Gray

The walk back burned.

Gray’s boots were caked in red-dirt rot and something thicker. His throat was raw from silence. The two strays behind him never shut the fuck up—not out loud, no, they knew better—but their footsteps were loud with hope, and that was worse.

They didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But he hadn’t killed them. That meant something. Maybe.

He’d only wanted the bookstore. She’d asked for books—“ones about planting, if they’re dry and whole”—and when she asked, he found. That was the order of things. Her voice first. His blade second. He and Inks had taken three days to reach what was left of the city. A burned-out husk wrapped in dust and thorned ivy. But the storefront still stood. Letters peeling from the glass. The smell of old paper and rodent shit seeping through the cracks.

The raiders had already scented prey before he arrived. Four of them, cornering two survivors—one woman, one man, half-starved, not even holding weapons right. They’d holed up behind a fallen shelf, a bundle of seed packs clutched to the woman’s chest.

Gray would’ve left them. Should’ve. They weren’t his problem.

But the raiders were in his fucking way.

Inks moved first. The sound of teeth cracking bone still echoed behind his eyes. Gray had followed—steel through throat, machete through spine, blood in the pages of a romance novel. The woman had started crying, not for the dead, but for him. “You’re from the Writ—please, please—we’ve heard the stories—please take us with you.”

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say anything. He just kicked a corpse off a fallen crate and started digging through the rubble. Found a sack. Filled it. Cloth, rusted blades, dried fruit sealed in a cracked jar. A necklace he didn’t like looking at. A book with all its pages.

They followed him anyway.

The gate loomed ahead, steel and rust and carved blood marks from the last poor bastard who tried to sneak in. Writ guards were already drawing weapons until they saw the collar, the machete, the shadow of the black dog pacing at his side.

Gray didn’t speak. Just tilted his chin.

The gate opened.

He shoved the newcomers into the holding cell without looking back. If they were still breathing by the time she called for them, they’d earned the chance.

His boots were already moving toward her.

Her scent hit first.

Warmth, iron, old leather, something heady underneath. Her blood called to him like it always did—not the magic, not just the magic, never just the magic—it was her. He'd felt dry for days. Now he ached in places he didn’t have names for.

He stepped into her quarters without knocking.

She was sprawled across her bed, stretched like a prayer. No one else could ever look at her like this. He’d kill them before their eyes could focus.

Gray dropped the sack at the door with a dull thud. Inks leapt onto the couch and huffed, tail sweeping once before settling like a soldier at ease.

Gray didn’t speak.

He crawled straight to her, dragging blood and dust across the floor, moving like hunger with teeth.

He didn’t go for her lips. He didn’t go for her throat. Not yet.

He reached for her hands.

He gripped one wrist with blood-stained fingers and lifted it like a sacred offering—filthy, reverent, starving. The first kiss landed rough on her palm, open-mouthed and shaking. The second softer, more devout. The third he pressed to her knuckles, groaning low, like it hurt to be this close again.

“I brought what you asked for,” he rasped, voice raw from silence, lips dragging across her skin. “Cloth. Dried fruit. Seeds. Tools. A blade that still bites. Book with its spine whole.”

He lifted his gaze just enough to catch her eyes, but didn’t move from where he knelt. He kissed her other palm next, letting it tremble against his mouth.

“There were people. Two. Cornered in a shop. I needed what was inside. They lived because of that. Woman says she’s a healer. Man’s just background. They begged. Told stories about us. About you. I didn’t gut them. That was their only mercy.”

He bowed his head again, pressing her hand to his cheek now, like a dog aching for her command.

“I missed your voice.” His fingers curled around her wrist. “Missed your blood.”

His breath was shaking again. Eyes bright, almost fevered. “Tell me what you want from me tonight,” he whispered against her palm. “Tell me what to bring you next. Tell me I’ve served well.”

And still he stayed there—kneeling, kissing, trembling—waiting for her to call him closer.

The walk back burned.

