Page 115 of Marked By His Hunger
Shit.
I didn’t even know what to call it.
It wasn’t imaginary.
It wasn’t nerves.
It wasn’t me overthinking things like I always used to when I was trying to convince myself I wasn’t losing it.
It was real.
A pull.
A thread.
No, not a thread.
A cord. A vein.
Stretched between us, somewhere deep in my chest, right behind my sternum.
Every time he moved, I felt it tighten.
Every time I breathed too sharply, it hummed.
Every shift in his mood—I felt it.
Like it echoed inside me.
I dragged in a slow breath, trying to steady myself, trying to understand.
What had he said last night?
The memory hit me like a spark.
“You are the one thing that should never have crossed my path.”
No.
Not that.
The other part.
“You are my fated mate.”
My fingers curled slightly against the infirmary sheets.
I used to read about that.
Late nights, curled up in bed with books I probably shouldn’t have been reading at that age—stories full of Shifters and Monsters and dark, dangerous men who found the one woman meant for them.
The one who completed them.
Balanced them.
Saved them.
I used to love those stories.
