Chapter 5 #2
“But I want to see the invisible horse,” I argue. There has to be a horse. There’s a logical explanation for all of this.
He spins me to face him. My gaze jumps to his eyes without my permission. They’re darker in the low light, pupils blown wide. The whites shine, almost silver.
“Don’t look. Never run to the open ground,” he says. “Don’t sit in the Widow’s lap. Don’t whisper any names to her.”
“Now you’re talkative?” I barely hide my outrage. “The man who refused to speak to me earlier suddenly has a list of rules to share?” I press my hand against his chest, desperately trying to put some distance between us but he’s impossible to move.
His jaw ticks. Something ripples under the skin of his throat and vanishes. A twitch of ink? No. Can’t be. The heat under my palm flares with the bite of a brand and I snatch my hand back with a hiss.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“Not here.” He crowds me backward, step by step. My gaze darts around us, never stopping on one thing for too long. The fog loses patience. It rolls along, the black shape coalescing at the edge of the flashlight’s beam and holds. Waiting.
The Widow looms to our left. The green on her cheeks wet and fresh.
“Emery.” Declan’s voice dips, no warning this time—concern. Something warmer that hits a place I thought life had armored shut.
I hate that I want to lean into him.
“Let me go,” I say, voice trembling. He doesn’t.
His arm locks me against him, a shield of muscle and heat.
His heart hammers against my cheek, steady as a drum.
Clean soap fills my nose, undercut by clove and the salty tang of sweat.
Warmth rolls off him like a wildfire, and we fit together so well it spikes my temper.
The ground jolts under a new strike of hooves. The iron gate at the bottom of the hill rattles and shudders with the force of something massive running into it. Except, there’s nothing there.
Declan continues moving us with slow, methodical steps, like he’s the only thing standing between me and a row of open graves. We pass headstone after headstone without saying a word. My breath tangles in the sound of leather snapping, iron striking, something breathing that shouldn’t.
Then, piece by piece, the weight of whatever pursued us lifts. The fog thins. Quiet creeps in.
Declan doesn’t let go. Only when the path widens does his grip finally loosen. He doesn’t stop until we’re through the gate and the iron has groaned behind us, latch closing with a low screech.
I whirl around to face him. “Why did you—”
He lifts his hand. Not as a way to silence me.
But to examine me. His fingers hover over my face like he expects to find glass shards there.
Or teeth marks. A shiver of unwanted desire or longing runs through me.
I shouldn’t want his touch or even his concern.
Rough fingers gently skim my cheek. Then his forehead creases.
He seems to realize what he’s doing and drops his hand to his side.
“You think you know everything. Think this town is the same as all the other places you’ve investigated,” he says, voice low, almost conversational now, which is somehow worse than if he were yelling at me. “It’s not.”
“Something’s going on here.” My breath’s still ragged. “A kid is missing. Your sheriff wants me gone. You physically removed me from a public cemetery. And please tell me why a statue and some fog made your eyes look weird.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “My eyes look like eyes.”
“What was that?” I demand, even though I doubt he’ll give me an answer. “You told me I don’t know what it wants from me. What does it want? What is it?”
He looks past me toward the way we just came.
I follow his line of sight and realize we left through a different gate than the one I entered.
I swivel my head, checking out the surroundings.
A dark alley. Tall, brick buildings, a parking area with a few cars and one motorcycle.
The fog rolls in, heavier than before. I glance at the cemetery again—the gate stands like a mouth shut against a silent scream.
“Promises,” he says finally. “It wants promises kept.”
A chill skates down my arms.
“And me?” I force the words out. “What does it want from me?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. Not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to have eyes that pull at me with the strength of a merciless undertow. And he has no right to be so warm when I’m chilled to the bone, or steady when my knees won’t stop wobbling.
Heat sparks low in my belly, insistent and unhelpful.
“Less than you think.” He takes me in, his gaze raking over my body, then back to meet my eyes. “More than I like.”
Is that supposed to be a confession or a warning? Either way, I want to get closer to him. He seems to sense my intention and steps back first.
“Stay away from that hill after midnight,” he says. “Stay away from the statue.”
Who does he think he is, ordering me around? “And if I don’t?”
