Page 159 of Marked By His Hunger
Because it wasn’t just hunger anymore.
It was thirst.
It was need.
Something deeper than either of those things.
Like my body was calling out for something specific—and everything else was just… not it.
I picked up a taco, took a bite.
The texture was there.
The flavor.
But it didn’t land.
Didn’t satisfy.
Didn’t even register the way food was supposed to.
I chewed slowly, forcing myself to swallow, but the second it went down, the ache intensified.
My chest tightened.
My pulse sped up.
Every nerve felt too close to the surface, like my skin wasn’t thick enough to contain whatever was building underneath it.
“Okay, this is not normal,” I whispered.
The hunger answered.
Not in words.
In sensation.
A pull.
A direction.
A want.
My breath went shallow.
Because I knew—without knowing how I knew—that this wasn’t something I could fix with food.
Or water.
Or sleep.
It wasn’t physical.
Not entirely.
It was something else.
Something that had been triggered.
