Page 18 of Molt

She’s standing beneath the weak light from the kitchen. Barefoot. Hair tangled from sleep. Wearing an oversized shirt that slips off one shoulder. The newly exposed skin at her neck is pink and glossy.

My stomach twists.

Not from disgust. Never disgust.

Want. Recognition. Hunger.

Something far more dangerous than either.

I remember kissing that exact spot.

Different body. Different century. Same fucking woman.

I force my eyes upward.

She notices.

Her hand rises toward her neck.

“Don’t touch it.”

Her hand stops. “Why?”

“Because touching it stimulates the nerves.”

“So?”

“It makes you want to peel.”

Her eyes narrow. “How do you know what it feels like?”

Because I’ve peeled you myself. Because you begged me to. Because once, somewhere between agony and ecstasy, you told me you finally understood why butterflies destroy themselves trying to escape their cocoons. Because the first time this happened, I thought I was helping you. I thought removing the dead layer would save you.

Instead, I helped kill myself.

“I’ve seen it before.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Many times.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re telling me I’ve lived multiple lives.”

“No.”

“That’s literally what you’re telling me.”

“No, Lenora.” I look at her. “You don’t die.”

Her face changes. “Then what happens?”

I should stop. I’ve learned this lesson. The more she knows, the faster memory returns. The faster memory returns, the stronger the bond becomes. And the stronger the bond becomes...I disappear.

“Nothing you need to know tonight.”