Page 23 of Bonepetal
Whispers chase me through the stalks, threaded low in the wind—maybe words, maybe my name. A breath follows, keeping time like a metronome.
Steady. Patient. Certain.
If I stop, it’ll be right there.
A narrow cut between rows appears and I dive into it, drop to a crouch, hands on cool earth. The corn rattles around me. Silver shards of moonlight slice across my fingers. That’s when I hear it—a sharp croak above me. The crow. Its inky shape wheels overhead, circling like it wants to drag the devil straight to me.
Panic spikes. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my heartbeat down, dragging each breath slowly. Useless. Running is useless too. The Thorned Patch taught me one thing—you don’t outrun death.
The crow vanishes as quickly as it came.
The field goes still.
Silence.
“Salem.”
The voice is not loud. It doesn’t need volume. It lands between my shoulder blades with surgical precision. Everything in me flinches and leans at once. Because I know that voice.
I look up.
He steps out of the shadows, and for a moment I forget how to breathe.
He’s taller than I remember, broader too, muscle cut hard under skin that looks like it’s been rebuilt from ash and bone. Shirtless, he’s a map of ink and scars—tattoos crawling over both arms, wrapping his ribs, and sliding down one side of his torso in heavy, dark shapes. Flowers, skulls, script I recognize all too well, all tangled together like they’ve been burned into him instead of drawn.
My eyes catch on his chest and stall.
Right there, above his heart, is the symbol, the one he carved into himself that night. It’s healed over ugly, a scar carved too deep to ever fade, stark against the ink that tries to surround it.
My gaze drops before I can stop it, down the hard slope of his abs, the sharp cut of his v-line, lower still. He’s changed since memory—taller, broader, more carved from shadow than boy. My stomach twists because I hate that some part of me feels relief, recognition. Like my body remembered him before my head could.
“Hello, bonepetal.”
The name lands like a hook. My chest seizes.
I push myself up from the dirt, legs unsteady and take a step toward him before I can talk myself out of it. My hand lifts on its own, cupping his cheek.
Warm. Too real.
My voice trembles as it slips out, softer than I mean it to. “Finn…”
His smile is small, wrong. “You broke the vow.”
My brow furrows. “What?—”
“You let him touch you,” Finn says, voice heavy with possession. “You let him have what was only ever mine. You gave him what belonged to me.” His fingers tighten on the mask, dragging it lower so its hollow sockets stare right through me. “So I made sure it won’t happen again.”
The teeth of the mask glint in the moonlight. Something about the curve of the bone, the shape of the jaw, it hits me like a punch.
My stomach twists. My knees threaten to buckle.
Nathan.
The skull on his face isn’t just some relic. It’s Nathan’s.
The vow. The mask. His words. It all crashes together so hard my pulse goes ragged, roaring in my ears until I can’t breathe.
I stumble back. Panic makes the choice for me. I run.
