Page 38 of Marked By His Hunger
As if she felt it too.
My chest tightened—sharp, painful, unfamiliar.
The hunger did not roar.
It purred.
Low.
Possessive.
Certain.
No.
NO.
I staggered back a step, retreating instinctively into the deeper shadows where even the storm struggled to reach.
“This is not salvation,” I growled under my breath. “This is destruction.”
Because if she was what my body insisted—then the Norns had woven something far more cruel than I had ever imagined.
A Witch.
No.
More than that.
A Death-walker.
One who stood with one foot in the grave and the other in the living world. One who could see beyond the veil, speak to what lay beneath it.
And I—I was the hunger that consumed it.
This was not balance.
This was catastrophe.
Because if she bound herself to me—she would inherit the curse.
Or worse… she would not survive it.
The storm intensified, wind tearing across the battlements, ripping at my cloak as though trying to drag me back toward the edge.
Toward her.
I stepped deeper into shadow.
I would not approach.
I would not allow this illusion to take root.
The Draugr does not get a happy ending.
The Draugr endures.
That is all.
