Chapter Ten: Ash and Hunger

The corridor stretched out before me, narrow and echoing, the stone walls slick with moisture that hadn’t been there before. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. My limbs moved because they had to, not because I wanted them to. I needed space—air—silence. But even the silence here had claws.

I didn’t stop walking until I reached my chamber.

It had been empty the last time. Bare. Silent. A room with no purpose, no comfort. But when I pushed the door open now, my breath caught.

There was a bed.

Not just any bed—one carved from dark wood, the posts etched with symbols I didn’t recognize. The mattress was layered in blankets the color of smoke and blood, soft and heavy-looking, like something meant for royalty or sacrifice.

I stood in the doorway, frozen. My hands trembled.

It hadn’t been there before.

The room felt different. Not warmer, exactly—but claimed. The air smelled faintly of lavender and ash. My scent. My blood. My body.

The prison was watching.

I stepped inside, slow, unwilling. My fingertips brushed the bedpost. It was warm. Not from fire. From touch.

Had someone been here?

No. Not someone.

The prison had changed the room. For me. For what I was becoming.

I backed away from the bed. Sat down on the cold stone floor instead, pressing my back against the farthest wall. My pulse echoed in my ears like footsteps I couldn’t see. I curled my knees to my chest, trying to fold myself into something small, something quiet. My breath came in shallow pulls. My chest hurt.

I couldn’t cry. I wouldn’t. But the ache behind my eyes didn’t care about my pride.

Worse than the grief was the horror crawling up my spine—the shame that clung to my skin like oil. I had thought about them. I had wanted them. Even now, some part of me still did. I remembered the way my thighs clenched when I stirred that pot, the heat that had pooled low and wrong while I imagined mouths on my throat and hands pinning me down.

And then I remembered what they had done. What they were.

Miren—terrifying in his gentleness. Like a blade smiling as it slid between ribs.

But the fae... The fae was worse.

He had killed a girl because she screamed. Because she dared to sound human while Ruarc was still knotted inside her.

Knotted to a—

I slapped my palm against my head. Once. Twice.

“Stop it,” I whispered. “Stop thinking about it. Stop—”

The images didn’t leave. They multiplied. Her eyes. Her voice. The blood. The way none of them had even pretended to be sorry.

I pressed my forehead to my knees and stayed there, shaking.

I didn’t hear Calyx approach.

But when I lifted my head, he was there—standing just outside the threshold like he didn’t know if he was allowed to cross. The faint glow from the corridor caught the edge of his features, casting shadows across his cheekbones. His posture was stiff, like he was holding himself back with every fiber he had left.

He didn’t speak at first. His expression was unreadable. Tight. Not angry. Not guilty. Just strained—like something raw was cracking beneath the surface.

“I shouldn’t have followed you,” he said finally, voice low, rasping. “But I needed to know if you were okay.”

Okay. The word hit me like a slap. I wasn’t okay. I didn’t think I’d ever be again. But I didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“You weren’t wrong,” he went on, his gaze slipping away as if even he couldn’t look at me now. “About the first time. I didn’t ask. I didn’t think. I just... took.”

The silence between us thickened, stretched taut like a wire drawn across open space. I stared at him, but I didn’t see him—I saw my own throat, the slick of blood, the way my limbs had refused to move.

“I dreamt about it,” he whispered. “About the way you tasted. I wake up starving.”

The words slithered through me like smoke, thick and cloying. I looked away, nausea rising—but not from his admission. From the part of me that had already known. That part that hadn't recoiled when he bit me. That part that still burned.

“I didn’t want to like it,” I said, voice raw. “But I did.”

The words hit the air and immediately curdled in my mouth. Why the hell did I say that? My stomach dropped. It wasn’t true.

Yes, it was.

My breath hitched. Oh my god. I can’t lie.

The realization slammed into me, jagged and cold. Whatever magic lived in this place—whatever bond tethered them to me—it knew. It pulled the truth out of me like a confession scraped from bone.

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine, wide and dark and endless.

“I hate that about myself,” I added, my throat closing around the words. “That even now, after everything, part of me still wants—”

No. Stop. Don’t say it.

I tried to shut my mouth, clamp down, bite the words back before they could fall. But it was like something inside me had been split wide open—like the truth had teeth, and now that it had tasted air, it refused to stay caged.

My jaw trembled. My tongue moved against my will. I wanted to stop. Desperately. But the words kept pushing forward, sliding past the wall I tried to build.

My throat worked, useless, as if my own body were betraying me.

Please don’t say it. Please.

But I couldn’t lie.

Not here.

“You,” he said, and the word shattered something in the air between us. “I want you. That’s the problem. Not the blood. Not the hunger. You.”

