Page 23 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Then she smirks. “Lead the way, mercenary.”

I freeze.

Something about it—her voice wrapped around the word, teasing but gentle—sinks deep into my chest, settling there, heavy and warm.

I smirk, turning back toward camp. The quiet stretches between us as we walk, but it’s not the tense, brittle kind we started with.

We’re almost back to the clearing when I catch a rustle in the underbrush. I raise a hand, and Aria stills beside me, instinct sharp as mine now. I edge forward and spot it—another rabbit, nibbling beneath a bramble, its soft ears twitching. Luck or fate, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter.

I crouch low, eyes on the animal, and motion for her to stay back.

She steps past me before I can stop her.

Her movements are smooth, silent—almost beautiful, if I let myself think that way. The rabbit senses something too late. She moves fast and in one clean motion grabs it. The next, she bites it.

There’s no struggle.

No cruelty.

Just necessity.

I turn my back, gaze fixed on the trees, giving her space. It feels like the right thing to do.

Some things aren’t meant to be witnessed. Not out of disgust, but out of respect. I hear her breath hitch softly, then deepen. Feeding. Just survival.

I focus on the wind through the trees, the distant cry of an owl. The press of sword leather at my hip.

She doesn’t take long.

A few heartbeats pass in silence, and then I hear it—soft, barely there.

“…Sorry.”

The word hangs in the still air like a thread. I turn, just a little.

She’s kneeling by the rabbit, fingers stroking its fur with something close to reverence. Not guilt, exactly—just… sorrow. Her lips move with another whisper I can’t hear, then she sets the creature gently down against the roots of the tree, like it’s being laid to rest.

Our eyes meet.

And gods, there’s something in her expression that stops me. Not shame. Not fear. Just… a kind of quiet grief. Like this wasn’t just a meal, but a reminder of everything she’s trying not to be.

I hold her gaze.

No words. Just a nod.

I understand.

Her eyes are clearer. There's color in her cheeks, faint but there. Life—or something close to it—restored. I don’t ask her how it felt. She doesn’t offer. We just keep walking, side by side.

The silence returns, but now it feels like a shared thing. The trees thin as we step into our makeshift clearing, the dying sun casting a faint glow against the mossy ground.

I drop my pack near the log where I sat earlier, the worn leather landing with a soft thud. Every step of the day sits heavy in my bones—too many hours walking, too many moments watching our backs, waiting for the sound of pursuit that, thank the gods, never came.

Still. I don’t let myself relax. Not entirely.

“We’re keeping a more human schedule now,” I say, glancing toward Aria as I unbuckle my sword belt. “Bet that’s a change for you.”

She hums softly in response, almost to herself. “I don’t mind it.” Tilting her head slightly, she gazes at the slivers of deep indigo sky visible between the trees. “The sun feels… different out here. Softer. I think I almost like it.”

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