Page 25 of The Baker’s Shadow

“Why not?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Because to truly feed it, to satisfy what it needs... that requires more than just touch. It requires connection. Sustained physical contact.”

Understanding dawns slowly. Heat floods my face. “You mean...”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I can give you enough to keep you stable. Take the edge off.” His hand slides from my stomach to my ribs. “But to really feed it properly...”

“Requires intimacy,” I finish.

“Yes.”

The word hangs between us. Heavy with everything we’re not saying.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me like that,” I say quietly. “That you’d hurt the baby.”

“I said I wouldn’t feed on you. Wouldn’t take.” His palm is fever-hot through my dress. “But giving is different. I’m in control. Directing the flow instead of draining you.”

“Is it safe?”

“Safer than you starving to death.”

Fair point.

I study his face in the darkness. The sharp angles. The void-black eyes. The way he’s holding himself so carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll break me.

“I trust you,” I say.

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” I cover his hand with mine. “I know you saved me. Protected me. Protected this.” I press his palm harder against me. “That’s enough.”

He’s silent for a long moment. Then slowly, carefully, he stretches out beside me on top of the covers. Not touching except where his hand rests against my ribs.

“Closer,” I whisper.

“Kaia...”

“Please. I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of being alone.” I reach for him. My hand finds his chest, presses flat over where his heart should be. “Just be here with me.”

He closes the distance. His arm slides beneath my head, cradling me. His other hand stays on my ribs, and I feel warmth spreading through me in waves. Not just heat. Something more. Something that fills the hollow places and makes me feel whole.

“Better?” His breath stirs my hair.

“Yes.” I press closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

We lie there in the dark. His warmth seeps into my bones. The hunger in my stomach starts to quiet, soothed by his presence, by whatever essence is flowing from his palm into my body.

My hand moves without permission. Slides from his chest to his shoulder, then higher, cupping his jaw. His skin is almost too hot to touch.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?”