Page 50 of Marked By His Hunger

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Hungry.

Every semester, it was the same ritual.

New arrivals.

Fresh blood.

Bodies still unfamiliar with the rules of this place—naive, curious, desperate enough to sign the Institute’s parchment without fully understanding the ancient clauses woven into its magic.

Consent, they called it.

Choice.

But the truth?

It was survival disguised as agreement.

And I had always fed from that cycle.

Carefully.

Controlled.

Contained.

Until now.

Now the scent of fresh blood only made it worse.

Because none of it mattered.

None of it called to me.

None of it satisfied.

Only her.

Always her.

I dragged a hand through my hair, claws catching, breath coming harsher now as I fought the pull tightening inside me like a chain being drawn taut.

“This is weakness,” I snarled into the storm. “A flaw. A break in control.”

But even as I said it, I knew?—

This was not weakness.

This was something else.

Something older.

Something the Norns had not warned me of.

Had they known?

Of course they had.

They always did.

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