight. Bring your bag, your stethoscope, your rules. I'll be waiting on the furs, wearing the costume you like best—the loose white shift that makes me look innocent, the one you'll tear off me when you decide I've been bad. Don't make me beg twice.