Page 10 of Hollowed

And I let him.

I didn’t ask what came next.

I already knew.

It would be silence.

It would be obedience.

It would be him.

And I was ready.

I could feel the stone beneath me, grooved and burned with the memory of bodies that had come before mine. The cold sank in slow—up my spine, between my thighs, into the hollow curve just below my ribs. The wool blanket offered no comfort. It was a shroud. It smelled like him. Smoke and something older. Like breath held too long.

I didn’t close my eyes.

I wanted to. I wanted to disappear into the dark behind my lids and pretend none of it was real. But he was still there. And I couldn’t afford to miss him.

He stood beside the slab.

Still.

Not with hesitation. With intention. Like every second he made me wait was part of something sacred. Like my body needed to learn that silence wasn’t absence—it was preparation.

I swallowed hard.

The movement made me aware of every part of myself.

My throat, raw.

My lips, cracked.

My skin, blistered faintly along the places where the fire kissed but did not consume.

He moved.

Not toward me.

Past me.

Into the darkness at the back of the chapel. A space I hadn’t noticed. A low alcove, tucked behind a partial wall where the ceiling sagged and the fire hadn’t dared touch.

I lifted my head, but only slightly. My wrists tensed. The instinct to follow nearly overtook me.

But I didn’t move.

Because he hadn’t told me to.

And somehow, that mattered more than the ache blooming in my chest.

A sound. Cloth. Water. The scrape of metal.

He returned carrying a basin.

It was simple. Iron, wide-brimmed, dented at the lip. It looked older than the chapel itself. Like it belonged in the ground, buried with bones and vow fragments.

He set it down beside me. I heard the water shift. No steam. No scent. Just the weight of it. Cold. I knew before he touched it to my skin. Cold like stone. Like truth. Like the space between what I was and what he would make me.

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