Page 130 of When Death Whispers

She exhales against me, and something in her folds inward.

Her body loses its tension, her strength softening like petals wilting beneath frost. The glow in her eyes dims, the heat I soaked in just moments ago beginning to slip away.

“I’m starving,” she whispers.

I inhale sharply, and the truth escapes before I can catch it. “The feeling’s mutual.”

She laughs.

And it unravels me.

The sound is light—unguarded. Not cruel. Not sarcastic. Just…real.It echoes through the burrow like something sacred, something the Gloom has never known. The veins of light pulse brighter in response, like they too are drawn to her.

She doesn’t notice.

She only looks up at me, eyes heavy and tired, blue dulled to frost.

“I’m tired,” she murmurs. “And hungry. And…” Her voice softens. “…I don’t know how much more I can take.”

The last of her light fades.

And my shadows move without waiting for me.

They rise not to claim, not to bind—but to hold.

They slip past my command like a whisper forgotten.

Not mine anymore.

Hers.

They wrap around her slowly, tenderly—one curling beneath her knees, another bracing her back, lifting her weight where she sags. One brushes her jaw, pausing at her cheek like it aches to learn the shape of her sorrow.

They hold her together because she can’t right now.

I do not understand them.

I do notfightthem.

She leans into my chest, small and quiet, her breath fogging against my skin.

She’s not broken. Not fragile.

She’s simplyspent.

And something inside me—a thing I never named, never dared to feed—blooms.

I curl one hand around the back of her head, cradling her gently.

And I tell her the truth.

“I no longer crave your death, Snow Pea,” I murmur, my voice low and certain. “I want something far more potent.”

Her lashes flutter.

She doesn’t speak. Just waits.

So I give her more.

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