Chapter 10
SALEM
I wake to light, not a hum.
No bass under my skin.
No ripples at the corners of the room.
The ceiling is white and cracked in the same place as always.
The building breathes—pipes tick, a radiator coughs somewhere, a bus sighs past two streets over. My sheets are twisted at my calves.
My toes are warm, and my mouth tastes like sleep, not smoke.
For the first time in days, my body feels like mine.
I stay still and test it. In. Out . No invisible tug on my pulse.
No phantom hand at my throat.
The weight in my chest, the one that sat there like a stone is smaller.
Maybe gone.
It’s not joy. Not victory.
Just… lighter. Like I’m a balloon tied to a chair and the knot finally let go.
I almost smile. I let it happen.
Then the memory comes. Of course it does.
The knife, hot in my palm. The wrong give of his back. The forest splitting open like it had been waiting for that exact second. His breath at my ear when I pushed the blade in.
The tether drawing tight, humming, then snapping.
My knees hitting the ground.
I swallow and it feels like glass. The veil pulled shut as he went, like he took the open door with him.
It had to be done. I repeat it in my head like a spell, careful with the order.
I have to remind myself he wasn’t my Finn—the boy who walked me home with his hands shoved in his pockets so he wouldn’t touch me before I asked.
Not the boy who tucked flowers in my hair, who made mud balls with me in the woods behind the prayer house, who walked me to and from the kitchen every morning like it was his job.
Like I was his to protect.
No, the boy who showed me what it means to be loved died one year ago.
And that thing that spent days following me, that killed Nathan and ruined me over and over preaching about broken vows and what was owed—that wasn’t my Finn.
And yet I still ache.
Not because I doubt it but because my body doesn’t know what to do with quiet yet after all that.
“Okay,” I tell the ceiling. “We’re okay.”
My bones don’t argue.
I stand slow. My knees are bruised, my thighs tender.
Throat sporting faint teeth marks only I’ll notice.
But my palm still bears the scar of the binding.
The mangled raised flesh fading to a dull pink now and my wrists are still sporting the purple marks from the cuffs on the alter, though slowly fading to a pale yellow.
Healing.
The body is honest if you let it be. Today it files last night under done, classified, never to be spoken about again and lets me move.
So, for once, I listen and begin my morning ritual.
Kettle on. Coffee scooped with a thrifted sterling silver spoon that’s dented but still beautiful.
Brew, pour, and breathe.
It smells like being a person and not a problem. For a second, that’s all I am.
The bone knife is under the sink in a dish towel where I left it when I got home last night. I pretend I don’t feel it there. But truthfully, I can feel it pulsing in my temples.
Like somehow it’s in my blood.
My phone lights up, and I pick it up.
Jamie (2:12 AM)
[photo—witch hat sideways, mascara raccoon-thick, five girls mid–keg stand, chaos]
Miles
u alive?
Me
alive, yes. hiding today. gonna cocoon + do house goblin chores.
Miles
good. i’m so hungover i might sleep till next halloween
Me
in my defense i told u to stop after, what, your 6th shot?
Miles
we are NOT litigating last night. i was vibing. let me die. going back to bed—will text when looking at my phone isn’t knives-in-my-eyeballs
Me
hydrate, gremlin. text me when your corneas chill
The carafe hits that full pot mark.
I set my phone down, grab my pumpkin shaped mug, and pour.
First sip burns my tongue a little but I don’t mind. The heat moves through me in a slow line and everything inside unclenches half an inch.
My phone buzzes on the counter again.
Miles
u left ur hat in my car
Me
ofc i did. can you get it to me?
Miles
jamie’s swinging by on his way to work. he’ll drop it at your door
Me
tell him to knock—and tell him I said thanks!
I jump in the shower for a five-minute reset—hot enough to sting, quick enough to count. First blast of water makes me flinch, then it sinks in and I exhale.
Shampoo citrus, as always. Leaf-rot and smoke down the drain.
I close my eyes and scrub my neck, wrists, hairline, the scar in my palm, every inch of skin until any trace of Finn, gone. By the time the mirror fogs, my head’s quieter and my body feels like mine again.
As I step out, I wipe a circle in the fogged mirror.
My face looks like me.
Paler, sure. Eyes a little hollow.
My mouth is a little swollen. My fingers find the necklace without asking me first.
Thin chain. Oval cameo, with cheap silver filigree around a black disk, with a little molar set dead center. The enamel’s smooth, the roots yellowed at the tips, lacquered shiny so it looks almost polite.
I should take it off. I don’t.
It’s warm from my skin and the water. My thumb finds the ridge in the enamel where it meets the resin and snags there every time.
“Not yours anymore,” I tell the mirror.
The girl there nods like she means it.
In my room, I pull on black leggings, a tank, and an oversized grey cardigan. Fluffy socks and bat slippers Miles bought me. I brush my hair until it behaves.
I scoop a small load into the washer—socks, a towel, a T-shirt I hate, and my bedding after coming home last night covered in sap and dirt.
Add the blue detergent and turn the dial.
The drum coughs and starts; the hum runs up through the floor and into my feet.
It feels like erasing and like mercy at once.