The breath caught in my throat like a thread pulled too tight. Something about the way he said it—quiet, reverent, aching—sliced through the wall I’d tried to rebuild.

He took a hesitant step forward, slow, like I was a creature made of splinters and he didn’t want to make me bleed again. I felt the tension in the air between us coil tighter, like the whole room was holding its breath.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “But I’m still here. Still starving.”

Starving. Not just for blood. For closeness. For me. And I hated how something inside me answered—how some part of me leaned toward the word like it meant safety.

I felt the stone shift beneath me, subtle as breath. The prison liked this. It pulsed with it. The tension. The need. The ache. It wanted me to give in. To surrender to the unraveling.

My limbs moved on their own. I stood slowly, legs shaking like they weren’t entirely mine. Not toward him. Just away from the wall. Away from the place where I’d broken.

My voice came out low. Barely there. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” he said, and for once, there was no heat behind it. Just weariness. Regret.

He stepped back. Gave me space like it cost him something.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “Not unless you ask me to.”

My heart pounded. My mouth opened. My voice cracked. “Don’t wait for me to ask.”

The moment split open. I didn’t mean to say it. But I couldn’t stop myself. The words had a will of their own, like truth was a current I could no longer swim against.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then nodded. Just once.

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him. The silence returned, thicker than before. It wrapped around me like smoke.

The bed waited. Looming. Watching.

I didn’t mean to lie down. My body moved without permission, drawn by the warmth still clinging to the sheets, the pulse of something unseen in the air. I slid beneath the blankets slowly, like crossing a threshold. They were heavy, soft as breath, and they smelled like lavender and ash—like me, and not me.

The mattress gave beneath my weight, cradling me in a way that felt too deliberate. Too intimate. As if the bed had been made for this. For me. For the moment I stopped fighting and let go.

I lay there stiff at first, waiting for guilt, for fear, for the shame to rise again and swallow me.

But instead… only stillness.

And sleep.

The last thing I felt before the darkness took me was the prison breathing with me—slow, deep, possessive.

I don’t remember falling asleep. Just the weight of exhaustion, the crackling edges of thought giving way to shadow.

In the dream, I was running.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Not really.

The trees blurred around me, ancient and skeletal, their branches catching at my skin like a lover's grasp. Fog coiled at my ankles, thick as breath. My bare feet struck earth and root, and each stride sent a pulse of heat racing through my blood. The forest wasn’t a prison—it was alive, charged, watching.

Behind me—footsteps. Heavy. Measured. And I knew who they belonged to.

Ruarc.

I didn’t know how I knew. I just did. The sound of him in the dark. The way the ground trembled beneath his weight. The slow, guttural rhythm of his breath.

He wasn’t chasing me to catch me. He could have, easily. But he held back. Always just behind. Not hunting. Not threatening.

Waiting.

His presence pressed against me like a storm. And I felt the heat of him—felt the way he watched me as I ran, not with hunger, but with restraint so sharp it ached.

He was letting me run. Letting me flee.

But even in the dream, I could feel it: the pull. The thrum between us, low and feral and rising with every step.

And when I glanced back—I saw him.

The air smelled like fur and pine. Like him. Earthy. Wild. Familiar in a way that made my stomach tighten and my skin burn. The scent curled around me, warm and thick, like it had weight.

He wanted me.

But he was afraid of what he’d do if he took me.

And then—

The dream snapped.

I woke with a gasp, chest heaving, heart slamming against my ribs.

He was there.

Standing at the foot of my bed.

His golden eyes locked to mine. Unmoving. Breathing heavy. Watching me.

I scrambled upright, blankets twisting around my legs. My voice tore out, raw and shaken.

"Why are you here?"

He blinked once. Slowly.

“You called me.”

His voice was hoarse, quiet—like it had been scraped from the bottom of his chest. He didn’t move toward me, but I felt the heat rolling off him from across the room. His bare chest rose and fell in ragged waves, muscles tense, jaw clenched tight like he was barely holding himself together.

He wasn’t just standing at the foot of the bed. He was anchored there—like if he took one step closer, something sacred would shatter. His eyes darted to the edge of the mattress, and I saw the hunger there—not just for touch, but for closeness, for relief, for permission.

And restraint.

So much restraint, it bled from his skin like steam. His hands were fists. His claws dug into his own palms. He wasn’t breathing right. His whole body was trembling, not from cold—but from the storm held inside it.

He looked like a creature seconds from breaking.

And yet he hadn’t moved.

Because he was afraid.

Afraid of what he’d do if I said yes.

My lips parted. I wanted to say something—to tell him to go, to stay, to touch me, to never come near me again. But nothing came out. My throat locked.

I didn’t trust my own voice.

Because part of me knew: if I spoke, I wouldn’t say no.