5. Chapter 5- Lenora
The mouth in the jar has my teeth. Not the teeth I have now.
Different ones. Older ones.
One bottom tooth slightly overlaps the other. The left canine has the tiniest chip at the tip.
I know I’ve never seen that mouth before.
But my body knows it.
Something inside me twists with recognition so sharp it almost hurts.
August goes completely still beside me.
That scares me more than the mouth.
“What is it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“August.”
His eyes stay fixed on the jar.
Then the mouth opens.
Black liquid leaks between the teeth slowly.
Thick enough that it doesn’t dissolve into the preservative right away. It curls through the jar in dark ribbons while the skin inside twitches.
I grip August’s arm. “Tell me that’s not really a fucking mouth.”
“It’s not a fucking mouth.”
I look at him. “You’re an asshole.”
“You told me to tell you.”
A crack splits through the glass.
Neither of us laughs.
“Back up.”
Another fracture branches from the first.
“August...”
“Lenora. Now.” He pushes me behind him.
The jar explodes.
I scream as glass tears across the apartment.
August turns and covers me before I even understand what’s happening. His body crashes into mine. One hand cups the back of my head while his other arm locks around my waist as shards scatter across the floor.
Something slices him.
I hear the sharp inhale and feel his body jerk against mine.
Then everything goes quiet.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
His chest is pressed against me. His face buried near my hair while his hand still cradles my head like he thinks the room might try to take it off. “Are you hurt?” His voice is right against my ear.
“No.”
“Lenora.”
“I’m fine.”
He pulls away enough to look at me. His eyes move over my face. My neck. Shoulders. Arms.
Checking.
Only when he seems satisfied does he breathe. Then I see the blood.
“You’re not.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
A cut runs along his cheek. Another dark stain spreads across his shoulder.
I reach for his face.
He catches my wrist before I touch him.
We both freeze.
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?”
“Pretend you’re okay.”
The laugh dies. “I’m not.”
“I know.”
“I’m really fucking not.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that he knows me. I hate that some part of me likes that he knows me.
“I’m scared.”
His face softens. “I’m scared too.”
“You are?”
“Especially me.”
I look around his apartment. There’s glass everywhere. Black fluid slowly soaks into the floor. The thing from the jar is gone.
I stare. “Where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
I whip my head toward him. “Stop fucking saying that.”
“Would you prefer I make something up?”
“Yes.”
He looks around solemnly. “Evil moth.”
I blink. “What?”
“Evil moth. Responsible for everything.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
He smiles.
And there it is.
The thing I keep feeling with him. That tiny flicker of ease. Like we’ve done this before. Not the curse. Not the horror.
This.
Bickering in the middle of disaster.
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.”
“Get it off!”
“We don’t know what happens if you do.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
His control snaps.
“BECAUSE YOU’RE THE ONE WHO MIGHT BLEED.”
I stop.
So does he.
The apartment goes silent.
His chest rises and falls. His hand still circles my wrist. The anger in his face disappears almost immediately. He looks wrecked. “I’m sorry.”
I stare at him. “You care if I bleed?”
His brows pull together. “What kind of question is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course I care.”
I look at the extra finger. Then touch the scar across the knuckle.
August sucks in a breath.
I freeze. “You felt that.”
“No.”
I touch it again slowly.
His jaw clenches.
“You did.”
“Lenora.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“What does it feel like?”
He looks at me.
And suddenly I know. Heat curls low in my stomach.
“Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
I run my fingertip down the length of his finger attached to my hand.
August closes his eyes. “Lenora.”
“You’re feeling this.”
“Yes.”
I do it again.
Something about having part of him attached to me should horrify me.
It does. But there is something else beneath that horror. Something intimate. Possessive. Wrong.
My body responds before my brain can catch up. I step closer.
August opens his eyes. “Stop.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep doing things you shouldn’t.”
“You told me not to peel.”
“Correct.”
“Not to touch you.”
“Correct.”
