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Harrow grimaced as the petals fell, bright like blood, from your mouth. You expected an exclamation of disgust, maybe pity, but she simply said, “Tridentarius, I suppose I should ask. Are you sure you want me to do this?”
Were you? Maybe Harrow would return your feelings eventually. You were lyctors — you would spend a myriad of time together, long enough to bind anyone to each other, your own personal red string. But you didn’t want to wait a myriad to stop feeling thorns bite the walls of your lungs.
You used to think that she didn’t love Gideon Nav, because how could you love someone and still slide a knife into your brain to cut them out of it? Discard them from your body like you would strip out the bones of a fish, like they were something worthless and deadly all at once? Now you supposed that was merely a silly misconception of your youth. Love was a revenant, and the sensible thing to do upon being haunted was to get the ghost out of your house.
And yet you couldn’t bear to use your own necromancy to take it out yourself, so to Harrow you went.
And if she ended up falling for you after all, once your lungs were bare of flowers and you could never love her back? Then that would be her problem, not yours. Or so you firmly told yourself.
So you said, “Harry. Dearest. I said get it out.”