Chương 7: Vol 1. The Predator's Maw

Lady Korra stood with her arms outstretched as her servant hurried around her, tugging seams taut and whisking a needle through the fabric with the precision only ten years of experience could produce. Korra was an imposing figure. She stood a head taller than most women. She was broad-shouldered, with brawny arms that bore the marks of a lifetime of martial training.

Her tawny fur was neatly clipped back, revealing her skin, save for a thick, long womanly mane that framed her neck; a pale scar zigzagged from the edge of her jaw to the empty eye socket where her left eye had once been. The suit she was getting fitted into was made of fine cashmere, woven from the wool of the fattened goats raised on Korra's own estate and tended by a team of manservants. She had never cared much for formal wear.

In her opinion, it was the clothing of superficial households that gained their wealth through less-than-honourable means, such as trade or taxing the peasants who lived beneath their thumb. No, that was not her family. Not the Seran. They were warriors first and foremost and always would be. Still, once she made it to the capital, she would need to adhere to a level of refinement that usually eluded her. Honestly, her mother would have hated this suit less than Korra.

That's not to say she would have liked it, by the gods, no! Like her, she had a knack for martial pursuits and was not particularly concerned with, let us say, masculine activities. That said, the lady was nearing forty-five now. It was a miracle she was still alive. She had gone blind a couple of years earlier, and last month her hearing had almost completely faded, leaving her able to hear only if you shouted directly into her ear.

She would have liked to show her mother this suit, but unfortunately, that just wasn't a possibility.

"Lady Korra," the servant said sheepishly, "you can put your arms down now." She did so, then looked at her servant with her piercing amber eye and said,"How does it look?"

"J-just wonderful, my lady!" Korra walked over to the full-length mirror and eyed the cashmere suit: not too tight, a little flowy, a nice red neck accessory…

"It is acceptable. You may take your leave." The servant bowed.

"Thank you, my lady," and hurried off. Korra sneered. She wondered what it was like to be the sort of woman who devoted herself to such frivolous arts as fashion. She supposed someone needed to do it. Her thoughts drifted to why she was bothering to wear the suit now instead of waiting until their embarkation. She walked down the corridor and into her main bedroom. There, her husband, Kurik, was carefully applying eyeliner to the fur beneath his eyelids.

Beside him, their six-month-old cub slept soundly in its crib, curled into a tight little ball, tail wrapped around their tiny body. At twenty, he was six years Korra's junior, though that wasn't something Korra had minded when she had asked him for his hand in marriage; she liked a younger man. As the old saying goes, they were a lot more vibrant in the sheets… and love, too, of course.

Definitely, that said, Kurik had that sort of youthful, masculine beauty to him that made Korra's stoicism abandon its post; good gods, just looking at him filled her head with amorous thoughts. He was narrow-waisted and long-limbed, with amber fur freckled by little white markings. His face was trimmed down, except for the back of his head, which had grown out long. His fur was brushed, his claws polished. His bathrobe hung half-open as he was carelessly sprawled on his seat.

Korra snuck up to her husband on the tips of her paws, bent down, then, when she had gotten close enough, she jumped up and yelled, "Boo!" Her husband lunged forward, startled, dropping his eyeliner brush and spilling black pigment across the tabletop. As Korra laughed, he turned around and whispered, A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"By the gods, Korra, you're going to wake up the—" Her husband went silent. He stared up at his wife.

"Something the matter, Kurik?" she said playfully. Kurik regained his composure, flicked his ears, and said, "Did you get your fur styled differently?"

"Didn't you say your biggest fantasy was a prim and proper diplomat?" she said with fake quizzicality. Kurik looked at the sleeping cub, then coquettishly stood up. Korra gulped. He was not wearing anything under that robe.

"Do you want to see if we can stay quiet enough?" Kurik rubbed his muzzle against her bosom and ground his crotch against her leg.

"Might be hard, though." She hated how perfectly timed that was. Korra's gaze flicked to the crib. Kurik smiled, took her by the front of her fine new suit, then guided her out into the hall and swiftly ran into the unused supply closet across.

"Fine, I guess we should be responsible parents first and foremost; perhaps being scandalous spouses won't help your chances at winning the Coniton." Kurik let out a mousy squeak. Korra had grabbed his waist and stared intently into his eyes.

"I will win the Coniton," she spat.

"My mother may be on death's door, but the pride of this bloodline will not die with me."

"We will have to see—" She threw him to the floor, then got on top of him. She pinned his wrists against the floor. There was clear fear in Kurik's eyes; Korra liked it when he was fraught, but also didn't want her to stop. His ears flared, his breath caught, and the corner of his mouth twitched an infuriating little smile with a single fang visible. She felt a sudden rush of vicious heat pool low in her body.

"Listen to me," she said, "those other girls? They are hares, and I am the fox; the predator's maw at the entrance of their burrow. Those preening noble ladies and their haughty husbands and pampered daughters—why, they have no idea what real work looks like. They haven't spent a moment out on the battlefield, fighting disgusting creatures like the orcs.

No, they sit in their palaces all day while their servants polish their claws as they rake up tax money from their peasants, who have way more dignity than they ever will, then they dare look down upon us?" Her claws slid free. She dragged them across the pristine marble flooring beside his head, close enough to his ear that it flicked from the noise, leaving behind pale scratches.

"No, no, no, I say! I will show them. I will be their ruin. I will be their predator, they will be my prey, just as you are my prey now." Korra panted, then snickered as she realized her speech had curdled Kurik's fear into something horribly intimate. Wasting no time, Korra took him, basking in the rhythmic beauty of her husband's soft, masculine moans.

As he trembled beneath her, she saw all of them, all the other royal families of Avion: Orien, pride torn and bloodied beneath her claws; the scheming Maraveth drowning in an ocean of their own ink; Caelrune wealth melted into worthless scraps. All the prim and proper ladies of Avion, all their haughty husbands and pampered heirs, like ants before the might of House Seran. Korra caterwauled as pleasure washed through her body.

The only thing more intoxicating than her husband was the thought of making them all tremble beneath her boot. For a moment afterward, the only sound in the closet was their vigorous panting. Korra's tongue lolled. Kurik looked to his side at the scratched carving into the marble floor.

"You know, I feel as though the servants are going to notice that." Korra followed his gaze: there were four sharp lines in the stone beside his head.

"We can just tell them that something fell off the shelf," she shrugged.

"… Something on the shelf has claws?"

"You do not know what we keep in every part of this house, do you?" Kurik laughed. Korra lowered her forehead against his and licked his face.