I crack the window an inch. October air slides in—wet leaves, old rain, metal city breath. I thumb my playlist on low—same playlist I listen to every morning—and lean on the counter, sipping while I wait for Jamie.
The street outside is narrow and leaf-littered—rust and gold stuck in the curb like a slow river.
November first.
People start moving—hoodies, coffee cups, a jogger with their headphones on.
Someone peels a “BOO” sign off their door; a plastic skeleton gets dragged off a railing; a deflated ghost slumps on a porch like laundry.
Everything looks normal again, like the town yawned, stretched, and forgot last night.
My shoulders drop; the coffee runs warm down my middle, and the tight spot under my ribs loosens.
For a blink, I let myself be just a girl with laundry and a playlist.
Then a crow lands on my sill, and the air thins, and every nerve I just smoothed down stands back up to listen.
Neat little click of talons, it’s wings folded.
It stands there like a tiny judge.
It tilts its head and taps the glass once. Not frantic. Just a knock.
My mouth dries out fast.
We look at each other. The eye is oil-on-water pretty. Feathers shine blue-green when it moves.
Tap.
Smaller than my pulse. Louder, too.
“Go away,” I tell it. I try for bored but land on breathy. “He’s gone.”
It doesn’t move, it just stares.
Because it’s a fucking crow.
I sip my coffee again to show the universe I know how to act and I’m not bothered by this stupid bird, but my mug hits my tooth, and I turn away like a child.
If I don’t look, it’s not there. My heart races anyway.
A draft lifts the hairs on my neck. The light blinks once, then flutters back. The playlist hiccups, then keeps going. Bulbs do that. Playlists do that too, right?
Nothing to freak out about.
Birds live in farm towns. I mean, crows love corn, and the fields are right there. This town is easy food, especially with all the dropped Halloween candy from last night.
I’m overreacting. It’s nothing.
The crow taps once more, like yeah, yeah, and then launches like an arrow, or a shadow, then heads to the opposite roofline. It turns into a cutout against the sky. Fine. Normal.
Breathe. In. Out. See? It’s fine.
The knock hits the door and I jump so hard coffee sloshes up the rim. I catch myself, laughing under my breath at how wound up I am. “Hold on! Jamie, I’m coming!” I set the mug in the sink. “Get it together,” I tell myself, quiet but real.
I snag the dish towel off the oven handle, blot my palms, run the rough edge between my fingers, and swipe the coffee splash off my thumb. I hang it back, smooth it flat like that matters, then rub my damp hands down the front of my cardigan.
Breathe.
The knock comes again, same easy rhythm.
Okay. Jamie. Hat drop off. Chill.
I pad down the hall in my bat slippers; the floorboard by the heater gives its usual squeak. I slide the chain—metal on metal, a tiny scrape—thumb the deadbolt until it clunks and wrap my still-warm fingers around the cold round knob.
“It’s just Jamie,” I tell the room, like saying it makes it true.
I open the door with my polite-thanks smile already set.
It falls off hard enough to hurt.
Finn stands on the threshold.
Not the forest version but the one with ash in his mouth and hunger where a man should be.
Clean. Whole.
Shirtless under a black leather jacket left open; abs, ink, and the symbol scar still there—pale and puckered over his heart like a brand. Black jeans low on his hips.
No blood. No skull.
His eyes are glossy-dark and too alive. He’s smiling like tragedy taught him charm and he practiced until it fit.
The whole of me says no at once.
Every cell. Every secret, but the word never reaches my mouth.
“Salem,” he says, my name a soft growl. His voice is the one I loved before it learned to crawl out of graves.
Warm, and low. A velvet scrape
“You didn’t really think you could kill me, did you?
” he purrs, the smile knifing wider. “Bonepetal, not even the devil's blade can sever the tether between us.” His thumb drifts, obscene and possessive. “You’re bound to me, Salem.” The lights blink—once, twice—like a heart he’s got between two fingers.
“I belong to you now. Which means you belong to me.”
Behind him, wings.
Huge, crow-black, feathered to the floor, tips skimming the frame when they breathe. Oil-blue when he shifts. Of course he has wings.
And of course I open the door to a myth with my name in its mouth. He cocks his head, studying me like I’m a shiny thing on a sidewalk.
The bulb overhead gives a low, pleased buzz.
On my chest, the charm taps bone—no, that’s my pulse remembering who taught it the beat. The washer keeps thumping in the kitchen like time doesn’t care about me.
Behind me , the sill clicks—peck, peck. Two crows have landed again, black eyes on the room, beaks testing the glass.
I flinch, glance back, stupid, and then snap to him because I know better than to look away.
My mouth opens; nothing comes out. Air, that’s all.
He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t have to.
Two fingers to the door; it swings wider with a soft sigh. He leans in until his breath fogs my lip, a cocky smirk cutting one corner of his mouth.
“Go on,” he murmurs, amused. “Tell me to leave.”
I don’t. My throat stays locked.
His eyes spark victory, fond and cruel. “Didn’t think so.”
He steps over the threshold like it was made for him; his wings fold just enough to clear the frame, feathers whispering against the paint, shadows unspooling at his heel, and his smile reaching his ears.
“Close the door, bonepetal.”
My hand moves before my mind does; the door swings shut, the soft click sounding exactly like a vow.
A vow I never meant to make.