Hunger at the breakfast table

His words hung heavy between us, a testament to the depth of his conviction. But could honor truly weigh so much that it tipped the scales against two months of needless grief? My thoughts churned like a tempest, searching for the shoreline of his reasoning amidst the storm.

He reached out, his fingers gently tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "You've always known the importance of legacy, of family honor. It's in your blood, as much as the fight and the fire," he said softly, the moonlight casting a silver glow on his earnest face. "I've watched you grow, watched you defend that honor with every breath. How could I not understand its worth?"

I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of years behind his words. "You've known? For how long?"

"Over a decade," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I knew we were mates the moment I first laid eyes on you. But I had to hold back, let you live your life without the complications my world would bring."

A tide of emotions crashed over me—anger, confusion, but above all, surprise. All this time, he had been there, a silent guardian respecting boundaries he so desperately wanted to cross.

"And that day?" The day that changed everything, when he had marked me, his teeth sinking into my flesh under the light of the crescent moon.

"Ah, that day..." A pained expression flicked across his features. "I never meant to claim you then, not like that. But you were too close, and the crescent moon's pull was strong. My primal edges, they... I couldn't control them." He looked away, shame tingeing his voice.

Realization dawned, and with it, the understanding of the wildness that had overtaken him, the raw power of his true nature unleashed. It wasn't just fate or chance—it was an uncontrollable surge of the ancient bond that tied us together, one that he'd fought to keep at bay until the moment it roared to life and claimed us both.

“I must leave,” he said getting. “We wouldn't want anyone to see the almighty Shadow sneaking out of a window would we…?”

I shook my head. “And lose your credit? No.”

As the cool morning air nipped at my bare arms, I stood on the tips of my toes, my lips finding Shadow's with a bittersweet mixture of urgency and despair. The goodbye kiss was meant to be fleeting, a brush of warmth before the inevitable cold of his absence. But as our lips met, I couldn't shake the gnawing void that had taken residence deep within me—a void that only his touch seemed capable of filling.

"Shadow," I murmured against his mouth, the name a plea tangled with a thousand unspoken desires.
His hand, large and warm, skimmed up the curve of my side until it cupped my breast through the thin fabric of my top. A spark of raw need ignited within me, and without thought or inhibition, I pulled him closer, craving the heat of his skin against mine. My fingers dug into the muscles of his back, seeking more, always more—more of his touch, of his presence, of him.
"Please," I whispered, a wordless invocation that conveyed all the longing that pulsed through my veins. It was a hunger, sharp and demanding, that refused to be sated by half-measures or gentle caresses. I needed him, all of him, in ways that words could never fully express.
Shadow's grip on me tightened, but not to draw me closer. Instead, he pulled back, his eyes a tumultuous storm of silver and night. The absence of his touch was like being plunged into icy water, and I gasped at the sudden chill.
"Amina," he said in a voice that was both stern and achingly tender, "it's the full moon. It's stirring the primal part of you, making you..." His gaze dipped to my throat where my mark pulsed with an insatiable yearning. "...hungry."
I tried to reach for him again, but he stepped out of my grasp, a gentle but unyielding barrier now between us.
"Your body is reacting to the lunar cycle, intensifying your desires. It's natural for a marked female. You're seeking to complete the mating bond, but it's only me, your mate, that can truly quell this fire inside you. Any other would be just a temporary salve, Amina. It won't tame the need."
His words settled like stones in my stomach. The full moon was indeed drawing near, and with it, the raw energy of my nature as a marked female surged to the forefront, demanding fulfillment. Yet, with his declaration came an unwelcome reminder. As much as I craved release, it could only be found through Shadow, through our union. Anything less would be hollow, unsatisfying.
"Shadow, don't leave me like this," I pleaded, frustration lacing my tone.
He sighed, a sound that carried a weight of responsibility and regret. Leaning forward, he kissed my forehead—a chaste, maddeningly insufficient gesture that did nothing to dampen the fire within me.
"Be strong, Amina. This will pass." His voice was a soothing balm, yet it offered no comfort to the throbbing mark on my throat, a visible testament to our connection—and to my current torment.
With those final words, he turned and left, leaving me alone with the pulsating need that refused to subside. Annoyed and unsatisfied, I touched the spot on my neck, feeling the heat of the mark beneath my fingertips. With a huff of exasperation, I moved to my vanity and picked up the foundation, dabbing it over the mark in an attempt to conceal its incessant throb.
The makeup did little to hide the intensity of my arousal, but it allowed me to maintain a facade of normalcy. If only it were as simple to mask the longing that gnawed at me from the inside, a longing for Shadow that was both my curse and my deepest desire.
The clink of cutlery and the soft murmur of morning conversation did little to distract me from the restless agony that gripped my body. I shuffled into the kitchen, every step an effort to maintain composure. The scent of scrambled eggs and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, but it was no match for the overwhelming longing that Shadow's absence had ignited within me.
"Good morning, Amina," my mother greeted me with her usual warm smile, but her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in my appearance.
"Morning," I managed to reply, my voice tight as I slid into a chair at the breakfast table. The wood felt hard against my skin, and I shifted uncomfortably, trying to alleviate the ache that pulsed through me with each beat of my heart.
"Are you alright, dear?" my father asked, peering over his newspaper with concern etching his features. He noticed my fidgeting, the way my fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the tabletop.
I nodded, forcing a smile that felt as fake as the foundation I had used to cover the mark on my throat. "Just didn't sleep well," I lied, hoping they would attribute my restlessness to simple insomnia rather than the carnal hunger that threatened to consume me.
My sister glanced at me from across the table, her brow furrowed. "You look... tense," she observed, her voice laced with the protectiveness that always came so naturally to her.
"Cramps," I blurted out, the first excuse that came to mind. It wasn't entirely a lie—my body was indeed in agony, though not from any ailment they could understand or soothe.
"Maybe you should stay in today, take it easy," my mother suggested, reaching across the table to place a comforting hand over mine. Her touch was meant to be soothing, but it sparked another wave of yearning that had nothing to do with familial concern.
"I'll be fine," I assured her, pulling my hand away to avoid further contact. "Really, I just need to get moving, shake off the restlessness."
They exchanged worried glances, but mercifully, no one pressed further. I ate mechanically, barely tasting the food, all the while acutely aware of the pulsating need that refused to be ignored. Every moment I sat there, surrounded by family, I felt like a fraud—a woman marked by passion, masquerading as someone who had control over her own desires.