Chapter 29

Summer isher favorite time of year.

Iowa comes alive in the warmer months. Corn grows, reaching tall and swaying, along the highways in rows just begging to get lost in. The fields turn dry and golden, as warm as the sun kissing her freckled shoulders. She sighs, content, as she lays back onto the quilt she's laid out.

They're miles from the city, tucked away from the trails and any wayward hikers. Her camera sits beside her, just in case, as she stares up at the clouds. "When's your birthday?"

It's been bothering her for a bit now—ever since she celebrated her own over a month ago—but she could never really bring herself to ask until this moment. He's been part of her life for a year now, give or take. Knowing that his own birthday must have come and gone, unrecognized and uncelebrated, makes her heart ache.

Seth gives an aggravated sigh. It takes her a moment to realize it's because her question forces an answer. "The sixth of October."

Sara frowns, sitting up on her elbows. "Why didn't you say anything?"

His eyebrows rise, a picture of skepticism and amusement. "As I recall, you were still rather preoccupied with hating me at the time."

Sara flounders. "Oh." It feels so long since she's hated him. She tries to pinpoint when things began to change… when she started to see him as a man instead of a monster. A blessing instead of a curse. It's all so impossibly tangled up, but she knows one thing for certain. "I didn't hate you."

The look he gives is full of skepticism. Sara rolls her eyes. "Not by then, anyway."

He hardly looks convinced. "Is that so?"

"It is," she says, trying (and failing) to match his fancy accent.

His grin is wide enough to make his cheeks dimple and eyes crinkle in the corners. Sara wishes he would smile like that more often. "Your impression is atrocious. How do you manage that so terribly when there's only two words?"

"I don't think you get to judge after that butchering of my generation's slang."

Seth waves a hand dismissively. "That was in fun. I wasn't actually trying." He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. "Is this American enough?" he teases, all traces of his accent gone.

"You can ditch your accent?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I didn't lose it. I adopted yours."

"I don't have an accent!"

"Everyone has an accent, Princess." He taps a finger against his ear. "Just because your ear is deaf to it, doesn't mean it's not there."

She huffs, shaking her head and laying on her side with her arm folded under her head. "Can you do any others?" Part of her actually wants to know. A bigger part just wants to see that dimpled grin of his again.

He doesn't disappoint her. "What would you care to hear?"

She names a few from the top of her head, delighted (and a little amazed) when he's able to pull off every single one convincingly. Hearing his voice in a southern drawl is almost as surreal as hearing him use ‘clap back' in a sentence, and she chokes on a laugh.

She's ready to ask for another, but his smile has been replaced with a baffled frown—his gaze fixed across the field, over by the river. "What is that?"

Sara sits up, looking over the grass and searching until she spots movement along the tree line to their left. It takes her a full second to recognize what the mass of brown is. She crouches deeper into the grass, shoving her camera in the bag as quietly as possible despite the shaking in her hands. She debates on how and if she should even try to grab the blanket.

Seth pales. "Sara, what is that?"

"Shut up," she hisses—a plea and a prayer all rolled into one.

The creature's head turns, the antlers crowning its head in a nightmare of bloodied, shredded velvet. Its eyes, deep and dark, meet hers, and Sara knows they've been spotted.

Seth's voice goes shrill, edged with the same panic she can feel rattling her bones. "What the bloody hell is that?!"

"It's a moose, now will you please shut up."

"It's a monstrosity is what it is, good God. I've never seen anything more horrifying in my life."

"Seth." Maybe it's the use of his name, or the fear in her voice, but he finally looks at her—finally sees the numbing fear saturating her brow in sweat. Finally, finally, realizes what she had known from the start.

It can see him. Can hear him.

He stills—a monument of flesh and bone in a sea of swaying grass. Slowly, he sinks down beside her, but it's too late. The moose shakes his massive head, fleshy velvet ribbons swaying like corpses, and takes the first lumbering steps towards them.

"Run!" The word is hissed through clenched teeth, the only warning he gives her before blinking away. For a terrifying moment, Sara thinks he's abandoned her, but then she hears him—yelling from the other side of the valley. "Come on, you stupid beast!"

Sara doesn't look to see if the distraction works. She's running, camera bag slapping painfully against her hip. Seth's taunts, the bull's bellows, echo in the valley—somehow managing to sound both too close and too far—and she urges her legs to go faster despite the burning in her lungs and the cramping stitch in her side.

The car is in her sights now, a football field away, when her foot finds the gopher hole. Her ankle twists, sending her sprawling. Dirt and rock bite into her hand, her chin bashing painfully against the ground. For a dizzying moment, she struggles to find her breath, but she forces herself to stand. To hobble. The car is so close, and she can still hear Seth's voice casting echoes across the valley—goading snarls that tell her she's not yet safe. She's never been so appreciative of his talent to annoy.

