Page 8 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Careful, Roan.

Don’t get attached.

But for some godsdamned reason, I want her to live.

I press the folded scrap of cloth firmly against the cut, and she hisses—a sharp, tight inhale through clenched teeth

“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, easing up on the pressure. My voice goes low, quieter than usual. “I’ll be quick.”

My hands are steady enough to work, but not steady enough to satisfy me. They tremble—just a whisper of movement—but it’s enough to piss me off. I’ve field-dressed worse injuries than this, in worse light. I’ve stitched gashes with nothing but whiskey and spit. But this is different. Maybe it’s her breathing—shallow and strained, like she’s trying to pretend she’s not hurting. Or maybe it’s the way she watches me, those amber eyes sharp despite the pain, like she’s waiting for me to turn on her.

I don’t know why that gets under my skin.

I tighten a strip of bandage around her shoulder, tying it off with a firm knot. She exhales shakily, and I catch a flash of those oddly bright eyes—too bright.

“You got a name?” I ask, an attempt to distract us both from the tension. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

She hesitates, as if the question itself is dangerous. Then, in a near whisper, she says, “Aria.”

“Aria,” I echo, testing the syllables on my tongue. It’s soft, but there’s something sharp beneath it—like the wind through autumn leaves before the frost sets in. And for a reason I can’t explain, I feel the name—Aria—rooting itself somewhere beneath my ribs, where it won’t be easily forgotten.

I shift slightly, easing the tension in my stance. “Roan,” I offer in return. “Like I said before.”

She doesn’t acknowledge it, just watches me, wary. I don’t take it personal. People don’t trust easily when they’re bleeding in the dirt.

I reach into my pack and pull out a scrap of dried venison, holding it up in silent offer. “Hungry?”

She stares at it like I’ve offered her a handful of gravel. “I’m fine,” she says, but her voice trembles at the edges.

I glance at the bandage, where a faint stain of crimson has already started to bloom through the cloth.

“You’re not,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.

But I let it go. Pushing her now won’t help. Whatever she’s running from—it’s recent. It’s raw. And it’s got teeth.

I tear off a piece of the venison for myself and chew slowly, eyes flicking her way now and then. She’s trembling again. Subtle, but there. Like a wire strung too tight, ready to snap. And maybe she thinks I don’t see it, but I do.

“Look,” I say, stowing the food back into my pack for now, “I don’t know what happened to you. And I’m not asking, alright? But you’re alone. You’re hurt. We can share this spot for the night. Safety in numbers, yeah?”

Her gaze lifts to the sliver of moon above the trees, like she’s measuring how much longer she has to survive. Then she nods, just once.

My knees protest the cold ground, but I ignore them.

She holds my gaze for a long, tense moment, then turns her face away. I settle down near her, half propping my back against the crumbled stone, sword still strapped to me in case we’re not alone out here. Sleep won’t come easy, but I’ll be damned if I leave her now.

This might be the dumbest thing I’ve done in years.

In fact, it might be my most reckless decision yet. But a flicker of something—compassion, curiosity—keeps me here, heart pounding in time with the slow drip of her blood.

Aria

Ican’tsleep.

Not even with the relief of dawn beginning to brush the edges of the sky in pale, silvery light. It’s close now—I can feel it like a hum in my bones, in my blood.

Am I safe now?

The makeshift bandage on my shoulder itches, pulsing with a dull, rhythmic throb that matches the slow drag of my heart.

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