Page 188 of Shifting Hearts 1
Her lips curved, sharp and sly. “Bones, huh?” she murmured, circling me like she was tasting the word. “That’s… fitting. Creepy, but fitting.”
I grinned. “Glad you approve. You wear it well.”
She stopped just short of me, tilting her head. “You know,” she said softly, almost conspiratorial, “if you get to call me that, I get to call you something in return.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” she said, brushing her fingers along my collarbone, teasing the hollow of my throat.“I think I’ll call you Marrow… it’s not just the inside of bones—it’s what holds you up when everything else falls apart. You—” she leaned closer, her breath warm against my ear. “You’re nothing without it.”
I felt a shiver run down my spine, half from the touch, half from the words. “Marrow, huh?” I echoed, testing it. The word felt alive, dangerous—like it belonged to her more than it did to me. And yet… I remembered exactly who she was: Eris Corrigan, half bone witch, half dark fey, and entirely mine.
We didn’t sleep much that night. Not from fear, exactly — though there was that too. Not from hunger. Not from sex, though the ache of it curled between us. It was something quieter. The body’s refusal to believe peace had finally come. Every time she shifted, I reached for her. Every time I twitched, she curled tighter around me, as if muscle memory alone could keep the world from taking us again.
When morning light spilled across the wooden beams, I woke to the faint sound of her breathing. She lay beside me, tangled in blankets and quiet, warm, and real.
I brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, tracing the curve of her cheek with my thumb.
She stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet mine.
“You’re watching me again,” she murmured.
“Guilty,” I said. “I like proving to myself you’re still here.”
Her lips curved into a soft smile. “You’re still here, too.”
“Always.”
I pulled her close, hands sliding beneath the blankets, finding the soft heat of her skin beneath my palms. We moved slow, careful — a touch, a kiss, a claim.
Her fingers traced the scars on my back, lingering on the places where magic and pain had left their mark.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked.
“Only when I think of what was lost.”
“Then stop thinking.”
I kissed her then, slowly, and reverently, as if trying to hold the moment in place.
When she came apart beneath my hands, it was like the world finally exhaled.
We lay together afterward, the morning light soft and golden, filling the room with a quiet promise.
Later, she stood by the shelf where her teeth used to hang — the baby ones, the ones soaked in spells and grief and too-young rage. Most were gone now, scattered, or spent or sacrificed.
Only one tooth remained on that frayed old cord. The one she’d driven into the Queen’s chest. The molar that carried her blood and the last of her childhood. A shard of magic that broke an oath older than either of us.
She held it for a long time.
“Do you hate that I kept it?” she asked.
“No,” I said honestly. “I hate that you needed it.”
Then she hung it from a rusted nail on the wall, beside the hearth. A grave marker. A memory.
My fang hung against her chest now. No longer magic. No longer warning. Just a promise — hers to wear, mine to offer. I watched her touch it like it still hummed, like it still held a pulse.
“Feels different,” she said.
