Page 9 of Hollowed

Like being touched everywhere without being touched at all.

It covered me from collarbone to thigh.

I expected him to leave me there.

He didn’t.

He placed a hand on my ankle.

And I shattered.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

His palm was warm. Steady. Grounding. He didn’t move it. Didn’t slide it higher. Just let it rest, anchoring me to the stone, to the moment, to him.

“You lived,” he said.

A statement. Not a praise. Not an accusation.

“They sent you to die, and you didn’t.”

I blinked up at the ceiling.

“Do you know what that makes you?”

My voice cracked.

“No.”

His hand left my ankle. Traveled slowly, deliberately, to my hip. Still over the blanket. Still distant. But present.

“Mine.”

The word hit harder than the fire.

It burned in a different way.

He leaned over me, his face passing through the flickering light. His breath stirred the hair near my ear. His eyes—those void-dark pits—held no lust.

Only ownership.

He brushed the blanket down, exposing my chest, my ribs, my stomach. My skin goose-pimpled in the cold, but I didn’t shiver.

I ached.

Because he looked at me like I was scripture.

Like my body told a story only he had the right to read.

He placed one hand on my sternum.

Flat.

Heavy.

Claiming.

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