“Not to kiss you.”
“Correct.”
“And we’ve done fucking amazing with all three.”
His mouth twitches. “Lenora.”
I put my hand against his chest. The six-fingered one.
His breath changes.
So does mine.
“We should stop.”
“Then move.”
He doesn’t.
“Move, August.”
Still nothing.
I look up at him. “You don’t actually want me away from you.”
“I desperately want you away from me.”
“No.”
“Lenora.”
“You want to want me away.”
He laughs once. Quiet. Almost bitter. “You’re irritating in every lifetime.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me something.”
“Why?”
“Because every version of me you talk about sounds like me but isn’t me.”
His expression shifts. “She was.”
“Not to me.”
I swallow. “I don’t remember being her.”
That lands. I see it.
His eyes soften.
“Tell me something good.”
He hesitates.
“Please.”
August looks away. “1921.”
I wait.
“You hated dancing.”
“I still hate dancing.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I watched you refuse every invitation at your friend’s wedding three months ago.”
My mouth falls open. “You were there?”
“Across the street.”
“That’s creepy as hell.”
“Extremely.”
“Continue.”
He smiles. Just a little. “You hated dancing. But you loved music.”
“Okay.”
“So I moved all the furniture out of the parlor.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me you couldn’t dance if anyone could see you.”
Something flickers behind my eyes. Not a memory. Almost.
“What song?”
“There wasn’t one.”
I frown.
“The phonograph broke.”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “So what did we dance to?”
“Me.”
“You sang?”
“Badly.”
I laugh. “I don’t believe you.”
“You shouldn’t. I was fucking terrible.”
“Did I dance?”
“Eventually.”
“With you?”
“Until sunrise.”
The image forms without permission.
A room glowing gold. Old furniture pushed against walls. August younger but not younger. Me. Not me. Bare feet. His hand at my waist. My head on his shoulder.
I blink. “Did we kiss?”
“Many times.”
“Did we...”
His eyes lift to mine. Heat ripples through the space between us. “Lenora.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Maybe I like watching you squirm.”
“You’ve always enjoyed it.”
“Have I?”
“Immensely.”
I step closer. My fingers catch the front of his shirt. “Was I shy?”
He laughs. Actually laughs. “No.”
I grin. “No?”
“Not remotely.”
“Good.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Maybe.” I slip my fingers between the buttons at his chest. Not underneath. Just enough to feel the warmth of him. “You said intimacy accelerates it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Touch?”
“Partly.”
“Kissing?”
“Yes.”
“Sex?”
His eyes darken. “Especially.”
My stomach flips.
“Did we ever try not to?”
“For approximately twelve hours.”
I laugh. “What happened?”
“You seduced me.”
“Me?”
“You were relentless.”
“Sounds made up.”
“You climbed through my bedroom window.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “I absolutely did not.”
“Third floor.”
“Shut up.”
“In the rain.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d told you we couldn’t see each other anymore.”
“And that pissed me off?”
“Deeply.”
I laugh again.
August’s expression changes. His smile disappears. The way he looks at me nearly breaks something open inside my chest.
“Where did you go?”
“Nowhere.”
“You looked sad.”
“I’m always sad.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“I’m one hundred and seventy-four. I’ve earned dramatic.”
I smile. Then touch his cheek.
His eyes close. For one second, August leans into my hand.
Barely. But he does.
“August.”
His eyes open.
“I don’t remember loving you.”
The words hurt him. I see it immediately.
“I know.”
“But my body does.”
He goes still.
“When you touched me downstairs, I knew you.”
“Lenora...”
“When you kissed me, I knew what you would taste like before you did.”
His breathing slows.
“I knew where your hands would go.”
“Stop.”
“I knew how you’d breathe.”
“Lenora.”
“I knew how you’d look at me afterward.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t fucking do this again.”
He turns away.
I grab his hand. His four-fingered hand.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
“Let go.”
“No.”
“Lenora.”
“No.”