Page 273 of Ripe

“EZRA!”

“I KNOW.” He’s crying. I have never seen him cry. “I know.”

The roots climb.

My breasts ache. Sharp and sudden, making me gasp as warmth spreads beneath my camisole. I look down. Dark wetness blooms through the fabric. “What...” I touch it and my fingers come away red—black. Not blood and not milk but something thick—sweet smelling.

Sap.

I gag.

“No.”

The crowd chants louder.

RIPE.

I hear that word.

RIPE.

My body seizes.

Every muscle in my abdomen contracts at once, wrenching a scream from me as I curl forward against the roots.

Then something kicks.

I stop.

No.

Not moves.

Kicks.

A hard, unmistakable fucking kick from inside my stomach.

My shirt jumps with it.

For one suspended second, nobody makes a sound.

Then something presses outward beneath my skin.

A shape.

Small.

Rounded.

Impossible.

It pushes against me hard enough to distort my stomach before slowly sinking back inside.

Mariah screams.

Rhett fucking roars.

All the color drains from Ezra’s face.