Page 103 of Break Her Heart
Whispers poured into my mind—thousands of voices, all speaking at once, crawling over each other. A scraping sound filled my ears, like claws dragging across stone. Then something sharper surged through my hand. A cold spike of pain drove up my arm, curling through my chest, coiling around my ribs. It found my lungs and squeezed.
I gasped—but no air came.
I dropped the blade as the world tilted and the floor rushed toward me. But I didn’t hit it. Arms caught me—strong, steady, smelling of cedar and smoke.
August.
I tried to open my eyes. Tried to speak. But there was no strength left. Only the sound of his voice, soft and low, murmuring something I couldn’t understand. His hand brushed the hair from my face.
Then there was nothing but darkness. But even there, I could still feel him holding on to me.
And I didn’t want to let go.
I was running. The ground beneath my feet was scorched black, cracked open like a wound. The sky above churned red and gray, clouds moving like smoke. Twisted trees clawed toward the heavens with skeletal branches. Something screamed in the distance—a high, keening sound that made my blood turn to ice.
I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to run. That if I stopped, I wouldn’t make it out.
Shadows moved between the broken trees—monsters, grotesque and disfigured. One turned as I passed. Its face was half-melted, its eyes glowing with hunger. Beside it, people staggered like puppets with strings cut, their limbs stiff and jerking. Not quite dead, not quite alive.
One locked eyes with me—milky white, soulless. Its mouth opened, and in a voice that sounded both ancient and broken, it said, “It comes at a price. It always comes at a price.”
I stumbled back, heart racing, and turned to run again.
Through fog, through rot, through the broken remnants of a world that felt cursed.
Then I saw him.
Carrow.
He stood in the path ahead, but something was off. His posture uncertain, his face twisted in confusion—as if he had never seen me before. That’s when it hit me.
It wasn’t Carrow. Not the one who hunted me. Not the one who planned to take August’s body.
It was Malachi. The last soul Carrow had ripped from their body so he could make it his own.
Oh gods.
I was in the stone.
I turned, trying to escape before he could speak, but a hand grabbed my wrist—firm, cold. I spun around and slammed into a figure with brown hair, grayish skin, and ears that tapered into sharp points. His eyes were the color of ash, and they narrowed at me.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, teeth bared.
And I knew. This—this was Carrow. Not the shell he wore. Not the polished image he used to control others. This was what he truly looked like.
And I had just stepped into his world.
His grip tightened like a vice as I thrashed in his grasp, his cold fingers digging into my skin. Panic rose sharp and fast in my chest.
“What are the two of you trying to do?” he hissed, voice guttural and laced with something inhuman.
I shoved at his chest, but it was like trying to move stone. “Let me go! Let me go!” I screamed.
“Let me go!” I screamed as my vision darkened. I gasped as the air rushed to my lungs. My eyes flew open, my heart still racing, breath shallow. I was no longer in the cursed place, no longer in Carrow’s twisted world.
I was in our room. In our bed.
August’s arms were wrapped tightly around me, grounding me. One of his hands was threaded gently through my hair, the other pressed protectively to my waist.