Her hand finds the door handle, jerking it open with enough force that it nearly bounces back closed. She slides into the driver's seat, slamming the car door behind her. With shaking hands, she fumbles for the key ring around her neck, releasing a loud curse when the lanyard gets momentarily snagged in her hair. Clumsily, she inserts the key into the ignition. The moment the engine sputters to life, Seth appears in her passenger seat. He's more disheveled than she's ever seen him, hair wild, pale skin flushed. "Go, go, for the love of God, go!"

She peels out, gravel and dirt kicking up from the tires and leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

The radio plays, but it's too soft. Between their panting breaths, Sara can't make out the genre, let alone the song. When the gravel gives way to asphalt, their eyes meet; a second of shared relief, and then a giggle escapes her. A laugh. Sara has to pull over, because it's leaving her like a flood—uncontrolled and too late to pull it back. Seth stares, baffled concern playing across his face, but it only makes her laugh harder.

Then his lips twitch, a chuckle, and suddenly he's joining her. Head back, throat exposed—his chest rising and falling with the force of each breathless burst of laughter.

Sara quiets, mesmerized by the dimples in his cheeks and depth of his voice. It dawns on her that this is the first time she's ever heard him truly laugh. The realization is sobering; a glass of ice water breaking through a haze of wine.

He looks at her, smile dimming when he sees her expression. Then his gaze lowers… her mouth? Is he looking at her mouth? He frowns, body turning towards her more fully.

"Your chin."

Sara blinks, hand instinctively raising to touch the bruised, scraped flesh and flinching. "Oh, yeah. I, um, tripped."

On his knee, his hand flexes—once, twice—before hovering in the space between them. "May I?"

She nods, sand in her throat and drums in her ears. Hooked fingers under the line of her jaw, he coaxes her to tilt her chin with a pressure so light she could almost believe she imagined it. His frown deepens, lips pursed. Sara wonders if he's aware of how close his thumb is to the corner of her mouth. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Um, my ankle. I twisted it a bit." She doesn't mention the burning sting in her palms, but apparently she doesn't need to. He's already cradling her hands, turning them over until he can see the damage. The car is becoming increasingly warm...the AC never worked well while idling. Sara decides to blame that for the flush heating her skin instead of the simple, whispered touch of his fingers tracing her palm.

"I put you in danger. I'm sorry."

He can't lie to her, but even if he could, Sara knows he means it. There is regret there, darkening the rims of his eyes.

She wants it gone.

She isn't thinking, obviously she isn't. He's just so close and her heart is still high on adrenaline—his touch so reverent. She leans towards him, her lips a gentle press against the hollow of his cheek. His sharp intake of breath—nearly inaudible—rings, echoes, in her ear. Somehow, Sara knows the sound will haunt her later, when things are quiet and the room is dark.

Pulling away is harder than it should be, but meeting his eyes is harder. There are questions there, as plain as the flecks of amber in his irises and the surprise parting his mouth. She doesn't make him ask. "Thank you."

She can feel his exhale, a brush of warmth against her lips, before he leans away—shaking his head. A muscle in his jaw jumps, brow drawn and lips pulling in a sneer. "Don't," he says, the word a hiss between his teeth. "There is literally nothing for you to be appreciative over."

He settles into his seat, staring at the road ahead of them instead of meeting her eyes. "Take your shoe and sock off that foot before the swelling gets worse. I hear St. Mary's has a passable Urgent Care clinic."

She glances down at her left foot, cringing. It's definitely swollen, her sock visibly indenting her skin, but as bad as it looks, there isn't nearly as much pain as she expected. In fact, it's strangely numb. Maybe Seth was right about taking the shoe off now instead of later. Carefully, she reaches down to undo the laces, wincing. "I'll be fine," she tells him, working out the last of the lacing before gingerly removing her heel from the sneaker. "It really doesn't hurt that much."

"Because you bloody well broke it," he snaps, before looking away. "Sprained at best."

"How—"

He sends her a pointed look. "I've spent a lot of time in Emergency. Shadowing the residents was far more preferable than boredom."

Sara winces as she removes her sock, eyeing the shadow of bruising. "It really doesn't—"

"Sara." Her name is a command on his lips; no room for arguments. She wonders how he gets away with sounding like he has any say in the matter. He must notice her skepticism, because his eyes narrow in warning. "I will pester you every waking moment and, might I remind you, I don't sleep."

She grumbles complaints under her breath, lips pressed into a thin line as she puts the car back into drive. The air coming from the vents starts to feel a little bit cooler.

