Page 220 of May: Bloom & Bane

I study her face, and something about it gnaws at my brain. He chases after her, sprinting as fast as his human legs will take him, but the distance never closes. The storm swallows her dark hair, and his outstretched hands close on a fistful of snow. He sinks to his knees, his pale fingers clawing into the white drifts where her footprints are already filling with fresh snow.

I stand over him, while the wrongness of the bond still vibrates through my own chest.

The world swirls around us, and we’re spat out somewhere else. The moon hanging over the clearing is swollen and red. Sage’s human form is kneeling in the middle, a book lying open beside him.

“Sage,” I say uselessly. “What are you doing?”

He lifts a small crystal vial, dripping the red contents into a giant vessel burning over a blue fire. He starts chanting a spell in a different language, then lifts the searing pot into his hands, heat melting the flesh from his palms.

“For her,” he whispers.

He lifts the vessel to his lips and pours the boiling mixture straight down his throat. The first swallow tears a sound out of him I will never forget. His throat struggles to work, mouth blistering as it touches the rim. His skin bubbles and splits until it peels away, and he still doesn’t stop. He drinks, swallow after swallow, until the vessel falls from his ruined hands and rolls onto the snow.

“NO!” I scream. “What have you done?”

He drops to the ground, convulsing as his fingers rake against the ice. Whatever he did is flaying him from the inside out. The emptiness it leaves behind is a cold I know. A cold I’ve been pacing my whole existence. He lies still for several moments, and then his bones begin to crack. His spine lengthens in a series of wet pops. The jaw wrenches itself wide. He screams, and it climbs into something deeper, rattling snow from the branches above us. White fur shoots up through his skin. Antlers spiral up from his skull. His shoulders broaden, and his ruined mouth knits itself back together. A beast rises in my other half’s place.

CHAPTER 63

if i don’t belong to eden, i don’t want to belong at all

“Andrik!” A woman screams. “Where are you?”

The beast takes off through the trees toward her voice, tearing through the frozen undergrowth, his massive limbs eating the distance with a single-minded focus.

If Sage was Micah, then who the hell is Andrik?

The memory yanks me forward, dragging me through the trees. The beast moves like it owns the forest until he finds her at the edge of the clearing. She stumbles toward him, sobbing his name—Andrik, Andrik—the beast catches her with infinite gentleness. He tells her their cabin is compromised and he’s taking her somewhere safe. She leans into him, and the memory drags me along helplessly to a little cottage lit up like something from a Christmas card. Once inside, he gets her out of her wet clothes and draws her a bath. He paces the entire time she’s in the water, wearing a groove into the floorboards. When she steps out of the bathroom, heat is rolling off her. She cries out, clutching her stomach as she doubles over. The beast is at her side instantly, easing her to the bed.

“Make it stop,” she begs. “Please, Andrik, I can’t—I can’t breathe.”

“I’m here. I’ve got you,” he rasps. “Let me help you.” His hands settle on her shoulders, and she lets out a small whimper. “I’m going to try and ease some of the tension,” he says quietly. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

His huge hands move over her body in slow strokes while she writhes and begs⁠—

I can’t watch this.

That’s us. That body bending over another woman, it’s the soul I share. And every cell of whatever I’m made of exists solely for the green-eyed woman waiting for me back in the meadow.

I claw at the edges of the memory, trying to rip myself free, but the tether holds. I am trapped in this nightmare, forced to witness the devastating infidelity of my own soul.

I gag.

That’s not me. That can’t be me, I would never—not her, not with anyone—there’s only ever been⁠—

I cover my ears, trying to block out the sounds.

Ashán. Sage’s horrified voice calls from somewhere far away. Ashán, breathe. It wasn’t—it’s not us⁠—

I dry-heave again.

The wall next to me explodes, timber and amber light detonating inward. Standing there is another beast, his ice-blue eyes blazing. They’re identical. Down to the last piece of fur.

The two beasts hit each other like mountains colliding. They tear into each other with claws and fangs, their white fur already drenched with blood. The woman screams and drags a sheet over herself. I want to go to her.

“You wore my skin,” one of them snarls, driving the other into a wall. “You crawled into my life like a parasite. And now you will die like one.”

Mid-blow, one of the beast’s faces slips, his white fur rippling to reveal Micah’s exhausted brown eyes.