Page 24 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Almost.

Something about that word makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t quite understand, so I busy myself with unbuckling my sword belt, setting it within arm’s reach before easing down to sit against a sturdy oak. Aria sits on the bedroll after a moment of hesitation.

“I’ll keep watch,” Aria volunteers, shifting forward, her posture alert, her eyes scanning the treeline. “You’ve been awake longer than I have. You should rest.”

A part of me wants to argue; it’s part of the nature of my job, after all, to stay vigilant. But exhaustion tugs at my limbs, and a dull ache lodges between my shoulder blades. I think about the last time I truly slept—must’ve been at least two nights ago, maybe more.

I arch an eyebrow at her. “You sure? You’re still…recovering.”

Her mouth thins to a determined line. “I feel much better,” she says quietly, “and if you’re so determined to look after me, then maybe I should return the favor.”

I don’t think anyone’s offered to watch my back in years—not like this. Not without coin on the line. There’s no bluff in her tone, no obligation. Just… intention.

I exhale, slow and quiet, and nod. “All right, Mouse,” I murmur, letting the nickname slip out with a grin that’s softer than I mean it to be. “Keep watch. But wake me if anything seems off. Anything.”

She nods, solemn as a vow. “I will.”

I settle myself at the foot of an oak, drawing my cloak around my shoulders. The bedroll is hers to use, and I’m too damn tired to care about comfort. I’ve slept on worse. Rock, snow, the floor of a jail cell once.

I let my eyes fall shut, but not before I glance at her one more time. She’s seated upright, shoulders squared, face calm but alert. Her hands rest in her lap, fingers twitching like she’s ready to move, to strike, to run. She looks like she doesn’t trust the quiet. I get that. I don’t either.

But I’m not alone on watch, not lying with one eye open fearing an ambush. There’s a strange comfort in knowing I’ve got someone—somevampire, ironically—looking out for me too.

Just before sleep claims me, I catch a glimpse of Aria turning her head, watching me with those bright eyes. I wonder if she feels the same fragile trust blooming between us.

Aria

Ahushsettlesoverour makeshift campsite as the days slip by, each one bleeding into the next beneath the thick, dappled canopy.

We haven’t made for Elden Hollow yet. We’re close enough that Roan could lead us there within two or three days, but we both know it’s not safe to move just yet—not with my strength still returning, and not when we’ve had no sign of the enforcers. That’s the danger. No signs. Roan says they would’ve left some trace if they were nearby, but I’ve lived long enough among predators to know how silence can be its own kind of warning. A held breath. A stillness that masks teeth in the dark.

So we stay.

And I try not to count the days.

Part of me dares to hope they’ve lost my trail. The rest of me braces for the moment they prove me wrong.

We’ve settled into a daytime rhythm that doesn’t feel quite like survival anymore—though it’s not safety either. Something between.

It’s a strange adjustment, feeling the sun on my skin for more than brief stolen moments. I grew up in the dark—my clan kept strictly nocturnal hours, our lives defined by moonlight and shadow. But here, in the thick of the forest, the sun’s golden fingers slip through the canopy, warming the earth, touching my face.

I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would.

Every morning, I wake to the sound of Roan cleaning her sword. It’s always the first sound I hear—metal sliding over oiled cloth, steady and deliberate. I pretend I’m still asleep, but really, I’m watching her. The way her brow furrows in focus, the way her fingers move with practiced confidence, checking every inch of the blade. There’s something reverent about it. I wonder if she even realizes how graceful she looks, lost in her routine.

When she’s done, she doesn’t announce it. She just stands, stretches in that quiet, grounded way of hers, and slips into the trees to scout the perimeter. I never ask what she sees—if she finds any signs of passage, or if she just walks for the silence—but I always listen for her return. The moment I hear the crunch of her boots, I can breathe again.

In the afternoons, we hunt rabbits. I drink their blood; she eats their flesh. We rarely discuss it, though.

At dusk, we tidy camp. Roan moves like she’s done this a thousand times—checking the edges of the clearing, reinforcing our little fire pit, brushing away footprints and disturbed leaves. She always tries to wave me off when I offer to help, muttering something about my shoulder still healing. I think she just wants to give me space to rest.

Instead, I find ways to contribute—organizing our few supplies, collecting water, tucking flat stones around the hearth to reflect the heat. It feels small, but it’s something. Some sliver of control over a world that’s been nothing but chaos for so long.

It’s at night, though, that everything slows.

That’s when we talk—truly talk. We settle around the faint glow of embers or find spots near the trees where moonlight filters through, creating strange patches of silver on the ground. Roan sits close, her sword always within arm’s reach, but her posture is relaxed in a way I wouldn’t have believed possible when we first met.

I start small, sharing tidbits from my childhood: how I learned to read by sneaking into the clan library, stolen books, secret corridors, my befriending a stray cat…and heavier things like blood slaves, expectations. Each story feels like lifting a scab off a half-healed wound, stinging and yet strangely cathartic.

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