It's latewhen they finally get home—half past ten—and Sara is so bone weary she could fall into bed without even bothering to take her shoe off. Ansel weaves between her feet, meowing so obnoxiously loud that she feels like she's being scolded. "I know, I know," she grumbles, fumbling with locking the door behind her. The crutch under her left arm digs uncomfortably into her armpit. "I'm not happy about it either."

Seth appears in the living room behind her and, not for the first time (but perhaps the most fervently) Sara wishes she could move from one place to another in the span of a blink. Particularly now that she's stuck with this stupid, clunky walking boot for the next few weeks. With a grumbled curse, she readjusts the crutch.

The glare she sends him must give her away, because his answering smile would be appeasing if not for the guilt behind it. "Be grateful it's merely a sprain." Ansel abandons her to rub, mewling, against his ankles in a demand for attention. Seth concedes with a scratch behind the ears and a fond, "Yes, yes, I see you. No need to have a fit."

Suddenly, it dawns on her with enough force to make her stagger—her crutch falling to the ground with a metallic clang. "Oh."

Seth steps toward her, hands hovering at her elbows as if preparing to catch her if she falls. "What's wrong? You didn't use—"

"You could have been hurt," she breathes, the realization a weight on her chest. "That moose. It—it saw you. Like Ansel sees you. It wanted to hurt you."

The breath he releases is small. Relieved. It only makes her heart twist more. "Yes."

"But you taunted it, anyway."

"Also yes." He says it like it's obvious; like it's as inevitable and mundane as gravity. Like it's something that just is.

"It could have hurt you."

His hands twitch towards her before he catches himself. She wonders, if he knew he could, where he would have reached—her hands, her face? He ducks his head, meeting her eyes. "It didn't."

"But—"

"Sara," he says, a soft demand. "The only injury of any consequence here is your ridiculous ankle. Come sit."

She doesn't want to sit. There's too much unsaid dancing in the space between them. He risked himself for her. Even if he can't die, she knows he feels pain. He has to know. She needs him to know—

She kisses him.

Soft. Sweet and chaste—the innocent pressing of lips worthy of childhood fantasies. Her fingers grip the lapels of his coat as she leans into him for balance—stretching up to meet him as best she can. When she pulls away, he follows—lips hovering so close she can feel his every breath.

"Sara..." Her name is a prayer; wine and chocolate off his tongue. Goosebumps dot her flesh. His lips graze the corner of her mouth and his hands—trembling—slide along her jaw with a reverence that makes her weak. When she dares to look, his eyes are dark. Hooded and drunk. "Please, I beg you, don't tease. Not with this."

He towers over her, his body curling around her, and yet—somehow—he feels small beneath her palms. Vulnerable. The way he watches her... as if every shift in her expression holds the power to either save or condemn him. In some ways, Sara knows she could.

She swallows thickly, a battle of nerves and wishes clashing in her chest. "I'm not," she whispers. "I wouldn't." She wants to tell him she's not that cruel, but the words are stuck in her throat.

His breath is a laugh, soft and pained with truth. "You do," he murmurs, thumb tracing her bottom lip. "You don't mean to, but you do."

Sara could argue—list all the reasons why he's wrong, highlight why she's right—but she's tired of the back and forth. Tired of the fragile line they've been dancing around. Tired of wanting more, but being too afraid to grasp it.

She leans up, her good ankle straining despite her full weight leaning against him, and lets her lips linger at the corner of his mouth—basking in his sharp intake of breath. "I'm not teasing," she murmurs against his lips. Beneath her hands, he trembles around heaving breaths. His fingers slide into the hair at the base of her skull, his full bottom lip sliding against her mouth with a diligence that makes her pulse thrum.

Then he's kissing her—deliciously, tortuously, slow—and oh god, no one has ever kissed her like this. Like every taste is treasured, every hitch in her breath coveted. He moans, low and deep, and it's enough to make her toes curl and her heart ache.

Her hands push past the lapels of his coat, sliding up his chest in search of skin—

Seth hisses, recoiling from her touch so abruptly she nearly stumbles. For a moment, she thinks maybe she went too far, but there's something in his expression—his parted, panting mouth and the furrow of his brow.

"Seth?"

He shakes his head, his hands bracing her shoulders as he steps away from her—refusing to release her until he seems satisfied that she's balanced. His eyes drop to his chest, pushing his coat aside to reveal a stain over his heart—red and blooming across the white cotton peeking beneath his vest. "Oh."

There's static in her ears. Shaking, her fingers touch the stain and come back wet. "You're bleeding." She stares, dumbly, at the red coating her fingers before the implication lands like a bomb. She's thinking of doves—of blood and feathers; brittle bones and broken hearts.

