Page 119 of Fool Me Twice

He gripped it harder as it pulsed against his mind, trying to overpower him. It gained the advantage for a second, and Hart let himself slip back into his own mind, the ugliness of it overtaking him.

Cane’s lips touched his neck again.

His brothers’ faces flashed before his eyes.

And Hart fought back.

He screamed as he pulled at it, pushing it into the photo until there was nothing left of it. Until there was nothing around him in the mirror but Cane’s arms.

Until he could see just the two of them sitting on the floor, holding each other and shaking.

Hart’s photo fluttered, the scent of burning and decay spreading around them. It looked like it had grown, expanded with the curse now attacking something that only looked like a person.

“Finish it,” Cane whispered, and Hart snatched the photo up again, tearing into it with so much rage he turned it into confetti. The curse screamed as it was broken, and Hart let the pieces flutter down to the floor.

He watched them fall, quiet and dead now that the curse was gone. Just pieces of paper that used to hold a memento of Hart. He lifted his hands and placed them on his chest, over the mark on his heart, burning under his fingers.

“You’re still here, sweetheart,” Cane said.

Hart took a breath.

Then another.

Then another.

Then the floodgates opened, and he broke down in Cane’s arms, tears running down his face.

Cane shushed him, pulling him up until he was sitting fully in his lap on the floor, cupping his head and rocking him. “It’s over. You did fucking amazing, Hart. And now it’s all over.”

Chapter 25

Hart

“If you wake up in the morning and feel no pain, it is to be feared that you died in the night.”

Hart woke up in increments. And he certainly hadn’t died in the night, because his entire body ached. There was a throbbing just behind his eyelids, a stiffness in his muscles that made moving his body harder than it should have been. He felt heavy, weighed down and fixed in place.

But his mind felt clearer than it had before he’d passed out. It felt…transparent. Like someone had cleaned the windows to the outside world and he could see through them again.

He cracked his eyes open just a sliver, noticing tiny things about his surroundings, like the light peeking through the curtains, the feeling of soft blankets under his fingers, and the scent of his favorite laundry detergent in his nose.

Familiar things.

HIS things.

He opened his eyes fully and realized he could see clearly, despite the cobwebs of sleep still lingering in the corners.

He was in his room, in his bed, in his clothes. But most importantly, he was in his own skin. He felt in control again. He pulled his hand out from beneath the covers and moved his fingers in front of his face.

It made his eyes prickle with tears, that small, simple action conveying the autonomy that had been stolen from him when it shouldn’t have been possible.

He noticed the raised and angry welts on his wrists and remembered fighting, screaming, wanting it to hurt, wanting to hurt others. It was hard to face, his stomach rolling with sickness. He wanted to hide it away, to pretend it had never happened, pretend he hadn’t been rendered helpless.

But he couldn’t keep doing that.

Maybe it was the only thing the curse had taught him.

He continued to watch his hand for a moment, trying to judge the delay between his brain and his hand’s response. It was hard not to second-guess and fall into a spiral of self-doubt. Did he really have full control? Was he really him?

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