Page 62 of Molt

His fingers are warm around me. “Don’t.”

I should listen. Instead, I look at his hand wrapped around my wrist.

“Let me see.”

“Lenora.”

“Let me.”

His jaw tightens.

Then he releases me.

I touch the cut on his cheek. Something pulses through my fingertips. Not a memory this time.

Heat.

A slow, deep throb that seems to travel through both of us.

August’s eyes darken.

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

The skin beneath my fingers warms. Then smooths.

I pull my hand away. The cut is gone. “What the fuck?”

August touches his cheek.

Nothing.

My stomach turns.

Then something warm slides down mine.

His expression changes instantly. “No.”

I touch my face. Blood coats my fingertips.

The same cut. Same place. Same angle.

“That was yours.”

His voice is quiet. “Yes.”

“And now it’s mine.”

“Yes.”

I laugh.

I don’t mean to. It’s short and ugly and terrifying.

August watches me. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”