Page 64 of Molt

Then August grunts. His hand jerks.

“August?”

He stares down as one of his fingers bends sideways.

Not like it’s broken.

Wrong.

As though the bones beneath the skin are folding in on themselves.

“What the fuck?”

Another crack.

I scream. “August!”

His entire ring finger collapses. The skin draws inward. Then smooths.

Gone. Just gone.

No blood. No wound.

Four fingers remain.

I can’t breathe. “No.” I look at my own hand. Something pushes between my middle and ring fingers.

Pressure. Then pain. “Oh my God.” My skin stretches. A knuckle emerges. Then another finger.

I gag. “No. No, no, no.”

Within seconds, it’s finished.

Six fingers.

One unmistakably his.

Same scar across the knuckle. Same nail. Same shape.

“Get it off.”

“Lenora...”

“Get it the fuck off me.” I grab it.

August catches my wrist. “Don’t.”

“It’s yours!”

“I know.”

“I have six fucking fingers!”

“I can count.”

“August!”

“Don’t pull it.”