Page 43 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

I look between her dark brown gaze, only to find her eyes dip lower than mine, to my lips.

The moment lingers, the tension stretching between us like a thread about to snap. But then Roan clears her throat and stands, stretching her arms above her head. “I’ll check the perimeter again. Make sure we’re still alone.”

I watch her walk away, my chest still too tight with things I don’t know how to name.

Roan

Asthedaystretcheson, the tension loosens its grip, unraveling thread by thread. We settle back into the routine we’ve built, the quiet understanding between us smoothing over the sharp edges left in Selis’s wake.

The sun sinks behind the trees, streaking the sky in dying embers. Shadows stretch long over the forest floor. Night is coming.

I circle the perimeter of our camp for the third time this afternoon, double-checking every inch of brush, every bit of cover. It’s become almost obsessive—but then again, so has the rest of my life lately.

Everything’s changed since I ran across Aria in those ruins, half-dead, more ghost than girl.

I stop, pressing a hand to the rough bark of an old oak. Its surface is warm from the sun, ridged and solid beneath my fingers. Leaf-shadows flicker across my forearm, wind weaving through branches above.

From here, I can see her.

She’s seated on a fallen log at the edge of our camp, her cloak pooled around her like ink. One hand moves slowly, absently smoothing the fabric between her fingers. Her gaze is distant, turned inward. Whatever thoughts she’s chasing, they have her full attention.

And her eyes… Gods. In moments like this, when she thinks no one’s watching, they hold a kind of softness that guts me. A quiet ache. She tries to mask it with sharp edges and silence, but I see it. Ialwayssee it.

There’s something about her that pulls me off-center, that makes the air feel heavier and the ground less solid. A ghost in the ruins, and yet she’s the most alive thing I’ve ever known.

You’re in deeper than you planned, Roan.My own voice in my head is wry.

I press my lips together and continue my patrol, stepping carefully over knotted roots.

I don’t like staying in one place this long, don’t like the feeling of roots digging into my boots when I should be moving. I’m used to the road—town to town, contract to contract, never letting anybody get too close.

But here I am, forging a makeshift refuge for the two of us.

I rationalize each moment as a job, another task.

Keep the perimeter secure. Keep Aria safe.

Except no one’s paying me. And worse—I don’t care. There’s a sense of…purpose, maybe. A reason to keep watch besides the promise of coins or a warm tavern.

When I return to camp, she looks up quickly, startled. “You’re quick,” she says, a little breathless.

“Force of habit.” I roll a kink from my shoulder. “Everything looks clear for now.”

Her gaze lingers on me—just for a second—and something in it softens. She gives a small nod. “Thank you.”

Two simple words. But they land heavier than they should. I’ve heard thanks before—loud and slurred from tavern drunks, tired and transactional from merchants. But this? From her?

It’sreal. Quiet. Earnest.

And it unsettles something in my chest. A tight pull I don’t have a name for.Don’t get used to it.

Then she shifts on the log, rolling her shoulder. The faintest wince crosses her face.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice coming out rougher than I mean for it to. “Shoulder bothering you?”

She glances at me, then away, flexing her fingers like she’s debating how much to admit. “It still aches sometimes. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

I frown. It’s been over a week since she got hurt. The last time I got a deep wound like that, it took months to heal, granted, but she’s a vampire. Shouldn’t she be healing faster? My gaze flicks to the exposed stretch of her shoulder where her sleeve has slipped. No bandage, just raw pink skin, tight and new. Still healing.

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