Page 147 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
I wish it was never my nature at all.
“So, you truly want it?”the boy asks.“Even after everything it’s done for you. Every way you’ve been able to cope by feeling others, you truly want your power to cease?”
I take a deep breath, halting my tears long enough to answer,“Yes.”
“I don’t believe you, Little Thorn. I don’t believe you one bit.”
No. He’s wrong. It isn’t true. This power is the reason for every problem.
In my mind, I spot the boy before me. I grab his arms, feeling him struggle against my hold. But my grip isn’t about strength—it’s about power. That’s what binds us.
That’s what breaks me.
Everywhere our skin meets, a thousand needles burst through.
Vines erupt from my fingertips. Dark green tendrils whip through the air, coiling around the boy as they tear free from my skin—each thorn digging in like a dull dagger. More importantly, they pierce him, too.
I stumble back, and the thorns respond, obeying my will. The once-small wooden barbs thicken and twist, doubling in size. As they drive deeper into his flesh, blood rises in thin lines.
A pounding ache blooms behind my eyes.
The rivulets of red slip down his skin, and I realize this is exactly what I intended. I want him to hurt. For him to feel my power—the power he claims I want.
“From the very first time my magic manifested”—I point at the thorns—“thisis what it’s done to me.”
I fling my arms wide, and the vines rip free. They tear from his body, snapping through the room and collapsing to the floor.
Then, with a flick of my will, the thorns begin to grow from beneath his skin. Each stem twists upward, forcing its way through muscle and flesh. They tear out slowly, splitting himfrom the inside, until red blooms across his skin like scattered petals.
“Go ahead,”I say, my sudden anger reaching a new precipice.“Pull them out. See how painful it is.”
“Wendolyn—”
“Feel it for yourself!”
The boy does. Slowly, he lifts a hand and begins pulling the thorns—one by one, peeling them from the raw wounds they’ve left behind. But it’s me who crumples. It’s me who bleeds. Me who aches.
Because all he is… is me. How can I keep denying him? How could he bewrong?
The boy meets me on my knees. My aching, broken knees.
“My pain is yours.”He leans in, voice low.“Your memories mine. I know your woes.”
He lifts the sleeve of my shirt, revealing every scar.
“I know the worst of your power. I’m only trying to remind you of the best.”
I pull my sleeve down, covering the scars he never needed to see. He can always feel them.
When I open my eyes, I’m back in Azaire’s room, lying on the floor. When I’d fallen in my mind, my body must have fallen here, too. The remnants of sobs sit in my chest. Aching.
But they’re not Lucian’s. They’re not anyone’s. These are wholly mine.
Chapter 28
I’ll Grieve When
I’m Avenged
