29. Aria
Aria
The late afternoon sun spills across the winding cobblestone streets as we bid the merchant goodbye. He waves once, tipping his hat, then rumbles off with his cart of ceramic goods. There’s a cool breeze rolling in, carrying the faint smell of spiced bread from a nearby bakery. It’s a comforting contrast to the tension that’s been knotting my stomach all day.
I caught the name of the town when we passed the weathered sign at the entrance: Cliffhollow. Small, quiet, the kind of place that might forget our faces if we leave quickly enough.
There’s salt on the air. Are we close to the ocean? I think so—the wind tastes like waves and deep things just beyond sight.
Roan steps up beside me, scanning the tidy row of buildings. She’s calm, as ever—if you don’t know her as well as I do now, you’d miss the slight furrow in her brow that betrays her concern. We’ve only just arrived, but I can sense her internal debate. Is this place safe? How long until someone notices us?
The same questions swirl in my head, but I push them aside.
“There,” I say quietly, pointing toward a modest-looking inn nestled at the curve of the lane. Its painted sign sways gently in the breeze, The Driftwood Lantern.
The windows glow with warm amber light, promising a hot meal for Roan and maybe—just maybe—a few hours of peace for both of us.
Roan gives a single nod and steps forward without a word, her hand closing around the door handle. She glances back at me, raising one eyebrow— Ready?
I nod.
We go in together.
The innkeeper, a middle-aged woman in a simple apron, greets us with a brisk smile. “You folks looking for a room?”
“Yes,” Roan replies, fishing out a couple of coins from her belt pouch. “If you have one available.”
The innkeeper gives our travel-worn clothes a polite once-over, then nods. “I’ve got a room or two free on the second floor. Cozy but clean. One bed or two?”
The innkeeper’s question lingers in the air like an unsprung trap.
Roan tenses at my side, stiff as a dagger wedged too tightly in its sheath. But the memory of this morning still clings to me, the ache of waking up alone, of finding only her scrawled note in place of her warmth.
My pulse stumbles.
“One,” I blurt before I can overthink it.
Roan’s head snaps toward me, surprise flickering in her eyes. “One?”
The innkeeper shifts uncomfortably behind the counter, clearly aware that this is no simple lodging decision.
I clear my throat. “I don’t mind sharing,” I say as I glance up at Roan from under my lashes. “Do you mind?” My voice is suddenly quieter than I intend.
Something flickers in her dark eyes, something unreadable. She huffs out a breath, lips curving into that familiar half-smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Do I mind?” she echoes, as if the thought is absurd. “No, Mouse, I don’t mind.”
The words sit heavy between us, weighted with more than their meaning.
Roan shifts, rubbing the back of her neck. “You’re sure though?” she asks, voice lower now, rougher. “I mean, last time, you—”
“I was sure last time,” I cut in, raising my chin. “You were the one who insisted on the chair.”
She blinks, clearly caught off guard, before her smirk returns, sharper this time. “So you wanted to share a bed with me last night?”
Heat crawls up my neck. “That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut when I catch the innkeeper’s wary expression—eyes flicking between us like she’s caught in the middle of something private. She scratches at the back of her neck, and I swear I can see the moment she regrets every life decision that led to this moment.
My cheeks flare with heat.
Wait. Is this… improper?
I mean, we’re not technically —but still, the thought latches on and twists low in my stomach. Roan’s lips. Her hands on my waist. The way we practically spent the entire night breathing each other in.
The way I want to do it again.
And again.
Does that make it proper though? Just because I want to do it?
I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “It’s not improper.”
Her lips twitch, clearly enjoying this more than she should. “That wasn’t exactly my concern, Mouse.”
The innkeeper clears her throat, looking from me to Roan, then back again. “So… one bed, then?”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
Roan exhales through her nose, shaking her head, but I catch the ghost of a smile before she mutters, “One bed’s fine.”
“Right,” the innkeeper says, dragging a key off its hook and setting it on the counter with a solid clunk . “Up the stairs, second door on the left. Breakfast is at dawn. Enjoy your… stay.”
