Page 67 of Demon’s Snack

I open my eyes. “And?”

“And there is no loss.”

The words hit the bond like clean water.

My hand tightens at her waist. Her gaze drops to my fingers, then returns to my face without fear. That matters too much. Everything she does matters too much, and I am not sure whether the bond has made me unreasonable or simply removed the option of pretending I am not.

“The hunger is quieter,” I say.

Her attention sharpens instantly. “Describe it.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “Right back to work, are we?”

“Yes.”

“You just kissed me into not exploding.”

“And now I would like the data before either of us becomes poetic about it.”

“Too late. I was extremely close to poetry.”

“That would have been unfortunate for us both.”

“Cruel woman.”

“Accurate woman.”

The exchange steadies me because it is absurd and normal in a room where nothing else qualifies. I take a slow breath and try to name the thing inside me without dressing it in fear. The hunger remains under my skin, but it no longer rakes through every nerve looking for somewhere to discharge. It has pulled inward, tighter and cleaner, like a flame trimmed behind glass. I can still feel the stolen essence from the lesser demon, but it has stopped thrashing. The bond holds it in a pattern now, and every time Isolde’s pulse brushes mine through that strange shared current, the power answers by settling instead of clawing.

“It’s focused,” I say at last. “Still there, still dangerous, still making me want to break things if they threaten you, but not spilling everywhere. Before you touched me, every living pulse in the lane felt like a candle I could put out with my fingers. Now the hunger knows where the door is, if that makes any sense.”

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. “It recognizes direction.”

“Maybe.”

“And boundary.”

I look at her hand on my chest. “Maybe you.”

She goes still, and looks briefly less like an analyst and more like a woman standing too close to an answer that might swallow her life.

Then she ruins the vulnerability by saying, “That is significant.”

I groan. “There it is.”

“It is.”

“I knew you couldn’t help yourself.”

“I said one word.”

“You said the most Isolde word possible.”

Her smile appears slowly, small and reluctant, and the bond warms in response. The warmth is not violent. It curls through me with enough intimacy to make the back of my neck heat.

I release her waist because if I do not, I may kiss her again, and if I kiss her again, the conversation will end in ways I am not ready to survive. Isolde’s hand slips from my chest a moment later, though she lowers it gradually, as if she is measuring what happens when contact breaks. The current between us wavers but holds, a thinner line now, humming beneath the ache of distance.

She notices that too.