AMANDA
"You need more food, little wolf?"
Blaze’s voice is rough, tinged with something sad, but his hand in my hair is steady, firm, stroking through the tangles like he’s trying to keep me tethered.
I don’t answer. I can’t.
I’m too busy eating, shoving food into my mouth so fast I barely taste it, barely chew before swallowing, my whole body locked into a single, ruthless focus—consume.
The bowl is hot against my palms, but I grip it tighter, curling around it, shoulders hunched, body tense, instinct screaming at me to keep it close, to not let anyone take it.
Blaze’s hand presses against my back, warm, grounding. Too much. Not enough.
"Slow down," he murmurs. "No one's taking it from you."
I know that. But my body doesn’t.
It only knows hunger—bone-deep, gut-clenching, marrow-s
