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Harrowhark Nonagesimus drew back the layers of Prince Kiriona Gaia’s uniform, slipping the golden buttons through the soft fabric of her coat. Each movement was careful, though her fingers trembled with the weight of undressing a corpse that was still learning how to want. When the cloth fell away, the hollow cavity in Kiriona’s chest revealed itself: black-rimmed, impossibly clean, teeth lining the edges, pulsing faintly with what wasn’t life but never quite stopped being more than death.
She straddled Kiriona’s lap, knees bracketing the other girl’s hips. They were tucked away in a corner no one would ever dare to find them, hidden between shadows and the curve of the wall around them. It was hot. A dribble of sweat dripped down her face, and before she could protest, Kiriona wiped it away with her finger. White and black paint smudged over her fingerprint, small globs of it catching in the crevices of her fingernails. Kiriona lifted it to her lips, tongue darting over the blend before scrunching up her nose.
“Tastes disgusting,” she mumbled.
Harrowhark’s face twisted, her lips puckering. “I honestly don’t know what you expected.”
Kiriona’s lips curled a little, a sparkle in her eye. It reminded Harrowhark of home. Of hiding in the darkness of the ossuary, Gideon’s head buried between her thighs. Encasing both of them in bone whenever a skeleton dawdled too close.
She traced her fingers along the rim of the hole in Kiriona’s chest, noting how her cavalier tried not to flinch as her fingers touched flesh instead of jagged enamel. Suddenly she pulled her hand away and slipped her fingers under her black shirt and pulled it over her head, exposing a black, lacy bra underneath. It clung damply to her skin, the lace flattened with sweat, straps digging into the sharp bones of her shoulders. Her bra was slightly too big for her small breasts, but Kiriona’s eyes drank them in the same way she drank in the sight of a two-handed sword. Hungry. Like she’d kiss the blood off later. Her golden, bright eyes flickered down, then up, then down again.
Kiriona reached up, slowly, tracing her fingers across the line of the lace. The white paint smudged there, and Harrow let out a breathy laugh.
Kiriona looked as though she’d been dropkicked by a herald. “I’m not used to this. To you.”
Harrow’s hand found Kiriona’s other one, the one propping her up against the ground. Her thin, skeletal fingers linked through Kiriona’s thick, calloused ones, squeezing softly. She opened her mouth, to ask what she meant, but the words never came out.
Kiriona continued anyway. “I’m not used to you touching me gently. It’s weird. I expect your fingernails to dig into my skin, and drag down, down, down. Until you rip me in half. Until you reach inside my chest, to find my heart, and then you sink your teeth into it. Like you always have.”
The paint on Harrow's chest was sticky with sweat.
“Do you want me to? Sink my teeth into your heart?”
Kiriona paused, thinking. Her fingers tightened around Harrow’s, her thumb brushing over the knuckles. Harrow could see the gears turn in her brain, the hesitation. The urge to make a foul joke to hide behind. To her surprise, the prince decided, “I don’t have a heart anymore.”
She stared at Kiriona, at the sharp line of her jaw, the crooked set of her mouth, the slope of her nose. A cold pressure settled in her chest, thick and awful. Of course Kiriona said it like that. Like it was a punishment she had already grown used to. Harrow wanted to scream, to laugh, to bite through her own tongue. Instead, she said nothing. Because she had no words. She simply made a breathy noise. Neither of them knew what it meant. She swallowed, hesitant.
She lifted her free hand cautiously, pressed it gently to the rim of the gaping hole in Kiriona’s chest. Then, slowly, she slipped her fingers inside. It was warm. Wet. She didn’t know exactly what she was touching, only that it swallowed her hand greedily. All of the flesh and muscle and sinew that was supposed to be there was missing. She pulled her hand out a little bit, staring at the blood that covered her fingers. The teeth brushed against her wrist, and Kiriona made a sort of strangled noise, eyes blown wide. Half-gasp, half-groan. Harrow pressed her hand back inside, and Kiriona’s hand snapped to her wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“You don’t have to pretend it’s not there,” Harrow said. She didn’t know what she meant by that.
Kiriona stilled. The hole. The heart. The years between them. All of it pulsing—alive—or as close as it could be, after all.
Harrow leaned down, kissing the skin just beside the hole. It was rough, patchy. Kiriona whined beneath her, the same way she remembered Gideon whining whenever Harrow would lick the folds between her legs. She did exactly that, sort of, letting her tongue graze over the rim. Tasting blood and something… bitter against her mouth. The corpse prince groaned, clutching Harrow’s waist tightly. Her fingers dipped between the waistband of Harrow’s pants and then her underwear. Her nails sank into Harrow’s thin skin, leaving crescent-shaped marks.