The pause does not go unnoticed. I bite the inside of my cheek as I take the key, murmuring a quick thanks before turning on my heel and heading for the stairs.
Her gaze lingers, and I suddenly realize how we must look—standing too close, voices lower than necessary, the air between us crackling with something too tangible to ignore. I bite my lip, grab the key, and turn on my heel before she can add anything else.
Roan follows me up the stairs, her breath warm at my ear as she murmurs, “Not improper, huh?”
I elbow her lightly in the ribs. “Shush.”
By the time we reach the top landing, my cheeks are warm, and I can’t tell if it’s from the day’s heat or Roan’s proximity. Probably a bit of both.
The room is nothing fancy—just wide enough for a single bed, a small washbasin, and a wooden chair by the window. A worn rug covers the floor, and everything smells faintly of old timber and salt. I can practically feel Roan’s cautious gaze sweep the corners, checking for any sign of danger.
“Clear?” I tease, a small grin quirking at my lips.
She snorts, kicking the door shut behind us. “Yeah, clear,” she says. “Just the occasional monster under the bed, maybe.”
“Oh,” I murmur, leaning closer, “I’m the only monster allowed around here.”
Her eyes flick to mine, amusement sparking there. “Right. My mistake.”
My heart thuds. The word monster doesn’t sting the way it once might. Not with her.
I toss my cloak onto the chair, trying to ignore the slight tremor in my hands. Roan sets her sword carefully against the foot of the bed, then shrugs off her jacket. Her posture is relaxed, nonchalant, but I sense the undercurrent of readiness—like she expects me to bolt still.
I cross the room, meeting her gaze. “I…” My throat tightens. She doesn’t rush me, just watches, dark eyes steady. “I think…maybe we should try it.”
Roan’s expression softens, and she tilts her head. “Try…?”
Heat flares in my cheeks as I look at the pulse in her neck—a steady drumbeat that’s called to me for too long. “Feeding,” I manage, voice low. “From you.”
The corner of her mouth curves, an almost playful smile. “Oh. That.” She says it like we’re discussing something as casual as the weather. “I was wondering when you’d ask.”
A breath of nervous laughter escapes me, too thin to hold shape. “You don’t look worried.”
She shrugs, easy and confident. “Should I be?” Her gaze skims my face, bright and unwavering, like she’s not offering blood and trust in the same breath.
The tension in my chest doesn’t vanish, but it twists—softens—into something molten and breathless. Not just gratitude, not anymore. What’s stirring low in my stomach feels heavier than that. Hotter. A deep ache that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with her.
I drop my eyes, whispering, “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
Roan tilts her head. “Then tell me.” A beat. “What made you change your mind? Didn’t you promise yourself humans were off the menu?”
I swallow hard, looking back up at her. “That was before I met you. Promises can change.”
Her expression shifts—something in it sharpens, softens all at once. Her teasing fades, replaced with something more tender. Her thumb brushes the back of my hand, grounding me.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask, the words sticking to my tongue, heavy with weight I can’t name.
Roan smirks. “You’re the expert, aren’t you?”
“I’ve fed before,” I say quietly, “but not like this.” Not with someone who matters. Not with someone who’s looking at me like I’m not a monster. “This is different.”
She studies me for a beat, then steps back and gestures toward the bed. “Then we take it slow.” Her voice is low, gentle, but edged with steel. “Come on. Sit.”
I move toward her with hesitant steps, my heart pounding louder than my thoughts. I sit on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap, trying to breathe past the storm building inside me.
Roan kneels in front of me, steady and close, like a prayer I’m afraid to whisper, and for once—I don’t feel like I’m about to lose control.
I feel like I’m about to choose .
Roan’s presence is steady, unshakable. Her hands come to rest on my knees, warm through the fabric, grounding. Her touch doesn’t command, doesn’t push—it offers. Quietly, solidly.
I watch her throat work as she swallows, her pulse fluttering just beneath the skin. The scent of her—leather, smoke, something earthy and hers alone—fills my lungs until I feel dizzy with it.
