Chapter 6
FINN
S he runs like prey. But she was never prey.
They wanted her to be a sacrifice. She was never theirs to burn. She was always mine.
The corn spits her out into the night, her boots hammering gravel, short black hair whipping in the wind, slick with sweat as she stumbles.
Above, the crows split the sky for me, black wings carving the moon to ribbons, their cries a chorus dragged straight out of hell.
They’ve always been my eyes. My hounds. My fucking choir.
She thinks she’s running away.
But she’s running home. To me.
The cemetery yawns open, rows of stones like crooked teeth. She stumbles right where I knew she would, straight to the marker carved with my name.
A neat little lie for the town to mourn, a stone to make them think I ever rested. My body rotted here, sure.
But my soul?
My soul never fucking touched it.
The devil dragged that down the second I stopped breathing.
She braces against the broken slab, forehead pressed to cold moss, chest heaving, hair plastered damp to her temples.
I slow, savoring her panic. Her trembling. The way her body remembers what her mind keeps trying to deny.
She wanted to believe I was just a ghost.
But tonight, tonight I get to show her what crawled back.
“Don’t tell me that’s all you’ve got, bonepetal. I know you can run harder,” I growl, low enough to make the night itself lean in.
Her head jerks up, eyes wide, and she’s off again, boots skidding over dried earth, breath breaking sharp in the dark.
But I don’t need to chase. I let her feel me close, pressing at her back like a shadow that never learned how to leave.
Because when it comes to her, I never did.
The crows screams in the sky and follows. She bolts for the forest around the old Thorned
Patch property.
I know this is the last place she wants to be tonight. Too much history rotting in the dirt. Too many memories stitched into the stone, my blood, her vow, the night it all went to hell.
But instinct doesn’t give a fuck about want. Doesn’t care where you swore you’d never go again.
It drags you where you belong.
And she belongs here.
At the altar where she gave herself to me.
At the ground that swallowed me whole.
Of course her body brought her back. One year isn’t long enough to undo what we carved into each other. One lifetime wouldn’t be enough.
She stops like I knew she would. Right where it ended.
Right where it’s about to begin again.
I step into the clearing, slow, deliberate. Like I’ve been waiting under the dirt this whole time just for her to remember.
My voice cuts through her ragged breathing. “You really thought I was gone? That my soul was stuck, trapped burning in the pits of hell?” My laugh scrapes raw, sharp enough to cut the night. “You should’ve known better, bonepetal. Not even hell could keep me from you.”
Her eyes lock on me, wide, glassy. Fear. Relief. Hunger.
All of it tangled into one beautiful wreck.
“Look at you,” I murmur, closing the space between us as I push the skull up to rest on my head.
My hand fists in her skirt, dragging her flush against me, her back pressed to the split stone.
“You can run, you can spit my name like it’s poison but your body doesn’t lie.
You’re trembling for me. Shaking because it remembers every way I ruined you.
Because it’s aching for me to do it again. ”
Her lips part, my name trembling on her tongue, “You’re not?—”
I don’t let her finish.
I drag the skull down between us, teeth grinning, hollow sockets swallowing her reflection.
“No,” I rasp, mouth dragging heat against her ear, close enough she shudders.
“What came back isn’t Finn. Not the boy you loved.
What came back is a monster, a man who burned and rotted, who screamed through fire while you let another put his hands where only I ever should’ve been.
A man who clawed his way out of the grave to drag you back where you belong—under me. ”
Her knees knock together, weak. I catch her wrist, slam her palm flat against the scar carved into my chest. Raised lines, rough and ugly, the mark I branded into myself that night.
Her gasp shivers through me like a hymn.
I tilt her chin up with a bone-hard grip, forcing her to look at me. Her eyes are wide, wet, trembling, and I laugh. Low. Cutting.
“Your eyes are full of fear, bonepetal. Tell me… are you afraid of me?”
She swallows hard, shakes her head, voice breaking.
“No. I just—” Her words hitch, tumbling out fast. “I thought it was the devil. I felt it, the veil thinning, the pull. I thought he was coming for me. Thought he wanted me back.” Her mouth twists, like she’s ashamed of saying it out loud.
“I figured he didn’t get what he was promised that night… so yeah. I thought it was him.”
