"It was you."
His hand tightens around mine. He leans closer, until I feel the cool of his chest through the cloth between us.
"You drove me through wood and storm," he continues. "You tore light from your own chest."
The forest seems to recede. There is only the knife, the heat of his grip, the space where his heart should answer mine and does not.
"We are flesh," he says quietly. "You kill the snared rabbit. You bleed the pig. I drink what keeps me walking."
His eyes hold mine, bright and unwavering.
"You know how to do this."
My breath catches and quickens. My pulse hammers in my throat.
"You have done it before," he insists. "You have closed your fingers and cut."
His voice lowers.
"You could end me now."
A tremor runs through my arm. The blade presses harder, until a dark line blooms beneath it. His jaw tightens as the smell of scorched flesh thickens the air.
"But you will not," he whispers.
The words brush my lips.
"Because you do not wish me gone."
Heat coils low and fierce. My grip falters, then tightens again.
"You want me to take you," he says.
The knife trembles between us.
My vision narrows to the face that stands before me—pale skin, dark hair, eyes burning with something that pulls at me like a current.
The silver sinks deeper, his skin splitting further. A sound catches in his throat. My heart slams against my ribs.
My strength leaves me then.
The blade lowers, slips away from his skin. The mark in his palm fades before my eyes, the split flesh sealing smooth beneath the sky. The place where the blade pressed to his chest shows no more wound, the dagger now useless between us.
My hands fall to my sides and I close my eyes, darkness pressing against my lids as though it might muffle the truth that beats against me without mercy.
My chest rises too fast. I hear him shift in front of me, the faint whisper of cloth, the quiet drag of his steps against the undergrowth.
"Open your eyes," he says.
I do not.
His silence stretches. Then his mouth finds my neck.
The touch is light; it barely grazes my skin. Still, my breath catches as if he has struck me. His lips linger at the place where my pulse runs wild. I feel the press of them there, the cool of it, pulling a tremor from me.
His mouth moves to my wrist, fingers turning my hand gently, exposing the place where the mugwort stains my skin. He inhales there, and I feel the faint drag of his breath across the tender inside of my arm.
"Mugwort," he murmurs.
