Page 37 of Bonepetal
For a breath, all I can hear is our breathing and the small, unsettled groan of the earth.
He eases out slowly, and the loss is a drop that leaves my legs useless.
He catches me before I slide, lifting me off the stone like I weigh nothing, and carries me three steps into the dark under a yew.
Cool grass, forgiving ground. He lowers me with care that contradicts everything that came before, brushes a knuckle down my neck, then rests his palm over my sternum like he can feel the tether thrumming there.
“Sleep,” he says, voice rough velvet, possessive even in softness. “I’ve got you.”
The last thing I register is the feathered hush above us and the warmth of his shadow at my side as my eyes fall shut.
CHAPTER 8
SALEM
Iwake with damp grass clinging to my cheek like a hand that doesn’t belong to the living.
The ground is cold enough to ache.
When I blink, the world doubles, branch over branch, until the yews slide back into one dark canopy. Dew beads the grass; crow feathers have sifted into the dirt like ash. A few feet away, his grave gapes—ragged mouth, clawed loam, the hole he climbed out of refusing to close.
The air smells like wet soil and stone, with a metallic edge, like pressing your tongue to a battery.
My wrists throb.
I lift them slowly. Purple blooms under the skin, a crooked constellation where iron bit and held. I rub my thumb over the bruises; the ache sparks, and there it is, a string inside me plucked by an invisible hand.
A low hum. A soundless chord.
Not outside. Not around me.
In me.
The tether.
I hear him in the hum. Not words or a voice.
A presence leaned close. Like gravity.
Finn.
A bird slices the pale morning; its shadow skims my eyes and I flinch—just a bird. I breathe dirt and old wax.
My mouth is dry, parched and tastes like salt and earth.
And then the question hits like cold water—where is he?
After all that, he’s just… gone? Did he watch me sleep and leave? Did he walk the tree line, or vanish back into whatever door he pried open?
The idea that he didn’t need to stay stings; the idea that he did and I didn’t wake up is worse.
The hum doesn’t answer. It just keeps time.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I jolt like something grabbed me. For a second my heart’s in my throat, then I huff a shaky laugh at myself—just a phone, not a ghost.
I press a hand to calm the jump, breathe once, and tug it free with my good hand.
The screen lights my palm; the vibration keeps going like it’s trying to get my attention back to the real world.