His lips twitch again. Threatening to break into the almost-smile he won’t share with me. “Then I’ll keep dragging you out.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
We stare at each other. The fog curls around our ankles, as persistent as a cat that adopted us against our will.
“Goodnight, Declan,” I say, because I need to break whatever this is between us before it breaks me.
He thinks I’m nothing more than a foolish twit, filming herself in cemeteries in the middle of the night for Internet fame.
I’ve been ridiculed and dismissed by enough people in my life.
I’m not tolerating it from a brooding stranger, no matter how attractive he is.
I turn and start walking, my gaze ping-ponging around the dark alley, trying to orient myself. Where the hell did he take me? A shiny metal sign on the back of one of the buildings clues me in. Chocolate Enchantments. We must be in an alley behind the stores on Main Street.
Footsteps scuff against the asphalt. My heart lurches. I glance over my shoulder and Declan’s closing in on me.
“Seriously?” I stop and glare at him with two indignant eyebrows raised.
“I’m not letting you walk alone.” He stares down at me as if I’m the one being unreasonable.
“Great, now I can add stalker to your list of irritating qualities,” I huff.
He throws his head back and laughs. Oh, my goodness. If I thought he was handsome when he’s all snarly and brooding, he’s devastating when he actually smiles.
“Stalker.” He lets out another chuckle. “You wish.” He waves his hand in the air, gesturing toward the end of the alley. “I assume you’re staying at the Applewood Inn?”
“Not exactly beating the stalker allegations,” I mutter.
His gaze cuts back to me, cool and deliberate. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s the nicest place to stay within twenty miles.”
“‘Nice’ is underselling the inn, but yes, that’s where I’m staying.” I shove my hands in my coat pockets again. Sharp pain stabs under the nail of my index finger, searing and sudden. I yelp and yank my hands out.
“What’s wrong?” Declan frowns, his eyes narrowing.
“Nothing,” I grumble, gingerly reaching into my pocket and grabbing the iron nail between two fingers. “Jabbed myself with a stupid nail in my pocket.” I pull it out and hold it up to show him.
He blows out a slow breath. “Good thing you had that with you tonight.”
“Not this again,” I grumble.
Before I can toss it in my bag, where I’ll probably stab myself with it again in the future, he plucks the nail from my hand. His big fist closes around it, veins standing out, tattoos crawling faintly under his skin. Or is that a trick of the light in the foggy parking lot?
“You should keep this on you while you’re in town,” he says, voice low, rough.
“It just stabbed me!” I hold up my finger to prove my point. A drop of blood glistens at the tip, dark as garnet in the weak light.
Declan’s hand shoots out. Strong fingers wrap around my wrist, dragging me closer.
My protest dies in my throat as he lowers his head.
I stare wide-eyed as he parts his lips and sucks my finger into his mouth.
Warmth. Pressure. His tongue slides over the tip, soothing the sting.
Sparks of heat fire from my toes to my scalp, a full-body awareness that part of me is in his mouth.
This grumpy mountain of a man has been nothing but hardness and scowls, but his mouth is warm and gentle.
I can’t breathe. Who needs air, anyway? The heat of him burns through the cold fog, through my stubborn insistence that I don’t need anyone.
My pulse pounds against his grip, announcing my desire.
Our eyes meet and the dark intensity in his stare sends a jolt of need through me.
I drop my gaze to his throat where his tattoos seem to ripple against his skin.
He releases my finger with a pop. The sting in my finger has faded. He flicks his tongue across his bottom lip, like he’s savoring the small taste of my blood.
Maybe he’s a vampire?
No. That’s insane. He would’ve chomped on my finger or something.
Another ripple along his throat draws me away from thoughts of vampires. Are his tattoos moving? Reaching for me?
That can’t be.
This place, or this man, is making me crazy.
He flexes his jaw and drops my wrist, clenching his fists at his sides like he’s holding back a truth bigger than both of us.
“You need to be more careful,” he rasps. “Don’t give the Hollow your blood.”
“Give the Hollow…what are you talking about?” This time my question isn’t dismissive of the Hollow lore.
I’m too desperate for any information he’s willing to share.
Anything that makes sense. I shake my hand in front of his face.
“Why did you do that? How do you know my blood won’t give you… hemorrhagic fever or something?”
“It won’t.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, rough stubble scratching against his palm. “Come upstairs with me.”