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The crowd repeats it.

Again and again and again.

THE BRIDE GROWS THE HARVEST.

My mark burns. KEEPER.

I look at the word. Not Bride—Keeper.

Mercy knew it mattered. The Harvest doesn't call me Keeper. Only the mark does.

Why?

A root curls around my thigh and I thrash against the altar but all it does it tighten against my skin. “I'm not growing shit for you.”

The Harvest screams and the Witnesses join with it. The sound tears across the field so loudly my ears ring.

Ezra moves in front of me. “Enough!”

The screaming stops and every mouth in the Harvest smiles.

SOWER.

“Don't.” Ezra's voice is low and dangerous. “You don't speak through me anymore.”

The creature extends a hand. The red kernel sits in its palm again.

Impossible. We ripped it out.

Yet, there it is.

PLANT.

Ezra laughs.

Not Rhett's laugh. Not playful.

This one is ugly.

“You really haven't learned a fucking thing.”

The hand moves closer.

Ezra takes the kernel.

“Ezra.”

He looks at me but I can't read his face.

Then he closes his fist and crushes it. Red liquid runs between his fingers.

The Harvest recoils and the crowd gasps.

“Fuck your seed.”

Something in me ignites and Rhett whistles softly. “That's going to do terrible things to her.”

“Shut up, Rhett.”