Page 72 of Shadows in Bloom

“Why don’t I ever get to be the snake?

“Because you’re the cute and quiet one.”

Movement has me pulling from my thoughts, and my attention dropping to her lap where she scratches at the side of her hand. Gently at first, but growing in intensity to the point where it looks as if she broke skin.

But just as quickly as that thought comes, I realize it’s not blood smearing her fingers, caking around her nail beds.

But something else…something black. Oily. Unnatural.

And my heart skitters to a halt, my vision whitening. I’m reaching for her before I even realize what I’m doing.

“What the hell is that?”

She snaps out of her daze, ripping her arm away just as my fingers curl around her. Quickly shoving her sleeve back down so that it completely engulfs her fist.

Our wide gazes fly up to collide at the same time. Hers rippling with such visceral emotion, it steals my breath, drawing a similar outpouring from mine, I’d imagine.

Fear.

Shock.

A wordless longing that hurts too deep to look at too closely…

And then it’s gone, quickly wiped away like it was never there to begin with. Just as quick as I imagine my own shock and fear and confusion must disappear, getting once more shoved back behind the steel wall I’ve been so meticulous in maintaining.

Until now.

Because now…

A tingle spreads across my collarbone, and in the back of my head, a quiet dangerous chuckle rings out. “Sssssee?”

“It’s nothing,” Winifred mutters, looking away. “A pen exploded when I was packing my bag this morning.”

I clamp my jaw. “Liar.”

She stiffens, but says nothing.

So I change tactics, going back to what she said earlier. “Why do you care if I was in the woods or not?” My voice strains with the effort to keep from showing my cards.

“I don’t,” she says quickly, too quickly. She clears her throat, and darts a paranoid look around the room, before whispering, “I just…it doesn’t make sense. You have no reason to cut through that way. Not anymore.”

My gaze drops at that, a familiar pressure building in my chest.

The silence that follows her words—the reminder, and the memories it conjures up—is heavy, thick with tension.

“You’re right,” I finally say in a whisper so that my voice doesn’t crack, betraying me. “I don’t.” A mixture of grief and self-loathing has my stomach churning, acid building in my throat.

“But you do,” I say tersely after a moment. “You have reason.” Her knee bobs. “Is that why you’re asking?” My pulse quickens. “Because you also went through the woods today.”

Her fidgeting stills, and I have my answer.

I’m going to kill her.

I’m going to take that sorry excuse for a braid and strangle her with it.

And then I’ll drag her to Hell and feed her to the flames myself.

In the back of my head, there’s a snicker, and I have to bite back a scoff. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

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