Page 17

I move like I’ve been taught—slow, quiet, measured. No wasted steps. I’m close enough to see the shine in its eyes when its ears perk and it tenses to run. I strike.

The rabbit writhes once in my grip, claws scraping against my bracer. My jaw tightens. I hate this part. I always have.

“Sorry,” I whisper, and then I end it.

It’s fast. One cut, clean and final. The blood seeps out into the oilskin pouch I’ve brought. I hold it steady, careful to catch every drop, the copper tang curling sharp in my nose. It’s not like I haven’t taken lives before. But this—this is different. Colder. More intimate. I’m not fighting. I’mfeedingsomeone.

I cinch the pouch shut and pull in a slow breath through my nose.

The wind shifts, rattling through the trees, and I sling the pouch into my satchel. It’s warm, still. I glance once more at the clearing’s edge, then turn back toward the ruins.

The trek back feels longer than before, each step dragging with the weight of what’s tucked inside my pouch.

Blood.

Still warm. Still necessary.

The wind stirs the tall grass, whispering through it like a warning. I keep glancing over my shoulder, not out of paranoia—no, this feels earned. I can’t shake the thought of someone trailing us. One ofthem.Aria’s people. Her clan. Her family, if you can call them that.

The ruins appear through the trees—tumbled stone and fractured columns bathed in morning light. Beautiful in a way. Ancient. But all I can think of is how easily this place could become a grave if I’m not careful.

When I slip back through the broken archway, the hush of the clearing wraps around me again. There she is. Exactly where I left her—sitting against the wall, knees drawn up, her body coiled in that way people get when they’re trying not to look like they’re falling apart.

She lifts her head at the sound of my boots on stone, and for a second, the steel in her gaze softens. Relief. Surprise, maybe.

“You’re… back,” she says, voice low. Thready.

I hold up the pouch. “Yeah. Did what I could.”

Her eyes snap to the bag. There it is again—that flicker of hunger she doesn’t want me to see. She tries to hide it, but it’s there, plain as day. Right next to the guilt. Shame. The kind you wear like a second skin.

I kneel beside her, slow and careful, setting the pouch on a clean strip of cloth I brought just in case. My movements are measured, deliberate—trying to make this easier somehow. Trying not to make her feel like an animal.

Her gaze lifts to mine, and something in it punches the breath out of my chest.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely audible.

I nod, throat too tight for words. If this keeps her alive—keeps her from going feral or collapsing—I’ll do it again if I have to.

I rise and step back, giving her a bit of space.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks. The wind curls through the broken stones, stirring the dust motes in the sunlight. The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but itisheavy. The kind that feels like it’s holding its breath.

“Eat,” I say, finally, quietly. It’s not an order. Just an offering.

I put my back to the wall and focus on cleaning the rest of the rabbit, letting the rhythm of the knife keep my hands busy.

I focus on my own hunger and the rabbit to give her some semblance of privacy. I slide the knife carefully beneath the fur, peeling it back with practiced ease.

This isn’t the strangest thing I’ve done in my life. But it’s close.

I listen for the sound of her breathing steadying. It does, eventually. I don’t turn around.

Instead, I keep working, my mind spinning even as my hands move by instinct. I came out here looking for a place to sleep between towns. And now… now I’m draining rabbits to keep a vampire alive.

It’s done,I tell myself, swallowing hard.You promised to help, and you did.

But as the quiet stretches on, part of me wonders if I’m more entangled than ever.