Page 193 of Marked By His Hunger

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His hand on my shoulder.

His voice—faint.

Distant.

“Serena?”

Concern threaded through every syllable.

And beneath it—something else.

Awe.

Fear.

Hope.

All tangled together.

“I’m here,” I whispered, though I didn’t know if he could hear me.

The darkness shifted.

Not threatening.

Not closing in.

Opening.

Like it was making space for me to leave.

Or to stay.

Choice.

That was new too.

For the first time in my life, this ability, this connection to the dead didn’t feel like something happening to me.

It felt like something I could step into.

Or step away from.

And that was terrifying.

Because if I chose wrong—if I let this part of me take over—I might not come back the same.

Or at all.

The spirits waited.

Silent.

Patient.

Not demanding.

Just there.

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