𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐤

Part XVI: Thread and Hunger

His boots didn't make a sound on the wooden floor.

Tabby watched him cross the room like he'd been there before—like the space already knew him. He didn't touch anything. Not the lace-curtained windows or the books stacked on the shelf. Just took a slow turn in the center of her little parlor, eyes tracing the walls like he was memorizing them.

"You lookin' for somethin'?" she asked, arms folded, keeping her distance.

His mouth curled—just a little.

"No," Remmick said. "Already found it."

Tabby's throat worked. She hated the way heat bloomed low in her belly when he said things like that. Hated more that part of her believed him.

"You always talk like that?" she muttered, walking toward her sewing table. She sat down—needed something to do, needed not to look at him.

"Only when I mean it."

She picked up a swatch of muslin, let her fingers fumble with the needle. Her hands weren't usually shaky.

He came closer—slow, deliberate. Stopped just beside her shoulder, shirt collar undone, suspenders slack over his hips.

"You ever sleep, Tabby?"

She didn't look up. "You ever leave folks alone?"

"Not when I'm hungry."

The needle slipped.

Tabby flinched, sharp hiss escaping her lips as the tip pricked her finger. A bead of blood welled up red against her brown skin, shining in the lamplight.

Before she could move, his hand was on hers.

Gentle. Too gentle.

"Wait," he said, voice suddenly low—hoarse, almost. "Don't pull away."

And then he brought her finger to his mouth.

She didn't stop him.

Couldn't.

His lips were warm. His tongue even warmer. The pressure of his mouth closed over her finger like a secret, and it wasn't pain she felt—it was heat. It was intimacy. It was something far too close to pleasure, and it stole the breath from her throat.

Her eyes met his.

And in them—nothing but storm.

He let go, slow.

Tabby yanked her hand back like it had burned her. "What was that?"

"You were bleedin'," he said, voice flat—but his pupils were blown wide, chest rising just a little too fast. "Didn't want it to stain the fabric."

"Didn't look like you cared about fabric."

"No," he said again. "Not really."

They stood there. Nothing between them but air and the taste of her blood on his tongue.

"I should tell you to leave."

"You should."

"I won't."

"I know."

She hated that he sounded smug.

She hated more that her legs felt weak.