Page 45 of Bonepetal
His grip tightens—fists full of my ass, possessive without pressure—spreading me wider and dragging me down as he drives up harder, like he wants to carve himself into the place I keep for him.
He falls after me—silent first, then a strangled curse, then my name like he’s staking it in the dark.
Heat floods me.
He holds there, buried deep, chest heaving against mine, kiss pressed to my temple like a vow.
Quiet.
Not peace, just the ringing of brightness after thunder.
While he’s catching breath against my cheek, my fingers slide to his belt. The dagger rides warm against his waist. The leather gives under my touch, the hilt fitting my palm like a memory.
He nuzzles me, still inside, still holding me open on him. “Salem,” he whispers, full of wrecked wonder. “So fucking perfect.”
Steel and bone whispers free. I loop my arms over his shoulders like I’m pulling him deeper. The point finds the notch between ribs through his shirt; I feel his heartbeat kick against it.
And then I push.
His body jerks, then goes loose.
He leans in, resting his forehead on mine, his breath warm—the closest thing to gentle he has left.
“Bonepetal,” he whispers softly, almost sorry, and for a heartbeat I see Finn—the boy I loved, not the thing he became.
Light spiders under his skin. It cracks him open. Heat bleeds through the lines, bright and wrong.
He flinches; I do, too.
Then it burns—skin splitting, and smoke curling off his shoulders.
His hands slide from my ass. His knees hit the dirt first.
I go down with him. My heart’s in my throat, beating too hard to hold. “Wait—” falls out useless. “Finn.” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
He finds my face like muscle memory—palms warm, thumbs at my jaw.
His forehead rests on mine. Close enough to feel the tremble in his breath. His eyes are clear for a second and it guts me.
Finn. Just Finn.
“I love you,” I tell him, raw and shaking, because it’s all I have left that’s true.
Tears spill fast and hot. They run into the cracks of his fingers and down my neck. I can’t stop them. I don’t try. “I’m sorry.”
“Bonepetal,” he says again, smaller, like a secret.
The heat climbs. The fissures widen. He starts to turn to ash in my hands, edges breaking into smoke. He’s trying to hold on—I feel it in the way his thumbs press, in the way his mouth almost shapes my name, but there’s a dry sound, like a match giving up, and he goes.
Hands on my cheeks one breath, air the next.
Gray dust lifts and smears across my lips, my lashes.
I choke on a sob and taste him—metal, smoke, and salt.
“Finn—” I’m hiccupping now, ugly and loud. My chest hurts like something snapped. “I’m so sorry.”
There’s nothing to catch. I’m grabbing at air.
