Page 26 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

For the first time, I want to kiss her.

The realization rolls over me like heat from the fire—slow, intense, all-consuming. I want to lean in and press my lips to hers. Just once. Just to know if the steadiness in her voice feels the same on her mouth. If the softness she hides beneath all that armor is real when it’s this close.

But I don’t.

I swallow hard, dragging my gaze away before she can see too much. The fire crackles between us, and I force myself to focus on it instead. Because whatever this is—whatever it’s becoming—it’s dangerous. And I’ve already led Roan into enough danger.

Another night, as the moon glimmers overhead, Roan shares more about her own life. She talks in short, clipped sentences about jobs she’s taken, battles she’s fought, the near-misses that left scars on her arms and back. “Some people say I’ve got a death wish,” she admits once, a rueful twist to her mouth. “I don’t. I just never had anything worth…staying put for.”

Her words settle into me like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. I catch myself studying her face—the scar along her brow, the sharp line of her jaw—and wondering how someone so capable could ever believe she had nothing tethering her to life.

But I don’t push. We’ve formed this quiet pact of sorts: we share only as much as we can handle, each revelation feeling like an offering in the dark.

Each night, I tell her more—about the petty hierarchies of the Crimson Court, about ritual duels and punishments disguised as traditions. Once or twice, her hand settles on my shoulder or knee, a cautious touch that sends a quiet warmth coursing through me.

She doesn’t say much in those moments, but she doesn’t have to. Her presence is enough.

And so the days pass in a peculiar dance of routine. We measure time by the light slicing through the canopy, by the caw of distant crows. At times, a heaviness settles over us when we remember the enforcers, but we manage to brush it off, lulled by the illusion of safety we’ve carved out for ourselves.

I keep talking, piece by piece revealing the story I never thought I’d share, waiting to see if Roan will look at me differently. And every time she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lash out, a small flicker of something sparks in my chest.

A small part of me is convinced that I’d be happy to let forever pass like this.

Roan

Theforesthumswithquiet life as I run the whetstone along the length of my sword. The rhythmic scrape is familiar, grounding. Across the clearing, Aria paces, fidgeting with the sleeve of her dress. I’ve noticed the restlessness growing over the past few days—her movements sharp, her eyes darting toward shadows that don’t exist.

She’s nervous. And nervous people make mistakes.

I set the sword down and stretch my legs out in front of me. “You’ll wear a path into the ground pacing like that, Mouse.”

Aria freezes mid-step. “I’m not pacing.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Really? What would you call that, then?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, cheeks flushing. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

“Come here.”

She hesitates before stepping into the center of the clearing. Her hair is loose, curling wildly in the humid morning air, and her shoulders are tense.

I push to my feet and gesture toward the dagger strapped to her hip.

She hasn’t drawn it once. The blade sits there, unused, an ornament more than a weapon. And I’m not even sure if she knowshow.

“Draw it,” I say.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“Your knife. Draw it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re pacing like a rabbit in a fox’s den,” I say, voice even. “And if you want to survive, you can’t always run. You need to learn to fight.”

She licks her lips, uncertainty flickering across her face. I can see the thoughts spinning:I’m not strong enough. I’m not fast enough. I don’t want to fight.

“You’ve been taught form, haven’t you?” I ask.

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