Page 50 of When Death Whispers

Forgotten Guilds and the Things They Hunted.

I pull it free, flipping through a few worn pages. Faded illustrations of horned creatures and clawed silhouettes leap off the yellowed paper. I close it quickly.

I clear my throat. “I took the liberty of ordering groceries before they closed for the night,” I say, setting the book back in its place. “They’ll deliver in the morning. Your cupboards were practically empty.”

She crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow. “What, my food choices weren’t fancy enough for you, Mr. Carter?”

That sharp snark is back in full force—her defense mechanism of choice. But there’s no bite behind it.

I glance over my shoulder and smirk. “There’s nothing fancy about eatingreal food, Parker. You know, like fruits and vegetables? Vitamins and nutrients. Things that keep humans alive. A person can’t survive on bread and tea alone.”

I move over to her dresser, picking up a small picture frame. A young girl, maybe ten years old, stares back at me, her dark hair streaked with white, standing beside a man with matching dark hair and familiar features.

Her father?

“Is this you?” I ask, still studying the picture. The girl has those same light blue eyes, but her skin is rosier, her nose dusted in freckles.

She wasn’t alwaysthispale,thishaunted.

I reach up absently, fingers brushing the strands of white in my own hair.

A reminder that I’m connected to her now. Branded. Marked. Whether I fully understand it or not.

Exhaustion creeps in like a tide, slow and unstoppable. My eyes flick to the corners of the room, where the shadows tend to pool. But there’s nothing there. No flicker of movement. No monsters. Just me. And Parker. And the weight of everything we still don’t understand.

Then the air shifts—warmer. Brighter. And citrus curls around me, soft and sweet.

Parker.

Her hand slides over mine. She gently takes the picture frame from my grip, her fingers brushing against my knuckles.

“I know I keep asking this,” she says, voice low. “But… are you okay?”

I glance down—and finally realize I’ve been crushing the sandwich in my hand. Peanut butter and jelly ooze out the sides, the bread torn and crumpled. It looks like I tried to choke it to death.

Before I can say a word, Parker leans forward and lifts my hand to her mouth.

And licks the jam off my fingers.

Holy fuck.

Her tongue is warm, slow, and deliberate. She doesn’t break eye contact as she runs it over my knuckles, tasting me like I’m her favorite dessert. Her lips part slightly, and she hums—actually hums—like she's enjoying it.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, licking the last bit from her lip. “There’s really nothing wrong with living off jelly sandwiches, you know.”

And then she tosses me a smug little smirk, spins on her heel, and walks out of the room.

Leaving me standing there.

With a destroyed sandwich.

And a raging fucking hard-on.

I take a deep breath, scrub a hand down my face, and follow her into the kitchen, throwing away the sad remains of my sandwich before washing the residual stickiness off my hands.

“Want some tea?” Parker asks, already filling the kettle.

I watch as she gathers her long, silvery hair into a messy bun, exposing the delicate curve of her neck.

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