Chapter 42: Hunger in the Dark
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Sekhmet’s jaw tightened. He did not know if he could promise that. The world was cruel.
Null was cruel.
Purgatory swallowed people without permission.
But he could promise something else.
He nodded once.
"I will try," he said.
Lily smiled, satisfied enough.
Then she lay down, pulling her cloak over her shoulders, and this time she slept without stirring again.
Sekhmet remained by the fire.
Bat Bat crawled into his coat pocket, muttering sleepily.
"Kiss... weird."
Sekhmet stared at the pocket.
"Go to sleep," he muttered.
Bat Bat hummed.
"Mmm."
The guards held their perimeter.
The fire crackled low.
Crackle... Crackle...
And for the first time in years, Sekhmet allowed himself to close his eyes for a few minutes, not because the world was safe, but because something inside him felt... less alone.
A few moments later...
The fire had shrunk to a low, stubborn glow. It no longer threw bold light across the hollow; it only breathed warmth in small pulses, like a heart refusing to stop. The stone walls held back most of the wind, but not all of it. Thin ribbons of cold air still slipped through cracks and brushed the skin like invisible fingers.
Woooo...
Sekhmet sat with his back against the rock, eyes open, posture calm, but his mind sharp. He listened to every shift in the night. The guards rotated silently at the perimeter. Their steps were measured. Their weapons stayed close. Even when their heads turned away from the camp, their bodies remained angled to react.
Tap... Tap...
Lily slept under her cloak, curled on her side, face turned slightly toward the last heat of the fire. Her breathing was slow and even, the kind of breathing that belonged to someone who trusted the people around her, at least enough to rest.
Sekhmet watched her from the edge of the firelight, not because he wanted to intrude, but because he could not help it.
Her presence changed the shape of the camp.
It changed the shape of his thoughts.
He had spent years training himself to treat the world like a problem to solve. Hunger, cold, enemies, distance, exhaustion. Everything could be managed if you were ruthless enough with your decisions.
But Lily was not a problem.
She was a memory that walked and breathed.
She was a voice from a time before purgatory had carved sharp edges into him.
And she was close.
Too close.
Sekhmet’s gaze dropped to his own hands, resting on his thighs. The skin looked clean enough now. The lake had washed off the worst of the blood, and the nightmare coat and boots had replaced his beggar clothing, making him look less like a man who crawled out of the wilderness and more like someone who belonged in it.
But appearance did not change hunger.
The thirst in his throat had quieted earlier, but it had not vanished. It never vanished. It waited. It lingered behind his tongue like a second heartbeat.
Ba - dum... Ba - dum...
At first, Sekhmet thought it was just stress. The fight earlier had been intense. The presence of Lily had stirred old emotions. The kiss had been a mistake that felt too warm to regret.
He told himself that.
He tried to believe it.
Then the hunger sharpened.
It did not rise like ordinary hunger, the kind that made your stomach complain.
This hunger rose like a scent.
It was not physical at first.
It was sensory.
His nose caught the faintest trace of Lily’s blood beneath her skin. Not spilled blood. Living blood. Warm blood. Blood that moved and pulsed and carried life in quiet waves.
Sekhmet’s throat tightened.
He swallowed.
The swallow did nothing.
His tongue felt dry.
His canines ached faintly, as if they were remembering what they were meant to do.
Sekhmet’s eyes narrowed.
"No."
The thought was sharp.
He looked away from Lily, forcing his gaze to the perimeter. Forcing his mind to focus on the wind, the stone, the faint rustle of night creatures moving far away.
Scrape...
A pebble shifted somewhere.
Sekhmet’s senses snapped to it instantly. He tracked the sound. One of the guards shifted position at the same time, spear angled outward. Their discipline was good.
Sekhmet exhaled slowly.
He tried to steady himself.
But the hunger did not care about discipline.
It rose again, stronger, like a tide.
His body warmed. His skin felt too tight. His heartbeat grew louder in his ears.
Ba - dum... Ba - dum... Ba - dum...
The scent of Lily’s blood became clearer, not because she was bleeding, but because his senses were sharpening against his will, tuning themselves to a frequency he hated.
Sekhmet clenched his jaw.
"This is not me."
But it was him now, whether he liked it or not.
He had become something else the moment Benimaru forced that frozen red essence into his mouth. He had survived, but survival always came with a price.
He shifted slightly, pressing his back harder into the rock, grounding himself. He focused on the pain in his ribs from the earlier fight. He focused on the ache in his shoulder.
Pain helped.
Pain reminded him he was human.
For a few breaths, it worked.
Then Lily stirred.
Not fully awake. Just a small movement. Her cloak slipped down her shoulder slightly. A line of skin showed where her neck met her collarbone, pale in the dying firelight.
Sekhmet froze.
His gaze locked there.
His throat tightened.
His mouth filled with saliva, sudden and shameful.
The hunger surged so hard his vision sharpened, edges going too crisp, colors too vivid.
His breath slowed, not by choice, but by instinct.
In... and out...
He did not move.
He told himself he would not move.
Then his body leaned forward a fraction anyway.
Just a fraction.
Like a predator inching closer to prey.
Sekhmet’s fingers flexed.
The part of him that had survived purgatory screamed at him to stop.
The part of him that carried blood hunger whispered that this was easy.