Page 81 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

“Aria—”

“I’m sorry,” she breathes, voice unsteady, eyes darting to my mouth, to my tongue, then back to mine. There’s something raw in her gaze—fear, hunger, and something deeper.

I exhale, forcing my pulse to steady even as heat thrums beneath my skin. “Don’t be,” I murmur, watching her carefully.

But she already looks torn, fighting some invisible war with herself.

I want to tell her that I didn’t mind. That I liked it. That I wouldn’t have stopped her.

But she looks so shaken, so uncertain, that it tugs on my chest.

Her breath hitches, her whole body going rigid against me. My lips are still tingling, my pulse still hammering from the kiss, but it’s the sudden shift in her that pulls me fully into the present.

“Hey,” I murmur, voice low and careful. “You alright?”

She turns her head away, her jaw tight, a single nod cutting through the tension. But I see it now—the sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her fingers clutch at her cloak like she’s anchoring herself in place.

A pang of concern sharpens inside me. “Aria…”

She sucks in a sharp breath, like she’s trying to force herself steady. “I’m fine,” she manages, too quickly.

I know better.

Hunger.

The realization strikes like a blade, slicing through the haze of everything else. I’ve picked up on the signs by now—the way she tenses, the subtle flush in her cheeks, the way her breathing turns shallow like she’s holding back something dangerous. And after the fight with Selis, the adrenaline, the blood drawn, it must be worse.

Damn it.

Her last real feeding was what? Early yesterday morning? The scraps from small animals aren’t enough as is, and the stress of running hasn’t exactly helped.

I press my palm against her thigh, grounding her. “Hey,” I whisper, voice firm but gentle. “You’re not fine. You’re hungry.”

Her fingers twitch, curling tighter around the fabric of her cloak. “No,” she mutters, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I can manage.”

Frustration flickers in my chest, but I force my voice to stay steady. “You don’t have to manage alone,” I remind her, my fingers pressing slightly into the fabric, feeling the heat beneath.

Her whole body locks up, and when she looks at me, there’s panic in her eyes—maybe even something dangerously close to temptation. “No. We’re not talking about this. Especially not here,” she hisses. “We can’t—”

I nod, exhaling slowly. She’s right. Not here. Not in a merchant’s cart on a road where we’re nothing more than cargo. It’d be reckless, and she’d never forgive herself if something went wrong.

Still, seeing her like this—struggling, barely holding herself together—it makes something fierce claw up inside me. I hate that I can’t fix this for her, not right now. And worse? A part of me is tempted. A part of me wonders what it would feel like—her fangs grazing my skin, the sharp edge of pain mingling with something else. The closeness of it.

I tighten my arm around her waist, pressing her closer. “We’ll stop soon,” I murmur.

Her shoulders rise and fall with a measured breath, and little by little, she relaxes into me, though I can still feel the tension humming beneath her skin. I don’t think she’ll ever truly let it go. Not until she feeds. Not until the ache fades.

The cart rattles over uneven ground, jostling us together again. She exhales sharply at the movement, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as she fights for control.

I duck my head, my lips brushing the shell of her ear as I whisper, “Are you going to survive my terrible jokes until then?”

She makes a choked sound—somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Somehow.”

The merchant calls something over his shoulder—probably telling us we’ll reach the next town by nightfall. We exchange a glance, understanding passing between us without a single word. Towns mean people. Prying eyes. Risk.

But also, a chance. A moment to breathe. To recover.

I shift, pulling her just a little closer, letting her settle against me again. She doesn’t resist. If anything, she leans into me more, the tension easing, if only slightly.

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