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“I wanted you when I thought wanting you would damn you. I wanted you when the field called you Bride. I wanted you when you were screaming at me. I wanted you when I was trying to make you hate me enough to fucking leave.”
A broken laugh catches somewhere inside my chest.
Of course he fucking did.
The Harvest snarls again.
Ezra doesn’t even look at it.
“But wanting you doesn’t make you mine.”
That one hurts.
Not because I don’t want to belong with him.
Because after everything this place has tried to turn me into, he finally understands the difference.
His hand rises toward my face.
Then stops.
His fingers hover inches from my skin. “Can I touch you?”
Fuck.
After everything.
After the ribbon.
The Hunt.
The blood.
The roots.
The thing inside my body.
After an entire night of something ancient telling me what I am supposed to become, this man stands in front of me and asks permission to touch my fucking face.
My vision blurs.
“Yes.”
His palm settles against my cheek.
The world fucking explodes.
The ground ruptures beneath our feet as roots blast through the soil. Guests scream behind us. The ancient Harvest Table splits down the center with a deafening crack, goblets crashing into the dirt as corn erupts around the clearing, stalks shooting upward faster than they should be able to grow.
The Harvest roars.
Ezra doesn’t flinch.
His forehead lowers until it nearly touches mine. “I choose what I do,” he whispers. His thumb catches the tear on my cheek. “And I choose you, Sage.”
My breath leaves me.
Not because the Harvest reacts.
