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I storm to the indoor greenhouse hallway—my mother’s old wing—wearing a scowl that keeps everyone at bay. I am angry, but at myself. With Alessia around, my control is waning.
Already, in such a short time, she’s threatening the years of self-control I’ve worked on. Kenisius overestimated my restraint, but the moment he saw my eyes shifting, he finally realized I was serious about my control slipping.
He also knows I’m drawn to Alessia.
He’ll want to talk to me. Check on me. But I don’t need him right now.
Unfortunately, I need Fern.
I hate that I need her. I hate that I keep her tucked away in my mother’s old wing. It’s starting to feel like the place I keep all my dirty secrets—my plants, my family history, my human, and much of my trauma.
As much as I love my mother—even in death—I hate her for what she did. For what she made me. I’ve always had trouble separating hate from love, both emotions intense, devastating in their own way. And now, I’m doing it again.
With Alessia.
I hate her for what she is and what she can do to me. But dare I say, the line between hate and love is getting thinner and thinner. I’m doing a poor job at pushing her away. Or she’s doing a better job at pushing her way into my heart.
My blood heats up, and my eyes flicker. I’m on the verge of falling apart, and I don’t need a mirror to see the change occurring in my irises. It’s the telltale sign. My senses enhance, too, and I can smell her from this distance. Not just Alessia, but Fern too.
Both of them.
Their humanity is impossible to ignore.
One of them I want, crave, in a way that will end in devastation. The other, I don’t want at all, but I need.
The plants reach for me as I enter the old wing. Bowing almost, as if they know I’m their master.
A few fiddle-leaf figs as tall as me stand strong and healthy. Their leaves a robust green.
Those figs should be dead. They were dead. I killed them. Denied them water for weeks. Burned them until they were nothing more than ash. Yet here they are, a day later, as healthy as can be.
I suppose it won’t matter if I don’t water them, after all.
Cursed things.
I never should’ve poured my magic into them, desperate to understand the curse coursing through the woods. Desperate to learn how to undo it. I’m only making it worse.
The plants might be alive, but they’re tainted.
I ruin everything I touch.
I should embrace my demon, give up on searching for a way to break the curse, but it feels much like giving up in general. It’s almost symbolic of my relationship—or lack thereof—with Alessia at this point.
A terrifying growl rips through me.
The last few inches of my resolve shorten. I curse, snagging one of the empty pots from the walkway and chucking it at the library’s closed doors. It shatters, ceramic raining down in chunks.
On cue, a door on my left opens and Fern steps into the hallway hesitantly. She’s dressed in nothing more than a robe, gazing at me with sleepy eyes.
“Rai?” She calls to me in that grating voice of hers. Her eyes flit to the figs, and when she sees the rage on my face, she stumbles back, desperate to put distance between her and them.
She’s wise to fear them. Fear me.
It’s proof that whatever thread ties me to Alessia isn’t just a matter of being drawn to her humanness. Alessia doesn’t fear me innately.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Fern says, forcing a smile.
“I can’t promise I’ll be gentle,” I say through gritted teeth. “Not this time.”