I grin behind the skull, dark and sharp. Perfect. Let her think the devil’s still got his claws out for her. Let her believe she’s hunted by something worse than me. Because if she thinks he’s chasing her, I can make myself the only thing that can stop it.
The only shield she’ll ever beg for.
My hand curls harder at her throat, claiming.
“You want him off you,” I murmur, low, amused at how easy this is. “The devil. The hunger. You want the quiet back.”
Her throat bobs under my palm, pulse hammering. She doesn’t say it, but I feel it anyway, her body’s already screaming yes.
“I know what to do,” I tell her, voice dipping closer, like I’m letting her in on some secret. “Brother Malric used to talk about it. A rite. Said it could keep the devil from crawling inside you. Blood. Wax. Feather. Knife. Sounded like bullshit back then, campfire talk. But I listened.”
I let my laugh scrape against her ear. “And I learned plenty more in hell. Enough to finish what they only whispered about. You let me do this, and he won’t get near you again. No whispers. No claws under your skin. No fire waiting for you when you sleep.”
My grip on her throat tightens just enough to make her eyes widen. “All that noise gone. All that hunger burned out. And what’s left?” My mouth curves against her temple, sharp. “That’s mine.”
Her lips part, shaky but steady enough to cut. “I know how this works. Spells like that—black magic—it always comes with a price. So what is it, Finn? What’s the cost?”
I smirk behind the skull, leaning closer until the teeth graze her cheek. “Smart girl. Always did listen when the elders whispered warnings. But they never told you the truth, did they? That the cost doesn’t have to be yours.”
I let the words drop heavy between us, dragging slow and sharp.
“You give me your blood, your breath, your yes, and I take the rest. Every curse, every chain, every shadow meant for you? It burns through me instead. I carry it.” My laugh cuts rough, humorless.
“And you already know, bonepetal—I don’t burn easy.
All you have to do, is give me everything, and never fucking take it back. ”
Her whole body trembles.
But it isn’t no. It’s never no with her.
I peel her hand off my scar, guide it down slow before letting her go. Then I step back, just far enough to give her room. To tempt her instincts. To make her bolt. Because I want her to. I want her to remember what it feels like to run with me at her back, my shadow filling every step.
And she does.
She heads off across the cemetery like a flame in the dark, boots stepping over cracked earth and stone, as she moves between the graves that bear names neither of us care to remember.
My choir.
My hounds.
I give her three breaths. Just three.
Then I follow.
The forest we grew up in carries her back like it remembers her bones.
She doesn’t fight it anymore. No frantic sprint, no headlong stumble, just steady steps, shoulders tight, breath hitching like she knows where this ends but can’t stop herself.
The hill waits, altar crouched between the oaks, wax scars still clinging where past rituals left them, and feathers scattered around. She slows at the clearing, eyes flicking once toward me, then back to the stone. Her pulse still thrums wild enough I can feel it in my teeth, but she doesn’t run.
She walks right up to it. Just like instinct meant her to.
I let her. I savor it.
She braces one hand on the slab, hair plastered damp to her cheeks, skirt clinging high from the night air. She looks at me like maybe this will keep the devil away, like this stone is still holy somehow.
I climb the hill slow, deliberate, until I’m close enough to catch her chin and tilt her face up. My thumb drags along her jaw, firm, claiming.
“Strip,” I murmur, voice low enough to scrape the dark. “Then get on the altar.”
Her breath stutters, lashes fluttering like she might protest, but she doesn’t.
I release her chin and raise my arms. The night holds its breath.
A rush of heat licks through the clearing, and one by one the candles scattered around the stone flare to life, hellfire blooming in obedient circles, flames catching without a single match.
She startles, eyes darting to the ring of sudden firelight, but I see the moment she remembers she’s not dealing with the boy she loved.
She’s standing in the glow of what crawled back for her.
The glow spills across her skin, painting her in gold and shadow, making her look holy when she’s anything but.
Desecration always did make her shine.
One boot hits the dirt. Then the other. She shrugs out of her jacket, yanks her shirt over her head, hair falling wild around her face.
Skirt shoved down, panties peeled after, each piece hitting the ground in a trail between us.
She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t cover herself, just keeps going until there’s nothing left but bare skin glowing in the firelight.
Naked, trembling, she climbs onto the stone slowly but steady, laying back across it like she was carved for this, like a sacrifice incarnate.
My sacrifice.