Page 6 of Craving Carla

“Give me a week,” he repeats, then disappears into the night.

The station falls silent except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional skitter of Moria’s legs in the ceiling. I look up at the vent, and sure enough, her eyes shine in the darkness like twin emeralds.

“Coast is clear, baby,” I murmur.

She wastes no time dropping down, her large form somehow graceful despite her size. She lands on my desk with barely a sound, then quickly makes her way to me. Her legs wrap around my shoulders, and I feel her settle into her favorite position. The weight is comforting, familiar, like a security blanket with too many legs.

I relax in my chair, one hand automatically moving to stroke the soft fur on her back. She snuggles against me, her body warm and pulsing with life. It’s moments like these that make the isolation bearable - when it’s just me and my children, no judgment, no fear, no humans screaming about the “monster spider lady.”

“I miss you too, Moria,” I whisper, continuing to pet her. “But you get to sleep on me every night when I’m home. Your brothers and sisters are getting jealous.”

I say it teasingly, with a small giggle that feels foreign in the sterile station. Moria responds by tightening her grip slightly, her way of showing affection.

My thoughts drift back to Damon’s words about having theories on why the fated scent can’t be detected on me. Partof me wants to hope - maybe there’s someone out there for me. Maybe Fate didn’t just create me to be the eternal guardian, forever alone, forever watching others find their perfect match.

I love my children, would die for them without question, but I want to know what love feels like. Real romantic love, the earth-shattering, universe-aligning kind that makes people write terrible poetry and do stupid things in the name of devotion.

The unfairness of it all presses down on me, suffocating and inescapable. Everyone else gets their person—their fated mate who completes them on a molecular level. Even some of my children are paired, instinctively knowing which of their siblings is their perfect match. But not me. And not Moria.

We’re the odd ones out, the ones Fate apparently forgot to write into her grand plan of universal love.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, feeling Moria’s steady breathing against me. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I send up a silent prayer to Mother Fate, the goddess who created all of us.

Mother Fate, please show me some mercy, just a little. Or at least show Moria. I want to see one of us happy.

The station remains silent, offering no answers. Just me, my unpaired child, and the endless stretch of night shift ahead of us.

But for the first time in weeks, I find myself wondering if maybe - just maybe - things might change soon.

2

Amari

Downtown Detroit—Medina Corp

The wind whips across my naked skin as I stand on the balcony of my penthouse, forty floors above the Detroit River. The city lights twinkle like fallen stars, Ontario’s glow reflecting off the water’s surface. The height doesn’t bother me—nothing about being this high makes my immortal blood quicken. If I fell, I’d simply land with the grace of the predator I am, unbroken, unchanged.

I wipe the blood from the corner of my mouth with my thumb, savoring the metallic taste as I slip it between my lips. The woman’s blood still lingers—a hint of wine, exhaustion, and something artificial that speaks of too many late nights and not enough real food.

Behind me, she’s sprawled face-down on my bed, the black silk sheet barely covering one ass cheek. Her back is bare, marked with the evidence of our encounter—scratches from my nails, bruises from my fingers gripping too hard in the throes ofpassion. Her dark hair fans across the pillow, and she’s dead to the world, worn out from the hours we spent tangled together.

I feel nothing looking at her. Less than nothing. The hollow ache inside me grows wider, a void that no amount of fucking can fill. It’s been this way for over a thousand years—meaningless encounter after meaningless encounter, each one leaving me emptier than the last.

These women do nothing for me except take the edge off, just enough to calm my dick down for the time being. There’s no connection, no spark, no recognition of anything greater than the physical friction we create. I keep waiting for something more, but it never comes.

That’s what brought me to Detroit, if I’m being honest with myself. Something’s been pulling me here for months, a magnetic tug I can’t explain. I tell myself I came here to stick it to Brookstone and Blackburn Enterprises, to take down the corporations that fuel anti-supernatural propaganda while enslaving humans under the guise of “fair employment.” And that’s part of it—I have plans for those bastards that would make Machiavelli proud.

But the real truth? I think my fated mate is here. After more than a millennium, I can finally feel her pull, faint but constant, like a compass needle trembling toward magnetic north. King Amir and Damon don’t understand how these corporate entities work, how they spread their poison through society. They think destroying the board members ends the threat, but corporations are hydras—cut off one head, two more appear. The true way to destroy them is from within, turning their people against them, bankrupting them slowly until they collapse under their own weight.

I grin into the night wind, relishing the thought of watching those fuckers burn.

A familiar skittering sound makes me step back against the balcony wall. He’s here—my little friend, my constant companion for over five hundred years. I found him on the hillside above Granada, a lost creature watching his world burn just as I watched mine. We’ve been together ever since.

He appears at the balcony’s edge, his massive form easily the size of a dinner plate. His body glows with that unnatural black sheen, like polished obsidian, and his bristly hairs outlined by the city lights. Eight eyes, dark and intelligent, fix on me with what I can only describe as ancient wisdom.

He’s grown over the centuries. When I first found him, he was barely larger than a human hand. Now he’s a magnificent creature, his legs spanning wider than a man’s outstretched arms. His body is covered in coarse black hair, with markings that resemble constellations across his abdomen. Multiple eyes like dark jewels, and his fangs are capable of puncturing steel if necessary.

What makes him truly special isn’t his size, though. He feeds on the lost souls trapped in limbo, cleaning the spaces between worlds of the restless dead. I’ve watched him feast on spirits that would drive mortals mad, consuming them in a way I envy. He has a job, a reason for existing beyond survival.

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