Page 18

Aria

Theoilskinpouchsitsin front of me like a quiet challenge—small, unassuming, but heavy with everything I’ve been trying not to feel. Even from this distance, the scent reaches me: copper-bright, sharp with iron, undercut by something earthier, like damp fur and wild grass.

My body reacts before my mind can catch up. A twitch of my fingers, a faint tremor through my core. Hunger snaps its teeth, eager and urgent, as if sensing relief within reach.

But guilt settles just as quickly, cold and hard in my chest. A rabbit. She killed a rabbit for me. Forme. No hesitation. No judgment. Just quiet determination and a pouch full of blood left on a clean scrap of cloth like it was nothing.

My clan would’ve sneered at the gesture. They laugh at remorse, mock hesitation, revel in taking without thought. A rabbit is nothing to them. A human is barely more. But I’m not like them. Not anymore. And the weight of what Roan chose to do—even something this small—presses down on me.

I glance up. She’s crouched by the fire, slicing pieces of meat from the rabbit with methodical focus. She doesn’t look at me, but her shoulders are tense, like she’s waiting. Bracing. She’s trying to give me privacy, and yet I know she’s aware of every movement I make. Not because she fears me, but because sheseesme.

That might be worse.

My stomach clenches, a hollow twist that leaves me dizzy. My throat is dry, my gums ache. I need it. Every part of meneedsit.

With shaking fingers, I reach for the pouch. It’s cooled now, the heat fading—but it’s still warm enough to make the craving worse. I brace the weight of it in my lap, breathe in once, twice, and then tip it to my lips.

The taste hits fast—metallic, thick, with that familiar tang that always turns my stomach just a little. Animal blood is never sweet. Never indulgent. It’s survival. Nothing more. And still, the rush that follows is dizzying. Warmth spirals out from my chest. The shaking in my limbs fades. My vision sharpens. I can feel my strength returning in slow, steady pulses—like waking up from a nightmare you didn’t know you were having.

I pull the pouch away and press my sleeve to my mouth, wiping at the blood. Shame prickles along my spine, hot and crawling. Not because of what I am—but because someonesawme like this. Vulnerable. Wanting. Bare.

When I glance at Roan, she’s watching me now. No wide eyes, no flinch. Just quiet observation. Her jaw is set, her expression unreadable—but there’s a softness in her eyes I wasn’t prepared for.

“Feeling better?” she asks, her voice low and even, like she’s afraid to break something between us.

I hesitate, then nod. “Yes. It helps.” I glance down at the pouch in my lap. “I’m sorry,” I add, throat tight.

She gives a half-shrug and looks away, cheeks coloring. “We do what we have to, yeah?”

The matter-of-fact acceptance in her voice surprises me. I’m not sure which I expected—pity or revulsion—but not this steady calm. I let out a slow breath, letting the tension in my shoulders ease.

For a moment, silence stretches between us, punctured only by the hiss of the dying embers in the fire. My shoulder still aches, but it’s dull now, something I can live with. Something I can survive.

I trace a finger along the edge of the pouch, then glance back at her. “Thank you,” I say again, softer now. “I don’t take it for granted.”

She shifts, rubbing the back of her neck like my gratitude physically unsettles her. “You’re welcome,” she mutters, voice low. Then, mercifully, she changes the subject. “We should figure out our next move. I don’t want to stay here if your clan’s on the hunt.”

The weight of her words lands hard in my chest, pressing the air from my lungs.

“They’ll come eventually,” I whisper, voice like ash.

Roan’s jaw sets, and for the first time, I see a flicker of real anger in her expression—an anger that isn’t directed at me.

“Well, let them come,” she mutters. “If they think they can sneak up on us, they’ll have another thing coming.”

Something flickers in me—hope, maybe. Or the fragile ghost of it. I smother it quickly. Hope is dangerous. Hope is a door you open right before someone slams it shut.

“You can’t fight them, Roan. No one survives them,” I say.

She shrugs one shoulder, the motion easy, casual. “Maybe not,” she says, a wry twist of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “But I won’t let them drag you off without a fight.”

My heart stutters, caught somewhere between fear and something far murkier. Her words settle in my ribs like an echo I don’t know how to hold. This woman barely knows me. She should’ve left me in the ruins to bleed out. But she didn’t.

“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it, low and hoarse. I search her face, looking for something—an answer, an explanation, anything that makes sense. “Why are you doing this? You don’t owe me anything.”

Roan’s expression shifts—her smirk falters, doesn’t quite vanish, but there’s something else behind it now. Her eyes narrow just slightly, her gaze flicking away before settling on me again, slower this time.

“I don’t like leaving things unfinished,” she says, too casually.