Page 84 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

I cross the room, meeting her gaze. “I…” My throat tightens. She doesn’t rush me, just watches, dark eyes steady. “I think…maybe we should try it.”

Roan’s expression softens, and she tilts her head. “Try…?”

Heat flares in my cheeks as I look at the pulse in her neck—a steady drumbeat that’s called to me for too long. “Feeding,” I manage, voice low. “From you.”

The corner of her mouth curves, an almost playful smile. “Oh. That.” She says it like we’re discussing something as casual as the weather. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”

A breath of nervous laughter escapes me, too thin to hold shape. “You don’t look worried.”

She shrugs, easy and confident. “Should I be?” Her gaze skims my face, bright and unwavering, like she’s not offering blood and trust in the same breath.

The tension in my chest doesn’t vanish, but it twists—softens—into something molten and breathless. Not just gratitude, not anymore. What’s stirring low in my stomach feels heavier than that.Hotter.A deep ache that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with her.

I drop my eyes, whispering, “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

Roan tilts her head. “Then tell me.” A beat. “What made you change your mind? Didn’t you promise yourself humans were off the menu?”

I swallow hard, looking back up at her. “That was before I met you. Promises can change.”

Her expression shifts—something in it sharpens, softens all at once. Her teasing fades, replaced with something more tender. Her thumb brushes the back of my hand, grounding me.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask, the words sticking to my tongue, heavy with weight I can’t name.

Roan smirks. “You’re the expert, aren’t you?”

“I’ve fed before,” I say quietly, “but not like this.” Not with someone who matters. Not with someone who’s looking at me like I’m not a monster. “This is different.”

She studies me for a beat, then steps back and gestures toward the bed. “Then we take it slow.” Her voice is low, gentle, but edged with steel. “Come on. Sit.”

I move toward her with hesitant steps, my heart pounding louder than my thoughts. I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, trying to breathe past the storm building inside me.

Roan kneels in front of me, steady and close, like a prayer I’m afraid to whisper, and for once—I don’t feel like I’m about to lose control.

I feel like I’m about tochoose.

Roan’s presence is steady, unshakable. Her hands come to rest on my knees, warm through the fabric, grounding. Her touch doesn’t command, doesn’t push—it offers. Quietly, solidly.

I watch her throat work as she swallows, her pulse fluttering just beneath the skin. The scent of her—leather, smoke, something earthy and hers alone—fills my lungs until I feel dizzy with it.

“Hey,” she says softly, tilting her head to catch my eye. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.” I try to smile, but it wobbles. “It’s not fear. Not really.”

Her brows lift slightly. “Then what?”

“Desire.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My voice is barely audible.

Roan’s eyes darken, her grip tightening slightly on my knees. “Then take what you desire.”

The words crack through me like lightning, sharp and impossible to ignore. I draw in a shaky breath and lean forward, one trembling hand brushing her jaw. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she leans into it, like the contact steadies her too.

We’re eye level, despite her being on her knees. It should make me feel powerful. It doesn’t.

It makes me feel seen.

Unraveled.

Like every carefully-stitched piece of myself could come undone with just one more look from her.

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