Page 94 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Her eyes flick away for half a second—just long enough to make my chest ache.

Gods, please don’t let it be what I think it is.

My heart tightens with a sick twist. Is that it? Does she regret it—feeding from me, or worse… the sex?

Because if she does, if that’s what’s weighing down her shoulders right now, it might just shatter me.

Her eyes dart away, and when she answers, it’s too fast. Too smooth. Too practiced. “Fine,” she says, even though I can feel the lie vibrating under her skin.

She lifts a finger, presses it gently to my lips before I can call her out.

“Really, I’m fine. Just…tired. Post-meal high.” Her smile is faint, forced. “Speaking of, you should finish your meal.”

I don’t let her deflect. Not this time.

I catch her hand in mine, curling my fingers around hers. My heart hammers as I ask the thing clawing at my insides. “Do you regret it?”

Her brow furrows, confused.

“The blood,” I clarify. My voice is quieter now, almost afraid of the answer. “Or… the sex. Or both.”

She blinks. Her breath catches. And then she’s moving, leaning in, her palm cupping my cheek like I’m something precious.

“No,” she murmurs, so soft it melts into the space between us. “I don’t regret any of it.”

Before I can respond, her lips brush mine—slow and sure, the kind of kiss that silences doubt. Her fingers stay threaded in mine, grounding me as the tension starts to ease from my chest.

When she pulls back, her gaze holds mine. Clear. Steady. “Not even a little.”

A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out of me, slow and shaky.

Not regret.

Thank the gods.

I close my eyes for a second, pressing my forehead to hers. That soft admission—it takes some of the weight off my chest. Something’s bothering her. I know it. But at least it’s notthat. Not what we shared.

I slide my hand along her jaw, my thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone. “Okay,” I murmur, voice a little rough. “Okay.”

She leans into the touch, but her eyes flick away again—only for a moment, but I don’t miss it. Whatever it is she’s carrying, she’s not ready to name it yet.

That’s fine. I can wait. I’ve waited longer for less.

But gods, I hope she lets me in soon.

For now,I let it go.

I pick the roast back up, shoving the rest of it into my mouth in a few wolfish bites. The ale goes down smoothly, warmth spreading in my chest. Between the feeding and the food, my body’s caught somewhere between drowsy contentment and an uneasy flutter that’s purely about Aria.

When I glance at her, she’s watching me.

Half-leaning against the headboard, eyes soft but brow creased like she’s trying to puzzle something out. Her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, nervous energy rolling off her in quiet waves. When I glance her way, she doesn’t look away.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, voice careful, like she’s afraid of the answer. Her eyes flick to the spot where she fed from me—not even bleeding anymore, barely a twinge—but I see it clear as day…

So that’s what’s bothering her.

She thinks she hurt me.

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