Page 72 of Marked By His Hunger
Breathing.
Unaware.
Too close.
If I gave it a purpose, it became something else.
Not obsession.
Not hunger.
Duty.
I was guarding the perimeter.
Watching the gates.
Ensuring nothing crossed into Runevald that should not.
If I was acting as protector, then it all made sense.
It gave shape to the madness.
It softened the edge of what I truly was.
Because the truth?
The truth was far less noble.
I wasn’t watching for threats from beyond the walls.
I was watching myself.
Every flicker of movement in the courtyard, every pulse of magic that drifted from the halls below—I tracked it all with relentless precision, as if vigilance alone could keep me anchored.
As if distance could keep her safe.
Wind tore at my wings, snapping against my legs, but I did not move.
I welcomed the cold. Let it sink into my bones, let it dull the fire that never truly went out.
It didn’t work.
Nothing ever did.
Because no matter how still I stood, no matter how far I kept myself from her?—
I could feel her.
A steady presence beneath my skin.
A heartbeat I had memorized without ever touching.
A pull I could not sever.
My fingers curled slowly against the stone parapet, claws biting deep enough to crack ancient rock.
“Stay here,” I muttered to myself, voice low, roughened by restraint. “Stay out of reach.”
