Page 32 of Monster’s Obsessive Hunger

LYSSA

I wake to the soft crackle of a fire and the scent of brewing herbs.

For a moment, I am adrift, unsure of where I am.

This is not my cold, small room in the village, nor is it Thorrin’s desolate, bone-strewn lair.

This place is warm. The air is filled with the comforting smells of a home.

I push myself up, my muscles protesting, a deep, dull ache radiating from my side.

The pain is a ghost of what it was, a pale echo of the agony that consumed me, but it is a potent reminder of everything that has happened.

My eyes adjust to the amber glow of the firelight.

I am in Kaerith and Elira’s cave. I see the sturdy, hand-carved furniture, the thick furs laid out like rugs, the general, impossible domesticity of it all.

Elira is near the hearth, grinding herbs with a stone pestle, her movements efficient and sure.

My gaze sweeps the chamber, searching for the tall, skeletal figure that has become the sole anchor of my world.

He is gone. The space where he stood last night, a looming shadow of guilt and despair, is empty. A sharp, cold pang of abandonment pierces through the warmth of the cave. He left. After everything, he left me here.

Then I see him. Kaerith. He sits in the massive, fur-lined armchair that I teased him about, a silent, brooding king on his throne.

He is not looking at the fire, not looking at his mate.

He is looking at me. His heart-light is a low, steady crimson, the color of banked embers and restrained hunger.

There is no warmth in his gaze, no welcome.

The molten flicker in his sockets are cold, hard points of light, and they watch me with the flat, assessing stare of a predator whose territory has been invaded.

He is tolerating my presence for Elira’s sake, but his posture, the tense set of his massive frame, the way his claws rest, unmoving, on the arms of his chair, all of it sends a clear, chilling message.

I am a trespasser here. An unwelcome complication in his well-ordered world.

Elira brings me a cup of tea. It is hot and bitter, but the warmth spreads through my chest, chasing away some of the chill that has taken root there. She watches me as I drink, her expression unreadable.

“He’s gone,” I state, the words flat. It is not a question.

“He left before dawn,” she replies, her voice devoid of inflection.

She offers no comfort, no explanation. Just the hard, unvarnished truth.

My heart sinks, a heavy stone in my chest. He ran.

He couldn’t face what he’d done, what we had become.

He chose to flee back into his lonely, gray existence rather than face the messy, painful reality of what happened between us.

Elira sits on the edge of my fur-lined pallet, her presence a solid, grounding weight.

“Being with a Waira will remake you,” she says.

“And not always in ways you’ll like.” I look at her, at the hard lines of her face, at the old, faded scars that trace the line of her jaw.

She is the living proof of her own words.

“They are creatures of immense power and profound emptiness,” she continues, her gaze distant, lost in a memory of her own.

“Their love, their obsession… it’s a force of nature, like a hurricane or a blizzard.

You cannot stop it. You can only learn to live in the eye of it.

It will force you to become stronger, harder.

It will scour away all your soft, human illusions and leave you with nothing but the bedrock of who you are.

If you are not strong enough, it will simply erode you to nothing. ”

I listen, my throat tight. Every word she speaks is a terrifying, resonant truth.

She is describing the storm I have already felt, the power that both exhilarates and terrifies me.

I am grateful for her honesty, for the brutal kindness of her warning.

She is not trying to frighten me away from him.

She is trying to arm me for the life I have chosen.

After our talk, after I have finished the bitter tea, Elira stands.

She moves to a worn leather chest and retrieves something.

She returns to my side and presses a small, weighted object into my hand.

I look down. It is a knife. The blade is dark, forged from some unknown metal, its edge keen and sharp.

The hilt is simple, wrapped in worn leather, perfectly balanced for my hand.

It is a real weapon, not the pathetic paring knife I carried into the woods like a talisman.

“You don’t need it,” she says. “He will not harm you again. Not intentionally. He will spend the rest of his cursed existence ensuring it. But…” She pauses, her dark eyes locking onto mine, conveying the full weight of her meaning. “It helps to have it.”

The gesture is a profound one. It is not just a weapon.

It is a symbol. It is an acknowledgment of my agency, a transfer of power.

She is telling me that no matter how much I love him, no matter how much I trust him, I must never forget what he is.

I must never become a willing victim. The weight of the knife in my palm is a solid, reassuring presence. It is a promise to myself.

Her gift, her hard-won wisdom, it does not frighten me away from Thorrin. It solidifies my resolve. He did not leave me because he is a coward. He left because he believes he is a monster who will destroy me. He left because he thinks walking away is the only way to keep me safe. He is wrong.

I look past the comforting fire, past the imposing form of Kaerith, to the cave’s entrance, a dark maw that leads back out into the wild, unforgiving snow.

Elira has given me a weapon. She has given me the truth.

And in doing so, she has given me the strength to make my own choice, not as a victim, but as an equal.

I clench my fist around the hilt of the knife, the cool leather a perfect fit in my palm.

My path is clear. My pain is a dull ache, my fear is a distant memory, and my love is a fierce, burning thing.

He’s still out there, I think, my gaze fixed on the endless, white expanse of the forest. And I’m not done.