Page 41 of Hollowed

Pressed it harder against him. Into him.

“It’s what I haven’t given anyone.”

I looked at him.

Really looked.

And I saw it.

He wanted to be ruined.

Not just as an offering. But as a man who never believed he deserved to be touched without command.

I stepped closer.

Our bodies almost touching.

His breath caught.

I leaned in. Pressed my lips to his sternum. Felt his heart hammer harder.

“Let me take it,” I whispered.

He shook his head.

“You already did.”

And then he stepped back.

Not away.

Just far enough to breathe.

I didn’t chase him.

Because I didn’t need to.

He had already followed me into silence.

And now it was his turn to ask for more.

It was the way he turned his back to me that undid me.

Not the silence. Not the restraint. Not the distance.

But that small, brutal act of denial.

He walked to the far edge of the chapel and sat on the lowest stair of the altar. His shoulders hunched, hands between his knees, head bowed like the weight of wanting had finally bent him. And still, he said nothing.

I stood in the same place. Barefoot on cold stone. Still damp between my legs from the last time he took me. Still marked by his teeth. Still wearing the bruise of his hand like it was jewelry.

And none of it called him back to me.

My stomach twisted.

Not from rejection.

From grief.

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