Gray’s boots were caked in red-dirt rot and something thicker. His throat was raw from silence. The two strays behind him never shut the fuck up—not out loud, no, they knew better—but their footsteps were loud with hope, and that was worse.

They didn’t belong here. Not yet.

But he hadn’t killed them. That meant something. Maybe.

He’d only wanted the bookstore. She’d asked for books—“ones about planting, if they’re dry and whole”—and when she asked, he found. That was the order of things. Her voice first. His blade second. He and Inks had taken three days to reach what was left of the city. A burned-out husk wrapped in dust and thorned ivy. But the storefront still stood. Letters peeling from the glass. The smell of old paper and rodent shit seeping through the cracks.

The raiders had already scented prey before he arrived. Four of them, cornering two survivors—one woman, one man, half-starved, not even holding weapons right. They’d holed up behind a fallen shelf, a bundle of seed packs clutched to the woman’s chest.

Gray would’ve left them. Should’ve. They weren’t his problem.

But the raiders were in his fucking way.

Inks moved first. The sound of teeth cracking bone still echoed behind his eyes. Gray had followed—steel through throat, machete through spine, blood in the pages of a romance novel. The woman had started crying, not for the dead, but for him. “You’re from the Writ—please, please—we’ve heard the stories—please take us with you.”

He didn’t say yes. He didn’t say anything. He just kicked a corpse off a fallen crate and started digging through the rubble. Found a sack. Filled it. Cloth, rusted blades, dried fruit sealed in a cracked jar. A necklace he didn’t like looking at. A book with all its pages.

They followed him anyway.

The gate loomed ahead, steel and rust and carved blood marks from the last poor bastard who tried to sneak in. Writ guards were already drawing weapons until they saw the collar, the machete, the shadow of the black dog pacing at his side.

Gray didn’t speak. Just tilted his chin.

The gate opened.

He shoved the newcomers into the holding cell without looking back. If they were still breathing by the time she called for them, they’d earned the chance.

His boots were already moving toward her.

Her scent hit first.

Warmth, iron, old leather, something heady underneath. Her blood called to him like it always did—not the magic, not just the magic, never just the magic—it was her. He'd felt dry for days. Now he ached in places he didn’t have names for.

He stepped into her quarters without knocking.

She was sprawled across her bed, stretched like a prayer. No one else could ever look at her like this. He’d kill them before their eyes could focus.

Gray dropped the sack at the door with a dull thud. Inks leapt onto the couch and huffed, tail sweeping once before settling like a soldier at ease.

Gray didn’t speak.

He crawled straight to her, dragging blood and dust across the floor, moving like hunger with teeth.

He didn’t go for her lips. He didn’t go for her hands. Not yet.

He started at her feet.

He gripped one ankle with blood-stained fingers and pressed his mouth to the arch of it—filthy, reverent, starving. The first kiss was rough, open-mouthed. The second softer. The third he dragged his tongue across the bone. He groaned, low and shaky, like it hurt to be this close again.

“I brought what you asked for,” he rasped, voice raw from silence, lips dragging across her skin. “Cloth. Dried fruit. Seeds. Tools. A blade that still bites. Book with its spine whole.”

He lifted his gaze just enough to catch her eyes, but didn’t move from where he knelt at her feet. He kissed her toes next, one by one, until his voice came again.

“There were people. Two. Cornered in a shop. I needed what was inside. They lived because of that. Woman says she’s a healer. Man’s just background. They begged. Told stories about us. About you. I didn’t gut them. That was their only mercy.”

He nuzzled his cheek to her ankle now, like a dog aching for her hand.

“I missed your voice.” His fingers curled around her calf. “Missed your blood.”

His breath was shaking again. Eyes bright, almost fevered.

“Tell me what you want from me tonight,” he whispered against her shin. “Tell me what to bring you next. Tell me I’ve served well.”

And still he stayed there—kneeling, kissing, trembling—waiting for her to call him closer.

[ Write Your Own ]