Chapter 80 Stop

Chapter 80 Stop
  Amara POV
  The feeling does not leave when Sebastian walks out.
  It lingers.
  A quiet absence that presses against my ribs in a way that makes my breathing feel uneven, like my body is suddenly aware of space in a way it never used to be, hyperaware of distance, of separation, of the missing warmth that had anchored me only moments before.
  I hate it.
  Not the distance itself.
  The dependency.
  The way my instincts claw toward him without permission, without logic, without restraint, like some unseen thread binds us together beneath skin and bone and thought.
  Leviath watches me carefully, his expression unreadable, as if he is cataloging every flicker of discomfort crossing my face and filing it away for later examination.
  “You feel it,” he says.
  Not a question.
  A statement.
  I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax even as tension coils stubbornly through my muscles.
  “Yes.”
  His gaze sharpens slightly.
  “The bond strengthens during times of change,” he continues. “Transformation. Hunger. Instability. Your body recognizes him as safety.”
  Safety.
  The word lands strangely in my chest.
  Heavy and unfamiliar.
  Because safety has never been something I relied on. Not truly. Not consistently. Not in a way that felt guaranteed.
  Not until now.
  I swallow, shifting my weight slightly as I try to push the thought aside.
  “What happens if he’s not there?” I ask quietly.
  Leviath does not hesitate.
  “You learn control without him.”
  Simple.
  Direct.
  Unforgiving.
  Tomas snorts softly from where he leans against the wall again, arms folded loosely across his chest.
  “Translation,” he mutters, “you panic a little, mess up a few times, maybe scare a servant or two, and eventually stop acting like a walking blood grenade.”
  I shoot him a glare.
  He grins wider, completely unapologetic.
  Leviath ignores him.
  “Control begins with restraint,” he says calmly. “And restraint begins with awareness.”
  His gaze shifts toward the far side of the room.
  Toward the feeders.
  My stomach tightens instantly.
  The scent reaches me before my eyes fully settle on them.
  Warm.
  Metallic.
  Alive.
  It hits my senses like a spark landing in dry tinder, igniting that familiar coil of hunger low in my abdomen, sharp and sudden and impossible to ignore.
  My fangs ache faintly behind my lips.
  Not yet extended.
  But close.
  Too close.
  “You will feed again,” Leviath says.
  The words make my pulse jump.
  Not with fear.
  With anticipation.
  And that realization alone makes guilt crawl like ice through my veins.
  “I just fed,” I say quietly.
  Leviath inclines his head slightly.
  “Yes.”
  No argument.
  No sympathy.
  Just acknowledgment.
  “Then you will learn to stop,” he adds.
  That makes my chest tighten.
  Because feeding is not the terrifying part.
  Stopping is.
  He gestures toward one of the feeders seated along the far wall, her posture calm, her expression relaxed in a way that unsettles me more than panic ever could.
  She looks.. willing.
  Prepared.
  Used to this.
  “They understand the risks,” Leviath says, as if reading the flicker of unease crossing my face. “They choose this.”
  Choice.
  The word echoes faintly in my thoughts.
  Choice is not something I have been given often.
  Not truly.
  Tomas pushes off the wall again, stepping closer as if he intends to watch every second of what happens next like this is some form of entertainment.
  “Relax,” he says lightly. “You’re not the first fledgling to panic-feed and nearly drain someone dry. Happens more than you’d think.”
  That does not make me feel better.
  Not even slightly.
  I force myself to step forward.
  One step.
  Then another.
  Each movement feels heavier than it should, like I am walking toward something inevitable rather than optional, like gravity itself is dragging me forward.
  The feeder watches me approach.
  Her pulse beats steadily beneath the thin skin of her wrist.
  I can hear it.
  Clear.
  Rhythmic.
  Steady as a ticking clock counting down toward something irreversible.
  My mouth waters.
  The sensation is immediate and humiliating.
  “Sit,” Leviath instructs gently.
  I obey without thinking, lowering myself into the chair positioned directly across from her.
  The distance between us feels impossibly small.
  The scent of her blood curls into my lungs again, thicker this time, richer, dragging my instincts closer to the surface with every passing second.
  “Take her wrist,” Leviath says.
  My hand hesitates midair.
  Just for a second.
  Then slowly, carefully, I reach forward and wrap my fingers around her arm.
  Her skin is warm.
  Her pulse jumps faintly beneath my touch, though her expression remains calm.
  Brave.
  Or trained.
  Or resigned.
  I cannot tell which.
  “Listen to her heartbeat,” Leviath continues.
