Page 97 of A Hunger Soft and Wild

Roan,

Sorry to spoil everything. Turns out I’m just a mouse after all—skittish, darting away when danger’s near. But I can’t let you risk your life because of me. Forgive me. You deserve a mercenary’s life with less fuss.

Thank you, for everything.

—Mouse

I reread the note, wishing there were some way to make her understand this isn’t a rejection. That I care for her, more than I should. But I know Roan—it’ll sting. Still, I pray she’ll see the truth shining through the words:I’m doing this to protect you.

I leave the note by her half-finished mug of ale, gently propping it against the tankard so she can’t miss it.

Then, swallowing the tightness in my throat, I slip through the door.

My hand lingers on the wood a beat too long, but I don’t look back. I can’t.

My heart pounds as I descend the stairs, each creaking step louder than it should be. The tavern’s night crowd has thinned, most of the tables empty now, only a few half-drunken patrons still murmuring over mugs. None of them glance up. None of them notice me leaving—and why would they?

I’m just another woman with a hood pulled low, vanishing into the night.

Except one persondoessee me.

The innkeeper stands behind the bar, drying a mug with the same rag she’s probably been using all night. Her eyes flick up as I pass. For a heartbeat, our gazes meet.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t ask questions. She just gives me a slow, subtle nod.

Like she knows.

Like she’s seen this before—someone leaving behind more than just a warm bed upstairs.

I nod back, throat tight, and keep walking. Out the door. Into the chill air. Away from the warmth I promised I wouldn’t run from.

And I don’t let myself look back.

***

The moon slicks the cobblestones in silver, making it easier to navigate the winding lanes. The roads are mostly empty, only the faint rattle of a shutter or the bark of a dog keeps me company as I walk. Each step echoes too loudly in my ears.

The night smells like wood-smoke and damp earth, but all I can taste is dread.

The old Miller house. That’s where they’re staying.

The thought of walking straight into my mother’s grasp sends my pulse skittering, but I cling to the memory of Roan’s sleeping form. Her whispered I love you still clings to my skin like a balm—and a wound.

She trusts me. She loves me.

And I love her, too.

If they catch her—if they use her to get to me—I won’t survive that, and neither will she.

No. This ends tonight.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to no one. To Roan.

The town falls away behind me, and the lane narrows, curving through a patch of trees that have long since surrendered their leaves. The Miller house looms ahead—tall, half-rotted, the edges of its silhouette softened by lantern light spilling through warped windowpanes.

The voices inside are low, sharp-edged. Familiar.

Clan.

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