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My hands are bleeding.

My clothes are scorched.

Every exposed inch of skin feels fucking raw.

The mark around my wrist burns so badly I can barely move my fingers.

And I keep walking.

Because the Harvest can manipulate us.

Tempt us.

Hurt us.

Terrify us.

It can put the cup in our hands.

The mask on our faces.

The ribbon around our wrists.

It can put a man I want on his knees and make me bleed for every inch between us.

But it cannot make me cross that distance.

And it cannot stop me either.

That choice belongs to me.

I take another step.

The flames climb my body.

Ezra makes a broken sound behind the stitches.

I don’t stop.

One more.

My knees almost give out.

I force them straight.

One more.

Until there is nothing between Ezra and me but fire.

I stare at the thing that calls itself the Harvest.

Blood drips from my hands into its soil.

“You wanted my choice?”

I step through the flames.

“Then let me fucking choose.”