“Fuck… Fuck, Harrow. That feels good…” Kiriona panted, leaning her head back against the wall and exposing the column of her throat.
The walls of the cavity twitched around her fingers, soft and slick, pulling her in deeper with each involuntary flutter. She was buried deep inside Kiriona’s chest now—arm sinking halfway into the wet meat. Harrow had expected resistance, gristle, cartilage, maybe even a bite, but the hole widened, welcoming her. Kiriona shifted her position, moving Harrow’s body with ease to slide a thigh between her legs and press it against Harrow’s core. She gasped into Kiriona’s skin, nibbling on the rim.
“I can feel it,” Harrow whispered. “Whatever’s left of you. My cavalier. My flesh. My end.”
She pressed her palm flat against the place where Kiriona’s heart should be, sliding her fingers down the slope. Kiriona’s back arched, and she let out a loud, broken moan, not caring for who could pass and find them. Her hands gripped Harrow’s waist so hard that it would bruise.
“Stop—don’t say that—” Kiriona’s voice betrayed her, cracking at the edges. Harrow curled her fingers. She worked hard to swallow another moan, but failed as it tumbled out of her trembling throat.
Harrow rocked her hips gently against Kiriona’s thigh, grinding as if trying to memorize the feeling. As if Kiriona would slip through her fingers one more time. The fabric of her pants rubbed deliciously against her cunt, which was damp with arousal, friction blooming where thigh met her heat. Harrow moved in small circles, just like her fingers inside of Kiriona’s chest, deliberate, helpless. Something not bone or God or grief.
Kiriona’s breath hitched, her leg flexing beneath the pressure of Harrow’s body. Harrow pulled her mouth back from her chest, watching as sweat dripped down the slopes of her neck, disappearing between the valley of her breasts. She was beautiful. She always had been.
Harrow’s fingers trembled as she pressed deeper, and Kiriona let out another loud moan. Her eyes clenched shut. Her voice was shallow and broken.
“You’re a wound that won’t heal,” Harrow whispered softly. “You’re an infection, Nav. One I am keeping, no matter the sepsis that sinks into my bones.”
“Please.”
The heat between them grew taut, the air around them thick with need. Kiriona’s nails dug into Harrow’s flesh to pull her closer, so close they could fuse together if they wanted. But Harrow never wanted Kiriona to disappear again. Her lips found the curve of Kiriona’s neck, trailing kisses that tasted of iron until she reached the smaller hole on her throat. She pressed her lips against it, tongue delving past the teeth that lined it. She kissed it the way she would kiss the rest of Kiriona: desperate, needy, with a bit too much tongue and a bit too much mess. Just the way she liked it.
She rode Kiriona’s thigh faster. The dampness seeped through her underwear, through the rough fabric of her pants. It left streaks against the white trousers Kiriona still wore.
“Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” Kiriona gasped breathlessly as her face twisted with want. “Please, tear me apart. Oh, fuck, please!”
The world narrowed until nothing existed between them but the heat, the slick press of thigh against thigh, the wetness that swallowed Harrow’s hand desperately. Kiriona cried out, ragged and uneven, the small hollow in her throat flexing between Harrow’s lips as she kissed and licked, the teeth grazing against her tongue. Harrow’s hips moved in fast, precise circles, each motion threading them closer. Sweat slicked both of their skin, and paint smeared against Kiriona’s throat.
Kiriona slipped one hand from underneath Harrow’s pants, reaching up to pull Harrow’s mouth away from her neck. To urge her to kiss her. Their lips slid together, then their teeth, then their tongues. Harrow reached deep inside of Kiriona, searching out her heart, and she sank her teeth into it. Into the softness of Kiriona’s lower lip, pulling until the skin broke and blood dribbled between them, turning the white paint that lingered on Harrow’s face pink.
She swallowed Kiriona’s gasps, pants, moans, and sweet sounds greedily. They were hers. Kiriona was hers. Gideon was hers. Hers, hers, hers. The hollow pulsed, teeth brushing against Harrow’s wrist as the cavity tightened, as Harrow moved her hand deeper still. Their movements grew faster, more urgent. Their bodies pressed closer, two souls desperate to feel whole again. Fire laced every nerve ending, spiraling up to Harrow’s neurons. It became unbearable. Then it broke with a snap.
With a shuddering gasp, Kiriona’s body tensed beneath her, a ragged cry torn from somewhere deep and raw, and Harrowhark Nonagesimus swallowed that too. She followed, a tremor taking over her whole body as she clung to Kiriona. She reached deeper still, tearing her open piece by piece.