Your hand snakes out as Paul moves forward, catching hold of his shoulder and drawing him back. “Wait.”

Paul turns on you, his eyes wide and his face pale. His upper lip curls up in a sneer and he says, “Let go of me, Grant. You can’t understand. You’re not one of us.”

It isn’t him talking. This is the curse, speaking through him. That doesn’t make the words any easier to hear, though. “I didn’t die,” you agree, emotion making your voice hoarse. “But I saw how you both suffered. I know this curse is twisting you.” You tighten your hold on his shoulder as you say, earnestly, “This isn’t you, Paul. I love you. Maybe I can’t save your life, but I want to make sure you’re at least at peace. Both of you.” Tears spill down your cheeks, blurring your vision.

Mouth twisting into a horrible grimace, Paul tears himself free of your hold and then drives his fist towards your face. But before the punch can connect, a hand catches his and Martin pulls him back, against his chest.

“Martin.” You freeze in place, staring at your lover.

“I can’t fight it.” His teeth are gritted. His whole body shakes. Paul’s like a squirming, wriggling tiger in the arms of the man you both love. He scratches, bites, claws at Martin’s skin. Draws blood and leaves long, deep scratches on the skin that Martin ignores as he pins you with a hard stare. “I can’t hold him, Grant. Not for long. I can’t control both of us for long. Do what you need to and get out.”

“You don’t understand!” you protest. “If I do this, you both die.”

“This is no life, Grant. Not twisted into something unrecognisable. Don’t argue with me.” Martin shoves his sleeve between Paul’s teeth when the younger man tries to bite him again. Paul elbows him in the stomach and then knees him in the groin. Both blows are hard, but Martin only grunts and wraps his arms tighter around Paul. “Grant.”

“What are you going to do?” You smile, but it’s tinged with bitterness. “You’ll be dead either way.”

“Fuck.” Martin pushes Paul to the ground and grabs the box. He hurls it at your chest and you reflexively grab it with both hands. “Get out of here.”

“No,” you retort, setting your feet about a width apart and preparing to stay in place.

In a few quick strides, Martin grabs you by the arm and twists you round, towards the exit of the cave. His palm collides firmly with your bottom, propelling you forward; but you can only take a step or two before he swats you again, his grip on your arm firm and tight as he propels you towards the outside with firm, hard smacks.