Page 6 of Hollowed

And the world tilted.

He didn’t kneel like a man. He didn’t bow. He lowered himself with reverence, not to me, but to the act itself. Like kneeling was not submission. Like it was power. Like he controlled even gravity.

He sat still. Just opposite me. Legs folded. Hands resting on his thighs. Robes spilling like shadow.

He watched me.

He watched me like I was a ruin worth worshipping.

And I hated that I wanted it.

I wanted him to touch me.

Not because I was aroused.

Because I needed to know if I was real.

I wanted him to press his fingers into my jaw and tilt my face up like the women had. I wanted him to smear ash across my skin and call it holy. I wanted him to unmake the silence they had stitched into my spine and replace it with something that bled.

But he did nothing.

He only watched.

My breath caught on a sob I didn’t let loose. My hands clenched the floor. My knees screamed. But I didn’t move.

I met his gaze.

And something shifted.

Not in him.

In me.

I realized I wasn’t waiting to be struck. I was waiting to be claimed.

And that was worse.

Because it meant I had already chosen him.

And he knew it.

He tilted his head, and his voice came like rusted iron—low, cracked, edged in smoke.

“You should have burned.”

The words scraped across the inside of my chest.

I opened my mouth, but no answer came.

He took one breath. Measured. Deliberate.

“But you didn’t.”

My lips trembled. Not from cold. From truth.

He extended his hand.

Not to touch me.

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