I don’t eat meat
987 Words
FARAH
The silence after he leaves is suffocating.
I stare at the carrot I’ve been pushing around my plate for the last twenty minutes, my appetite completely gone—not that I had much to begin with. The venison sits there like an accusation, its juices pooling into the vegetables, contaminating everything it touches.
I don’t eat meat. I never have. Even before I knew werewolves were real, before my world tilted sideways and dumped me into this nightmare, the thought of it made my stomach turn. My mother used to say I was too sensitive, that I’d grow out of it.
I never did.
And now I’m trapped in a palace full of predators who probably think a vegetarian is something you have before the main course.
The candles flicker, throwing dancing shadows across the walls of this prison disguised as a dining room. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A beautiful cage. The mandatory dinners, the locked doors, the guards outside who follow my every movement—it’s all just a prettier version of the cell I occupied when I first arrived.
When Caspian first marked me.
My hand drifts unconsciously to my neck, to the scar his teeth left behind. It’s healed now, barely visible, but I can still feel it. A brand. A claim. A promise of ownership that makes my skin crawl even as something deeper—something I refuse to acknowledge—responds with traitorous warmth.
The mate bond. That’s what the guards whisper about when they think I can’t hear. That I’m his fated mate, the reincarnation of some ancient betrayer, cursed to destroy him over and over again.
Except I don’t remember being anyone but me.
The dreams started when I turned eighteen. Flashes of another life, another world. A woman with my face but not my name, standing before a goddess made of moonlight. Training with weapons I’ve never touched. Descending from somewhere celestial to somewhere… earthly.
And always, always, there’s him.
Younger somehow, though his face holds the same harsh beauty. Less scarred. Less cold. There’s something in his eyes in those dreams that I’ve never seen in waking life—hope, maybe. Or the memory of it.
In the dreams, I love him.
In the dreams, I kill him.
I shove my plate away with more force than necessary, the china scraping against wood. One of the servants who’s been hovering near the wall flinches at the sound.
“I’m finished,” I say quietly.
She hurries forward to clear the dishes, her movements quick and nervous. I’ve noticed that about the palace staff—they’re all terrified. Of Caspian, obviously. But also of me, which is almost funny. What exactly do they think I can do? I’m human. Powerless. A prisoner playing dress-up in expensive gowns I never asked for.
You’re the only thing in this world that can kill me.
His words from earlier echo in my mind. He’d said it so matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. As if the idea that I might be his destruction doesn’t bother him at all.
But I’d seen it in his eyes. The conflict. The way he watches me like I’m both salvation and damnation wrapped in human skin.
The servant finishes clearing and retreats quickly, leaving me alone again. I should go back to his chambers—my prison—but I can’t face those walls right now. Can’t face his scent embedded in every surface, the constant reminder that I sleep in his bed while he takes the floor like some kind of twisted gentleman.
Instead, I move to the window.
The forest stretches endlessly beyond the palace walls, dark and dense and full of things that would kill me before I made it a mile. I’ve learned that lesson already. The scars on my feet from my last escape attempt are mostly healed, but the memory of being dragged back, of Caspian’s face when he’d found me—
Don’t.
I press my forehead against the cool glass, willing the thoughts away.
A flash of movement catches my eye. Down in the courtyard, figures are gathering. Even from here, I can make out Caspian’s massive frame, the way the others orbit around him like moons around a dark planet.
They’re preparing for something. I can see weapons being distributed, vehicles being loaded.
He’s going hunting.
My stomach twists with an emotion I refuse to name. It’s not concern. I don’t care what happens to the monster who’s holding me captive. Who killed a guard in front of me just to make a point. Who looks at me like I’m a ghost he can’t quite exorcise.
But then why can’t I look away?
I watch as he moves through his men, all lethal grace and controlled power. Even from this distance, I can feel him—that pull, that invisible thread the mate bond has tied between us. It hums under my skin like a second heartbeat, foreign and intimate and utterly unwanted.
He stops suddenly, his head turning.
Looking up.
Looking directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and even though it’s impossible, I swear I can see the conflict in his gaze. The same war I’m fighting—duty versus desire, hate versus something that feels dangerously close to its opposite.
Then he turns away, climbing into one of the vehicles, and the moment shatters.
I step back from the window, my heart pounding harder than it should. He’s leaving. Going to face whatever threat has been circling his territory, the one that left that poor boy’s severed head as a calling card.
I should hope he doesn’t come back.
Should pray that whoever he’s hunting tonight is better, stronger, faster than him.
But as I sink onto the window seat, drawing my knees to my chest, I find myself hoping for the exact opposite.
And I hate myself for it.
- Writer
