Page 7 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

I know that look. I’ve worn it myself.

Then—finally—she gives a small, jerky nod. Barely there, but enough. Relief breathes out of me before I can stop it. My shoulders loosen. I inch a little closer, slow and careful, like she’s a wounded animal who might bolt or bite. Neither would surprise me right now.

I unstop the canteen, fingers brushing the metal lip, and a familiar thought returns like a distant echo:What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Roan?

Another stray. Another lost soul bleeding in the dirt. Another damn complication.

I don’t take in strays anymore.Learned that lesson the hard way—years ago, when getting involved cost me more than I care to remember.

But here I am.

And gods help me, I can’t walk away. Not from this one. Not yet.

“Here,” I murmur, holding the canteen toward her lips, angling it gently. “Drink.”

She hesitates again—just long enough for me to wonder if she’ll change her mind. But then she leans forward, lips brushing the canteen’s edge, and takes a slow, cautious sip. I watch her throat work as she swallows, and for a moment everything else fades. The wind, the ruins, the risk of ambush… it all narrows to the sound of her breath and the feel of her exhale brushing my fingers.

She lifts a shaky hand to grip the canteen herself, and I let go, watching her fingers tremble around the metal. Strong hands, but fragile now. Like the strength’s still there, just buried under too much hurt.

She lowers the canteen with a shaky breath, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. And then I see it—a glint of something behind her lips. Sharp. Clean. Fangs?

I blink. Just a trick of the light, maybe. Or exhaustion catching up to me.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

Quiet. Careful. Like the words are precious and rare, something she’s not used to giving. But even soft like that, there’s steel buried beneath. Something sharp and fierce that doesn’t quite match the way she looks—pale, spent, barely upright.

She should sound as wrecked as she looks, but there’s still fire in her, even if it’s dimmed to embers.

My hands go to my pack again, searching for the strip of cloth I know I packed. Something to staunch the bleeding, at least. Something to give her a fighting chance.

I should ask questions. Who she is? What she’s running from? Why am I getting involved when I damn well know better?

But I don’t.

Not yet.

I don’t think she’d answer anyway.

Instead, I find the cloth and tear a strip with my teeth, fingers already moving on muscle memory. When I glance back, she’s watching me. Warily. Like she doesn’t quite believe what I’m doing is real.

“Alright,” I say quietly, ignoring the twist of anxiety in my gut, “let’s see about that wound.”

As I reach for her shoulder, she tenses, a tremor shivering through her frame. I steady her with one hand, gentle as I can manage, and kneel beside her so I can get a better look in the moonlight. Her shirt’s torn and dark with blood—thick, black-red, pooling against pale skin. Too thick. I try not to let the unease show in my face, but it settles in my gut like a stone.

I peel the fabric away. She hisses through her teeth, eyes squeezing shut, but she doesn’t pull back. I admire the hell out of her for that.

“Sorry,” I murmur, fingers brushing her skin. “I just need to see how bad it is.”

She nods, lips pressed into a hard, bloodless line. Her breath comes shallow. Controlled. Every part of her is wound tight, like she’s holding herself together with sheer will.

The wound’s deep. Ragged. Like something dragged claws or a serrated blade across her flesh. It’s not clean. It’s not recent. And judging by the half-dried edges, she’s been running on it for hours.

Not good.

I run my tongue over the back of my teeth, thinking. I’ve seen wounds like this before, in battlefields and back alley brawls, but this one feels different. Feels personal. Like whoever gave it to her wanted her to suffer, not just bleed.

She winces as I dab the cloth around the edges, and I have to steady my hand, jaw clenched. I don’t know what it is about her, this stranger in the ruins, but something about the way she’s trying so hard not to flinch makes me want to tear apart whatever monster did this to her.

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