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And back again.
"Are you sure?" she asks me.
"Positive," I tell her, pointing to the spot on my forearm.
"I don't know if I can do it," she squeaks.
I grab the end of the poker with her, covering her hand with mine.
"Do it with me," I say, and she nods.
I bring the iron down to my flesh, and white-hot pain shoots through me as my skin pops and crackles beneath the heat. I lift it away as an ugly pink-and-black welt forms on my skin. I turn it around, lining it up the other way, and mark the X.
It hurts even worse the second time, but I can't stop looking at it. It's beautiful.
I pull it away.
"Your turn," I tell her, and my arm is on fire as she lifts her forearm.
"Does it hurt?" she asks me.
She offers me her pale perfect forearm, and I hold it steady in one hand as I bring the poker down to her flesh. She screams when it sizzles, but I'm fast, moving it around, branding the mark, and when I drop the poker and it clatters to the floor, I can't look away. There on her forearm, my mark is forever emblazoned.
I grab her, reel her in close, lick away her tears, and whisper my next words just for her.
"For as long as we are," I tell her, "you are mine, and I am yours." I press our wounds together, entwining our fingers, and she winces. My entire arm burns at the contact as the brands press together. "You are worthy of life, baby girl. You're worthy of fucking everything."
Tears draw tiny runnels across her blotchy cheeks as I yank her close with my free hand, my fingers catching in her silky hair. Our foreheads collide, and I breathe in strawberries and seared flesh before I kiss her.
There's no noise.
No outside world.
No anything except me and her and the pain pulsing through our brands, binding us together until we turn to dust beneath the stars.
