Finn didn’t die in silence.
His fingers clawed at my forearm, his nails tearing through my sleeve and drawing blood, but the vacuum was stronger. I felt his youthful heat rushing into me, a sickeningly sweet nectar that made my heart thunder with a borrowed strength.
"Elara... please..." he wheezed.
His voice didn't sound like a man’s anymore. It sounded like dry leaves skittering over a grave. I watched in paralyzed, wide-eyed horror as the skin around his eyes sunken in, turning a bruised, translucent purple. His lush, dark hair—the hair he used to joke about being his best feature—turned brittle and white, falling out in clumps onto his shoulders.
I tried to scream, to let go, but the Hollow had found a fresh vein. It was like trying to stop an avalanche with my bare hands.
"Finn!"