Her hands can't move fast enough; they're pushing the coat off his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his vest and pulling at his shirt. "You're bleeding!"

"Yes," he snaps, shrugging out of his coat and vest. "I can see that."

He swats her hand away, pulling his collar down and inspecting the damage himself. On the left side of his chest is a spattering of small, weeping punctures. Seth stares, mouth working silently before a breathy, sardonic laugh leaves his lips. "Well, that's just not bloody fair."

He reaches back, pulling his shirt up over his head with a pained growl, and deposits the blood stained fabric on the floor. Sara is horrified to find the rest of his lean chest is a battery of angry, molted bruises. He glowers, words hissing between his teeth. "Not fair at all."

She raises a trembling hand, fingers brushing against a purple bruise blooming at his collar. Her eyes flit between the rapidly appearing injuries in growing horror. "What is this? Why—"

"They're old," he says distractedly, prodding against his bloodied flesh and hissing. "Pillock had to use the blasted shotgun."

Sara freezes. "This is from a gunshot?!"

"Rather relieved he never decided to give the rifle a try," he mutters, flinching as he presses against a tender spot.

Sara watches a bruise bloom across his jawline, molted purple and in the shape of her knuckles, and pales—bile rising in her throat. "These...these are injuries people gave you!?"

He looks up at her, the edge in his gaze softening. There's a calmness, an apathy, in him that has no right to be there—not when she can feel her blood boiling and freezing over all at once. "Nothing to fret over."

"That's not what I asked!" she snaps. Her nerves are rope, fraying with every new bruise and blemish marring his pale skin. "Who did this to you?!"

Seth's mouth holds the barest hint of a smile, his hands reaching between them to caress her cheeks. He ducks his head until their noses touch and all she can see are the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. "It will heal, Sara."

The urge to stomp her foot, the same way she did as a child, is nearly overwhelming. "That doesn't answer my question!" A beat of silence passes between them, and a whole new realization dawns. "You... you didn't answer my question."

His thumbs trace the freckles over her cheeks, lips pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "No."

Under his stare, she wavers. The air feels thin. "I—I don't understand."

Seth chuckles, brushing a stray piece of hair away from her eyes; fingertips gliding across her skin like a whisper. "Don't you?" His head tilts, regarding her with a smile so warm—so adoring—it's a small miracle she doesn't melt. "I'm Laura, the foolish mortal that fell to temptation and ate the cursed fruit." He rests his forehead against her own, his lips so achingly close she can feel every breathy word. "And you, my dear, beautiful Sara, are my Lizzie."

His fingers trail down, thumb brushing her bottom lip—eyes hooded. "‘Eat me. Drink me. Love me.' Wasn't that the line?" A laugh, small enough to fit in the space of a breath, leaves him—hot and wanting on her skin. "Always a kiss that breaks the spell."

Sara swallows, willing herself to ignore the heat stirring in her lower stomach. Damn him. Damn him for making this hard. "We need to stop the bleeding."

He hums, still transfixed by her mouth—her skin. His fingers sweep across her jaw with a diligence that scares her. The bruise on his face stares back, a taunting reminder. She reaches for his wrists, stopping their progress. "Seth..."

A grimace, as if her words cause him more pain than the lead in his chest. "I've waited so, so long." With her hands still grasping his, his palms burn—warm and real—against her cheeks. The eyes she had once thought to be so cruel, beg her for mercy. "The wound—it's nothing. Truly. I just..." he trails off, words hitching in his throat. Sara can hear him swallow, feel the slight tremble of his hands across her flushed skin. "Let me feel you. Just a little longer. I—"

After David, she didn't believe the crack in her heart could widen any further, but she can feel it—deep and splintering—in her chest like a physical wound. She thinks of that moment in the rain when he told her he was hers; the break in his voice when he spoke of trading one Hell for another.

How can it be anything else?

Her eyes burn, jaw aching from holding in the sob that wants to tear itself from her chest. Her grip loosens, fingertips trailing down his arms—his skin shivering beneath her gentle touch—until she finds the crook of his elbow and delivers a coaxing pressure.

He doesn't want to release her; it's as clear as the flash of pain in his gaze, but he surrenders—lets his hands lower away from her face. "Sara…"

Her name has never been so heartbreaking; each syllable a blow.

It's too much.

She steps into the empty space of his arms and hugs him—holds him. Quietly, the tears (one, then two) slips free.

He sucks in a breath, the uninjured side of his chest rising beneath her cheek, before his arms—trembling—wrap around her with near bruising force. One hand tangles in her hair, his face dropping to the crook of her neck with a sound that is half sigh, half sob.

Sara doesn't let him go.