  I close my eyes instinctively.
  The sound fills my senses immediately.
  Steady.
  Strong.
  Alive.
  The hunger surges.
  My fangs slide down before I can stop them, slicing gently against my lower lip as instinct begins to take hold.
  “Not yet,” Leviath murmurs.
  The command threads through my thoughts like a hook, catching the forward rush of instinct before it can spiral out of control.
  “Control,” he repeats quietly. “Not starvation. Not indulgence. Balance.”
  Balance.
  The word feels fragile in the face of what claws inside me.
  My breathing deepens.
  I stare at the delicate line of veins beneath her skin, tracing their faint shadows with my gaze as my pulse begins to pound harder in my ears.
  “You will feed,” Leviath says again. “But this time.. you will stop before the hunger decides for you.”
  That is the terrifying part.
  Not biting.
  Not tasting.
  Stopping.
  Because the last time hunger took control…
  I nearly killed someone.
  The memory flashes sharp and sudden through my thoughts.
  Blood.
  Panic.
  Hands dragging me back.
  Voices shouting.
  Darkness swallowing everything whole.
  My grip tightens involuntarily around the feeder’s wrist.
  She does not pull away.
  Does not flinch.
  Does not resist.
  She simply breathes.
  Slow.
  Even.
  Steady.
  Waiting.
  “Now,” Leviath says.
  The word lands like a spark.
  And instinct takes over.
  I lean forward, pressing my lips against her wrist as my fangs pierce skin with frightening ease, slicing cleanly through flesh as warm blood spills into my mouth.
  The taste hits instantly.
  It floods my senses like wildfire racing through dry brush, igniting every nerve ending in my body with sharp, intoxicating heat.
  Relief crashes through me.
  My grip tightens without permission.
  My throat works greedily as I swallow again and again, each mouthful dragging the hunger deeper into satisfaction while simultaneously feeding the beast that demands more.
  More.
  More.
  More.
  The sound of her heartbeat grows louder in my ears.
  Too dangerously close. 
  Too close.
  “Enough,” Leviath says calmly.
  The command barely reaches me.
  Distant.
  Muffled beneath the roar of instinct flooding my veins.
  I drink again.
  Another swallow.
  Another rush of warmth sliding down my throat like liquid fire.
  “Amara.”
  His voice sharpens slightly.
  Closer now.
  More urgent.
  The feeder’s pulse stutters beneath my lips.
  Weakening.
  Fading.
  And suddenly..
  Hands grip my shoulders.
  “Stop,” Leviath commands.
  Not loud.
  Not frantic.
  But absolute.
  Something in his voice cuts through the haze clouding my thoughts, slicing cleanly through the hunger-driven fog long enough for awareness to crash back into place like cold water thrown across my face.
  I jerk backward violently, tearing my mouth away from her wrist as panic slams into my chest.
  Her pulse.
  Her scent.
  Her blood.
  Too faint.
  Too thin.
  Too slow.
  “I—” My voice breaks, raw and uneven. “I didn’t—”
  Leviath moves instantly.
  One hand lifts.
  The blood along her wrist stills mid-flow, sealing shut beneath his control as the wound closes before my eyes, skin knitting together like nothing had ever broken it.
  Her pulse stabilizes.
  Weak.
  But steady.
  Alive.
  Relief crashes into me so violently my hands begin to shake.
  I stare at her.
  Waiting for her to collapse.
  Waiting for her to die.
  She doesn’t.
  She exhales slowly instead, leaning back into her seat with practiced calm as if this moment, this edge of death, is something she has danced along before.
  My stomach twists violently.
  Guilt claws sharp and merciless through my chest.
  “I almost killed her,” I whisper.
  Leviath meets my gaze steadily.
  “But you didn’t.”
  The words do not comfort me.
  Not yet.
  Not when the memory of her weakening pulse still echoes in my ears like a ghost refusing to fade.
  Tomas whistles softly from behind us.
  “Closer stop this time,” he mutters. “Still messy.. but progress.”
  Progress.
  That word feels like sand in my mouth.
  Dry.
  Unconvincing.
  I stare down at my hands.
  Still trembling.
  Still stained faintly with blood.
  Still capable of ending a life far too easily.
  “You felt it,” Leviath says quietly.
  I swallow hard.
  “Yes.”
  “The moment where hunger tried to take control,” he continues. “That is where your power begins.”
  Power.
  Not strength.
  Not speed.
  Control.
  And somewhere deep inside my chest, beneath the lingering guilt and the fading hunger and the terrifying awareness of how thin the line truly is between feeding and killing..