Page 117 of Fool Me Twice

Hart tried to wrench himself away.

“Ash can’t be left to his own devices without you there to balance him out.”

Cane kept talking over Hart chanting ‘no, no, no’ over and over again as he shook his head, eyes clenched shut, tears slipping free from the pain and dysphoria.

“Wren doesn’t sleep well, Midas is absent almost all the time without you there to bring him back home,” Cane continued. “Black’s mouth is gonna get him in so much trouble without you. They all need you, Hart. They’re fucking lost without you.”

“You’re lying,” Hart said, but there was something behind the darkness inside him. A spark igniting and piercing through.

“I need you,” Cane said, grabbing his face and tipping it up. “I need you to fight this! I need you to show me you’re still in there, sweetheart.”

Cane kissed him softly, and Hart frowned, that spark inside him growing bigger at the gentle treatment, so unlike anything they’d ever done. Cane held him loosely now. Like he was fragile. Like he was giving him a way out.

Hart tensed, that flight response inside him the first thing in his mind. But the kiss kept him rooted to the ground. The softest touch to his lips foreign, but somehow, so welcome.

“Cane,” he breathed into the space between them, shivers racking his body now without Cane having to shake him.

“You’re stronger than this,” Cane said. “Your brothers told me that. They didn’t bring your replacement, they just brought in someone to help set things up for you.”

“I don’t need help,” Hart said but it sounded hollow, like he was starting to hear his own voice from a distance.

“No, you don’t. You can fucking kick this curse’s ass all on your own. You just have to let go, sweetheart.”

“No…”

“Look around,” Cane said, and Hart peeked over his shoulder for a split second before hiding his face in his chest again and shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

Cane’s hands drifted from around his body up to his shoulders, and Hart felt himself being turned around, pushed until Cane was glued to his back. His arms were around Hart’s waist again, chin hooked over his shoulder, lips brushing his neck.

“Open your eyes, Hart,” Cane whispered.

Hart did, finding himself face to face with the largest mirror in the room. He was staring into his own eyes, gasping at the dark circles around them. The redness inside them. The desperation and the rage swimming at the edges.

Holding his breath, he looked around to see his reflection staring back at him.

Hundreds of him.

Thousands.

Fractured and distorted.

Maniacal and wild.

Unkempt and messy.

His shoes were scuffed and dirty, pants ripped in places, and the shirt on his back didn’t belong to him. His wrists were raw and bloody, and his hair was falling over his forehead, greasy and stringy.

But, unsettling as it was, that wasn’t what drew his attention.

It was the pitch-black, leathery-looking cloud whirling around his head. Like a storm. Violent and unyielding.

It was wrapping its tendrils around his body, forcing its way inside him, clawing at his flesh. It was completely opaque, ruthless in its power. In all his years of training Hart had never seen anything like it.

It was so strong that he wasn’t sure there was a way to uncoil it from around himself without pulling himself apart trying.

He lifted his tied hands and covered his mouth with his fingers, a sob rushing out of him and echoing in the small room. Fear gripped at him. Panic descended over him.

This shouldn’t have been possible.

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