Page 38 of Claimed In Darkness

38

ZEPHIRAN

S he is slipping through my fingers. How am I supposed to hold onto her?

I watch her from across the fire, the light flickering against her skin, casting shadows that stretch too far, too dark, too wrong.

She does not feel the cold.

She does not eat.

She hasn’t eaten in days.

And still—she does not wither.

She should be breaking, should be falling apart, should be showing some fucking sign that she is human.

But she isn’t.

She sits there, staring into the flames, and I swear to the gods, it looks like she is waiting for them to consume her.

And I wonder—if I let her, would she burn?

Would she even fucking feel it?

The plate is small, the meal simple.

Not much.

But enough for her.

Enough to remind Naira what she is, what she was, what she is supposed to still be.

I set it in front of her, watching, waiting, hoping.

She does not look at me.

"You need to eat."

She exhales slowly, fingers dragging along her thigh.

That slow, lazy movement makes my skin crawl.

"Do I?" she murmurs.

My jaw clenches.

"Yes."

She lifts her eyes to me.

And I wish she fucking hadn’t.

Because the thing looking back at me is not my Naira.

It is something distant. Detached. Empty.

She tilts her head just slightly, a soft exhale slipping from her lips, a whisper of something amused, something cruel.

"Are you sure?"

I should not be hesitating.

But I am.

I am not sure of anything anymore.

She has not eaten in days, but she does not starve.

She has not slept, but she does not falter.

Does she even need this?

That realization—that clawing, sinking truth—settles in my stomach like poison.

If she doesn’t eat, if she doesn’t need to sleep, if she no longer needs any of the things that keep her grounded in this world?—

Then what the fuck is keeping her here?

She needs the antidote for the poison I gave her, but it hasn’t affected her at all.

Her fingers are too cold.

Even with the fire so close, even with the heat of our bodies, even with the warmth of the night pressing in around us.

I slide my thumb over the inside of her wrist, testing.

Her pulse is still there.

Still steady.

Still beating.

But slower. It’s crawling almost to a stop.

Her lashes lower slightly, something unreadable flickering across her face.

"Checking to see if I still exist?"

My grip tightens.

"You know damn well that’s not what I’m doing."

She exhales, raising her head again, watching me, studying me, mocking me without words.

She is waiting for me to say it.

To admit it.

To tell her that I see her slipping, that I know she is not the same, that I know I might not be able to pull her back.

But I don’t.

If I say it?—

Then it is real.

And if it is real?—

Then I have already lost her.

So instead?—

I lie.

"You’re fine."

The words come out too fast, too sharp, too desperate.

Her lips part slightly, and for the first time in days—she almost looks surprised.

She laughs.

Not soft.

Not warm.

Definitely not her.

A sharp, hollow noise, cutting through the night, through every part of my soul, through every fucking lie I have told myself up until this point.

I loathe myself for being the one who put it there. For being too late to realize what I’m loosing.

Her fingers twitch beneath mine, a slow flex, a testing of pressure.

She leans in.

Not enough to touch.

But enough to let me feel her breath against my throat.

It’s enough to remind me of every moment we have ever burned for each other.

Every time we have destroyed each other.

Every second I have wanted to consume her just as much as she has wanted to consume me.

Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, "Lie to me again, Zephiran."

I swallow hard.

Is this a test? Does she just want me to pull her back.

Or if she just wants to see if I will break first.

I force my voice to stay steady, to not betray the fucking war happening in my chest.

"You’re fine," I say again.

And this time—I almost believe it for my survival.

To keep her.

I can still pretend that I did not fucking ruin her.

She leans back, slow, calculated, those sharp, knowing eyes never leaving mine.

She should be angry.

She should call me on my bullshit.

She should tell me that she knows I am lying to myself just as much as I am lying to her.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she raises her head slightly, that slow, mocking smirk pulling at her lips again.

And she lets me have this.

She lets me keep this fucking illusion that I can still hold onto her.

She’s aware that I am too much of a coward to face the truth.

She’s aware I will not admit that I already feel her slipping.

She knows I will not accept that I am the one who made her this way.

And she lets me believe the lie.

This is the only thing we have left now.

Not love.

Not trust.

Not a future.

Only this.

This quiet, slow unraveling.

This war we are both pretending we can still win.

We lost the moment I put that relic in her hands.

And the monster I made is still hungry.

And when she decides to take what she is owed?—

Will she even spare me?

Or will she devour me whole?

And the hard, real truth is I’m going to let her.