Page 78 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

The merchant exhales through his nose, scratching at his stubbled chin. He’s still debating, I can see it—the risk, the payout, the unknowns. But in the end, money wins. It always does.

“Fine,” he grumbles, waving a hand. “But you stay in the back, quiet. I don’t want my business getting mixed up with whatever storm you’re running from.”

I reach into my belt pouch and toss him a handful of coins, more than he was probably expecting. His brows lift slightly, but he pockets them without hesitation.

“You two keep low,” he advises, louder, so Aria can hear as he wipes his brow with a handkerchief. “Don’t want to lose any of my merchandise—or my neck.”

“Understood,” I say curtly, lifting a crate aside to make enough space. “We won’t be any trouble.”

He mutters something about “mysterious couples,” but I pretend not to hear. Once he’s back to loading a few final boxes, I turn to Aria.

“Come on,” I say, voice gentling. “It’s not luxurious, but it’ll get us far from here.”

Her lips tighten—more at the discomfort of being hidden in a stranger’s cart than anything else, I think—but she climbs in without protest. I follow suit and we arrange ourselves among tightly packed crates wrapped in straw. The smell of hay and fresh clay dust tickles my nose.

“It’s a step up from the last time I had to hide in a cart,” I say, forcing a bit of levity into my tone. “At least we won’t be sitting on sacks of potatoes.”

Aria lets out a soft snort, adjusting her cloak so her face is mostly concealed from anyone looking in. “You’ve hidden in a potato cart before?”

“Don’t judge,” I shoot back, smirking. “I was young and needed the free ride.”

Her eyes flick up, and for a moment, the tension around her mouth eases. I like that little glimmer of humor in her expression, even if it’s fleeting. It feels good to see her relax, if only for a second.

The merchant hauls himself onto the driver’s seat and snaps the reins. The cart jerks forward, and I instinctively brace an arm behind Aria’s back to keep her from toppling into a stack of crates.

“Careful,” I mutter, lowering my voice.

I know she isn’t fragile. I’d be a fool to think so after seeing her fight, after feeling the sharp edge of her defiance when she pinned Selis like she was nothing more than an inconvenience.

And yet…

Some protective instinct flares deep in my chest, unshakable and instinctive. Even knowing what she’s capable of, even with the image of her restraining Selis, blade steady and gaze colder than I thought possible—I can’t help it.

I shift slightly, adjusting so I’m shielding her from the jostling cart.

Aria doesn’t move away. If anything, she leans into me, letting out the softest exhale, like some part of herneededthis. Like she’s letting herself rest, if only for a moment.

Still, she whispers, “You’re fussing.”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t fuss.”

But the lie is barely out of my mouth when a rough bump makes her shift, and I tighten my grip, steadying her without thinking. My fingers brush the edge of her cloak, tugging it back into place to keep her hood up, even though it hasn’t slipped.

“Roan,” she murmurs, a faint smile curving her lips, “you’re quite literally fussing right now.”

The corners of my mouth tug upward. “Fine. Maybe I’m fussing a little.” Letting out a breath, I place my arm more comfortably around her, feeling the warmth of her body. The cart jolts again, straw rustling beneath us. “Better safe than sorry, Mouse.”

She huffs at the nickname. “Still calling me that, hm?”

“’Til something better comes along,” I say, smirking. “Anyway, don’t pretend you hate it. I see that little blush creeping in.”

Aria huffs, trying to hide her face in the folds of her hood. “You’re ridiculous,” she grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. If anything, her tone is playful, and I count that as a victory.

A few miles out of town, the merchant settles into a steady rhythm. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves lulls the busy chatter of the marketplace into memory. Dust kicks up around the wheels, the road opening out to rolling fields under a high sky.

In the relative privacy of the wagon, I let myself relax, resting my cheek against the top of her head. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she settles more against me, like she belongs there.

I’m half-dozing when her voice breaks the silence.

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