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Rhett comes to stand beside me. Malakai slowly rises on my other side.

Nobody says anything. They don’t need to.

Outside, the corn begins to move.

Not toward Ezra.

Away from him. Opening a path and inviting him in.

My stomach drops.

Because Ezra thinks he’s running from me.

But the Harvest?

The Harvest just opened the fucking door.

12

Memories

Ezra

For the first time in two hundred and thirty-five years, I run from the farm. Not away from it… because that’s a fucking joke. There’s no way—I learned that a long time ago.

I run… from Rhett’s beating heart, Malakai’s blackened veins, the mark on their wrists, from the woman upstairs who looks enough like her to force memories. I buried them centuries ago but they claw their way through my skull.

Sage—I run from her because I want her. Finally, I admit the truth and that alone is fucking terrifying.

I wanted her beside the bonfire before I knew her name, before she smiled at me. I wanted her when she reached into a barrel filled with black ribbons and pulled out red. I wanted her in the maze—when she stood in my house demanding answers like she had any idea what she was standing in the middle of.

Fuck.

I wanted her when Malakai touched her… even when Rhett chased her and even more when she came back wearing the evidence of both.

I hated them for it…. hated myself too. Because I know what happens when a Sower wants a Bride. I just can’t remember why.

As I get to the field, the corn parts and I stop. “No.” I say as the stalk bends away from one another and a path forms causing the moonlight to spill across the bare dirt.

Behind me, Ward house waits—Sage waits.

I could turn around, I really fucking should. Instead, something whispers from the field.

“Sower.”

My mask burns against my hip.

I forgot I still had it. I reach down and rip it free from my side, the pale wood is cracked down the center with black liquid stains against the stitched mouth. I stare at it. “Fuck you.”

The stitches move. “Sower.”

I throw it into the corn only for the field to throw it back—landing at my feet.

I stare. “For fucks sake.”

The stitched mouth stretches, “Come home.”

“I am home.” I growl and the corn shudders. Every stalk turns toward me with attention making my skin crawl. Then the path opens farther and I recognize where it leads—to the south field.