The wind groaned through the wooden slats of the watchtower, carrying with it the scent of pine and smoke. It was a fragile refuge, the kind of place that felt both safe and haunted all at once. Every creak of the old beams made me tighten my grip on Adrian, as if the tower itself could betray us to the night.
He lay stretched on the floor, his body bruised and battered, but his eyes—those dark, burning eyes—never left me. They were full of pain, yes, but also of something else, something fiercer than fear: hunger.
“Emma,” he murmured, his voice husky with exhaustion, “come closer.”
I was already close, sitting beside him, my hands still trembling from tending to his wounds. But the way he said it made my chest ache. I slid down until I was lying beside him, my head against his shoulder