“Hey,” she says softly, tilting her head to catch my eye. “You’re shaking.”
“I know.” I try to smile, but it wobbles. “It’s not fear. Not really.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Then what?”
“Desire.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My voice is barely audible.
Roan’s eyes darken, her grip tightening slightly on my knees. “Then take what you desire.”
The words crack through me like lightning, sharp and impossible to ignore. I draw in a shaky breath and lean forward, one trembling hand brushing her jaw. She doesn’t flinch. If anything, she leans into it, like the contact steadies her too.
We’re eye level, despite her being on her knees. It should make me feel powerful. It doesn’t.
It makes me feel seen.
Unraveled.
Like every carefully-stitched piece of myself could come undone with just one more look from her.
Her skin is warm beneath my touch, the rough line of her jaw giving way to something softer as I lean in and press my lips to the corner of her mouth.
She exhales into me like she’s been holding her breath all day.
Her arm snakes around my waist, strong and sure, and she eases me further toward the edge of the bed until there’s no space left between us. My legs fall open to accommodate her body, instinct more than thought, a wordless plea: closer.
Always closer.
Her lips meet mine again—slow at first, unhurried, like we have all the time in the world. But there’s intent in it too. Purpose. She kisses like she’s tasting something precious, like she doesn’t want to miss a single detail.
And gods, I melt for her.
The tension drains from my limbs, every breath unspooling something tight in my chest. Her fingers press into my side through the fabric of my shirt, not hard, but just enough that I feel her there—anchoring me. My own hand slides into her hair, tangling in the soft strands at the base of her neck. I don't think I could stop kissing her if I tried.
She groans softly into my mouth, and the sound punches straight through me, heat pooling low in my belly. Her presence surrounds me, a wall of warmth and strength and something wild I can’t name.
And still—beneath all that want, all that dizzy heat—there’s something else, tight and trembling under my skin.
Hunger.
Not for blood. Not yet.
And when I pull back, just enough to search her face, I see it mirrored there—her eyes half-lidded, lips parted, jaw tight with restraint.
She wants this too.
“You’ll stop me if—”
“I’ll be fine, Mouse.” Her lips twitch with the nickname, but her voice is all conviction. “I trust you.”
It undoes something in me.
Carefully, reverently, I lean in again. My arms loop her neck, tugging her closer, closer . My lips brush her throat—barely there, like a prayer. Her breath catches.
I let them linger.
The skin there is warm, impossibly soft, and when I press a featherlight kiss to the hollow just beneath her jaw, she exhales sharply—like I’ve knocked the air from her lungs with nothing but a touch. Emboldened, I do it again. Slower this time. Then trail another kiss just below it, letting my lips part slightly against her pulse.
She tastes like salt and skin and something heady I can't quite name. And I shouldn't notice. Feeding is supposed to be just blood. Just survival.
But gods, I feel it low in my belly, a flicker of heat sparking where hunger and want blur together.
Her breath ghosts against my temple, uneven now, and the sound only makes it worse. She shifts beneath my touch, barely perceptible, like she’s trying not to move. Not to press herself into me.
It’s never felt like this before. Not with any human I’ve fed from. Not close. There was no anticipation, no ache that lived beneath the hunger like this sharp, sweet need.
I’m not just craving her blood—I’m craving her. All of her.
My fangs ache, lengthening in response to the nearness of her blood, and I have to shut my eyes, center myself. One more second, just one more breath—
Not too deep. Not too fast.
I can’t lose myself in it. Not with her.
I part my lips, letting them linger against her skin. Then, with a whisper of hesitation, I sink my fangs in.
She gasps.
Not in pain—but in surprise . Her hands curl around my arms, anchoring me. And gods, her blood—warm, rich, unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. The animal blood, the scraps, the desperate half-starvings—they were ashes compared to this.
But what stuns me isn’t the taste of it from the source. It’s what’s underneath it.
The emotion. The trust .
Roan doesn’t fight it. She lets me in, completely, murmuring a quiet, “ Aria ,” and it wrecks me.
There’s only breath and blood, and something between us that feels like it could become more than either.