Page 129 of Sinister

A new kind of euphoria overtakes me. It’s not unlike what I felt when he kissed me there, but it’s also more. It’s everything. My body hums with him, fills with him, as if his blood has become part of me.

We don’t need to do anything else. Not even that final act. Because this, this exchange, this makes us one.

I drink from him like it’s something holy, something forbidden and divine. When the bleeding slows, I watch as his skin knits back together, smooth and unmarked.

And then I feel it.

A sharp cry tears from my throat as pain blooms at the spot where he bit me. A searing heat spreads over my chest, like someone is branding me from the inside out.

He grimaces, too, his features mirroring mine.

We’re sharing it. The pain. The transformation. I watch, wide-eyed, as a black stain appears on his chest—and then on mine. But it isn’t just a blot of ink.

It’s a design.

A symbol.

A swirling, complex array of shapes, intricate and arcane—identical on both of us.

I recognize it. It’s just like the sigils he once showed me.

Mysterious. Sacred. Marking us.

“What is this? What’s happening to me?” I ask in wonder.

He only smiles. “What should have happened all along,” he murmurs.

Before I can demand more, he surprises me again. He picks up the knife and presses it directly against the center of the sigil on my chest.

The blade carves a letter—an S.

But this time, the pain barely registers. Compared to the burn from before, it’s nothing. I can only stare at his face, so focused, so calm.

“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now you’ll carry me with you. Always.”

Then he places the knife in my hand and brings it to his own chest.

“Do it,” he urges.

He doesn’t have to explain. I already know. The knowledge is inside me now.

I press the tip of the blade into his skin and carve the letter P.

It feels ritualistic. Profane. Depraved.

And yet I don’t hesitate. I can’t. It’s like he’s feeding a part of me I’ve always kept hidden. A part I never dared to show anyone else. A part I’ve tried to save.

As the blood wells from the fresh wounds, the letters begin to shift. They don’t stay as cuts—they darken, solidify, transform. Inked lines take root beneath our skin, fusing with the earlier sigils.

The result is permanent. Binding. Marked.

“You’re mine,” he says. “And I’m yours.”

He kisses me, lips soft, almost reverent.

“You can never run from me, Petra. Never.”

Suddenly, I jolt awake.