Page 137 of Dance of Thorns

Dear Boo,

I know how to fix everything with Bane! I know how to apologize for being such a massive, crazy cunt to him. I know how to prove to him how much I love him, and that I’ll be his forever.

I can tell he’s angry at me, even if he’s hiding it like usual. But tomorrow night, I’m going to turn it all around.

He’ll see how much I love him and always will.

I fold the first four pages up and tuck them into my pocket. Then, my hands shaking, I open the fifth and final page, hoping it will have the answers I want.

Dear Boo,

I did it! I proved to him—we proved to each other—that we’ll be together forever. That our love is never going to fade.

I almost thought he wouldn’t go for it. But when I told him my idea, he didn’t hesitate.

He said yes. Yes to US.

We did it in the back garden, behind the carriage house, using that cute little gas campfire dealie that Grandma got this past summer. It took FOREVER to heat the metal up. Like, seriously.

There's a tug at the back of my mind, but reaching for it is like trying to grab a handful of fog.

I thought I’d have to custom order the brand, but then I went to that restaurant supply warehouse down on the Bowery and found a pancake mold that was the PERFECT heart shape. At first we were going to brand each other, but then at the last second I wondered, what if the first of us went, and it was so bad that the second chickened out? Bane had told me he’d go second, and I know he’d keep his word. But my idea just seemed so…intimate.

So us.

The tug at the base of my skull yanks tighter, and the whining sound in my ears gets louder. I flinch, a spasm like a small lightning storm flickering through my head before I stab my eyes back down to the page gripped tightly in my shaking hands.

So I put my hand against his bare chest, over his heart. Once the pancake mold got hot enough, we both held the handle as we pressed the mold to our skin, half on his chest, half on my hand.

My throat closes up.

Boo, it hurt SO FUCKING MUCH.

My pulse thunders like a bass drum in my head.

Seriously, I thought I was going to pass out.

No.

No. No. No.

This isn’t fucking possible. It’s justnot. It’s the de-escalation of my meds, that's all. I need to talk to Dr. Turov, because we're obviously doing it too quickly, and that's what's making me see things that aren’t real.

Thatcan’tbe real.

CANNOT.

But we did it, and I didn’t pass out, and now, it’s forever linking us—half a heart on his chest, half a heart on my hand.

I can’t.

Fucking.

BREATHE.

I stand abruptly, my pulse racing through my veins like a freight train and the whine in my ears turning into a fucking scream. Lightning storms clash, thunder, and explode through my head, my vision flickering as my body spasms and jerks.

No.