Page 30 of Bonepetal
The wax burns her clean, but the feather marks what’s mine. Soft and cruel in the same stroke, pain melted into pleasure, then brushed away, leaving her skin raw for me. Every time it skims her, it ties her tighter to me, threads her body into the rite.
I angle it lower, brushing the crease of her inner thigh, close enough that it ghosts against her heat without giving her the stroke she’s begging for. Her moan rips through the clearing, ragged, helpless, nothing like the sharp tongue she hides behind when she’s awake and armored.
I press the feather’s spine harder, dragging it slowly up the length of her folds, then flick away again before she can roll her hips into it. She gasps, body betraying her with every arch and shiver.
The feather gathers her slick now, wet glistening on its barbs, and I know that’s the truth of it, the binding made visible. Herwant staining the feather, her body surrendering proof that she’s mine, that no devil gets to claim her. Only me.
My cock jerks against my zipper, hard enough I almost tear it open, but I force myself to watch her writhe instead.
Her whole body trembles, thighs parting wider despite the way she keeps jerking away from the heat. I let the feather skim across her clit in one fleeting pass, just enough to make her cry out sharp and needy, then pull back immediately, smirking as her hips lift off the altar like they’re begging for it.
Her voice breaks. “Finn?—”
I twist the feather between my fingers, slick shining dark along its edge, and lower it back down slow. “Not yet,” I murmur, voice thick, aroused, cruel. “We’re not done yet,”
The knife comes last. Bone hilt. Teeth still ridged in it, gleaming like memory. The blade’s pitted edge catches the light as I set the flat against her throat.
Not cutting. Just pressing.
Reminding.
Her breath stutters. The sound makes my blood fucking sing.
“Finn,” she whispers. “What do I say?”
“Nothing yet.” My thumb slides down the hilt, steady, sure. “You don’t say a word until I tell you to.”
I drag the spine of the blade down between her breasts, over her heart, until it rests just above her stomach.
My other hand grips her throat, firm, unyielding, and claiming.
“This rite scorches him out of you,” I rasp, voice still grave-dirt raw. “Wax, blood, flame—it tears his claws from your skin. Leaves nothing but silence where he used to crawl.”
Her chest rises sharp, falls sharper. “And it will work? The devil won’t come for me?”
“It works,” I rasp. “You trust me, don’t you, bonepetal?”
Her silence is an answer. Her trembling is another.
Both are yes.
I catch the blindfold in my fist and slice clean through it. The fabric falls, and her eyes lock on mine, wide, wet, shining in the candlelight.
Perfect. I wanted this. Needed this.
To see her face when I make her mine all over again.
I unbind her wrists, the chains slipping to the dirt with a dull clank. Her hand trembles in mine as I slice her palm, shallow, precise. She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Then I turn the blade on myself. The cut is deeper, deliberate, and the burn crawls up my arm like fire gnawing on bone.
What seeps out isn’t right. Too thick. Too dark.
Black blood spills, slick and wrong, crawling over my skin like oil, proof of where I’ve been, of what I’ve become.
Her eyes widen when she sees it, fear flashing sharp. I smile behind the skull, cruel and proud. Let her see. Let her know.
Then I press our palms together.
Her red to my black.
